Pretty Hard, Dammit

Moving

2008-08-11T12:35:00.004-04:00

A bit of a sad day for the folks here at P.h.D. (And by folk I mean me.)

After three long years of writing Pretty Hard, Dammit on Blogger.com, I'm moving.

I spent some random precious hours for a few months attempting to tinker around with Blogger’s very limited templates, and I utterly failed to successfully edit the html on the template I did find that I sort of liked, (I could never get rid of that stock picture of the stupid highway above) so I gave up in complete frustration. Then I started looking around for other blogging options and found WordPress. Woah. It’s like a Mac - easy and intuitive. Why I didn’t I switch over there years ago, I don’t know. Anyway, so far I love love love it. It’s fancy and schmantzy and smells like newly mown grass. Well, maybe not that last part. But is is cool.

I’m hoping I don’t lose anybody in the switch! I won’t get rid of the old blog here at Blogger and I migrated all of my old posts so you can catch up on old times in the shiny new format, but I won’t be adding any new posts over here anymore.

So Fabulous Readers, Please Please PLEASE update your links, bookmarks, bloglines, etc. to the new URL: http://prettyharddammit.wordpress.com.

Was that too needy and beggy? How about sensationalistic and tabloidesque? --

Be sure to update because you know you won’t want to miss a minute of the crazy antics of Stewgad (Is she writing? When will she finish?), Spousal Unit (Is he cooking? When does he start teaching?) and The Gadlet (Is she walking? Is she talking?), be sure to come on over to the new site!

So long, Blogger, and thanks!

A Very Big Not-So-Rookie Mistake

2008-07-27T11:19:00.003-04:00

I guess in life sometimes we get exactly what we deserve, right? And, of course, payback, she is a bitch. But particularly in matters of childcare I often think that the ironic gods of parenting reach out their dry twiggy fingers and deliberately pinch so as to protect us from our own hubris and hence our children from our grandiosity.

Well, yesterday, they struck me but good.

For the past few months I’ve been gleeful with pretty damn near everyone about The Gadlet’s pooping prowess. Inevitably in conversations, whether with people I see every day, folk I hadn’t seen for a while or even strangers I had just met, something in me felt strangely obliged to tell them within the first few moments of conversation that MY Daughter poops in a potty at 10.5 months. “Have I told you about the Gadlet and the Potty yet? No? How, you ask? WELL, let me tell you, that WE are so IN TUNE, she and I, and we are SOOOO in Sync that I can ALWAYS tell when she’s pooping, and so I ALWAYS rush her to the potty before it happens and, eh, voilá! Poop! In a Potty!! It’s so much tidier and neater -- it’s brilliant. You HAVE to try it. Eh? No kids? Oh, well, when you get them, get them a potty RIGHT AWAY.”

Yes, pride cometh before a fall.

So yesterday, Spousal Unit went out to run some errands, leaving me making curry chicken salad with pecans and fresh cherries and the Gadlet having a nice lunch of blueberries, cheese, pasta, and zucchini. Well, I was kind of distracted, what with making curry sauce, chopping chicken, and cherries, so I was giving the Gadlet only about half of my attention. At one point, however, I heard a tell-tale little grunting sound. Aha! I thought. She’s firing off a warning turd. Excellent! “Good girl, Gadlet! Let’s go to the potty!”

Well.

We go upstairs. I get the potty out of the bathroom and put it on the floor of her bedroom next to the changing table, as per usual, and put the Gadlet on the changing table, chattering about the potty the whole time. Alas, when I take off her diaper, I find that that warning turd had actually been the whole shebang. And it was a pretty big bang. There was a TON of poop, and it’s pretty much everywhere. So much for being SO IN SYNC. Well, I swallowed my pride a little bit, and decided that I’d persist with the whole potty thing just to keep the rhythm of it for her. Plus, I was worried that maybe she wasn’t done pooping. So I left the diaper on the changing table, and plunked her on the potty.

At which point she proceeds to reach down and grab her little poopy bottom with her hands, getting the stuff all over her fingers.

“AAAK!” I shriek, “STOP! STOP STOPIT STOPIT!!” I grab a diaper wipe and wipe her hands. That got rid of the worst of it and she seems slightly cleaner, but I’m still feeling like her hands could be cleaner. Then I got a Brilliant Idea, that I confess was partially prompted by concern with cleanliness and partly prompted by the increasingly pungent smell wafting gently from the diaper on the changing table. It was so gross it was forcing me to rethink my indignation when the other day Spousal Unit had lovingly compared the smell of the Gadlet’s shit to a very busy Chicago Public Restroom. My Brilliant Idea was to very quickly run into the bathroom, drop the diaper into the toilet to soak (it’s cloth) and grab a wet washcloth to better clean off the Gadlet’s poopy fingers. I look down at her. She’s sitting contentedly on the potty “reading” the cute little book “More, More, More, Said the Baby.”

So I ran in the bathroom, plunked the diaper into the toilet, grabbed a wet washcloth, and returned to the bedroom.

Big Mistake. Huge. A Mistake of Epic Proportions.

In the 20-30 seconds it took me to do that, The Gadlet, newly mobile and reveling in her own mobility, had peed, liberated herself from the potty, kicked it over, spilled the pee, traveled a few feet, and plunked her poopy butt onto the WHITE CARPET. (Installed in the room long before it was a baby’s room.)

I think that thus far I have neglected to mention that the Gadlet’s meals the day before had mostly consisted of blueberries and, sigh, beets. I’m sure that those of you out there who aren’t parents have never closely examined any poop produced after the consumption of such intensely colored foods, and so let me tell you that the deep purple of blueberries and the deep burgundy of beets make a magical color wheel combination that the Pottery Barn might creatively call “Deep Cloak,” “Midnight Iron,” “Coal Mine,” or perhaps “La Brea Tar Pit.”

Before she could spread anymore Midnight Iron shit anywhere, I swooped her up, and ran her into the bathroom, stuck her in the bathtub, and turned on the water. I pulled the lever for the shower massage/hand spray thingey and grabbed it, and her, and started to hose off her butt. At which point she dove forward, trying to clock her head as hard as she could on the side of the cast-iron tub, so I dropped the shower sprayer and grabbed her before she connected head to tub. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next. That shower thing started acting like a greased snake writhing away from intense danger, and sprayed water EVERYWHERE.

So there I was, sopping wet, holding a now wet and slippery, yet still poop-covered baby, with a diaper full of blue-black crap soaking in my toilet, and a perfectly ass-shaped indigo stain and a puddle of pee on the bedroom carpet.

But here’s the worst part.

I managed to get the Gadlet clean and in a new diaper and in bed with a basket full of toys so that she would be marginally entertained and isolated from the shitty floor while I dealt with this situation. I made a solution of OxyClean (that stuff ROCKS), and grabbed a pile of rags, and started to clean up the carpet. The Gadlet, clean, slightly damp, and cute as can be, pulled herself up to standing in her bed, craned her head over the edge of the rail, looked at me sweetly and said:

“Dada?”

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TWSNBN Update:

I'm a few sentences away from finishing the composition part of the article. I'll be done with the revisions (and hence this draft of the article) by the end of the week. (She says confidently!)

Dr. Horrible

2008-07-21T13:40:00.003-04:00

I'm sure you've all caught this by now, but it's only going to be around for a few more days, so if you haven't seen it yet, go get it now.

I laughed, I cried, it was much better than Cats. I'm going to watch it again and again.

Even if you're not a big crazy Joss fangirl like I am, Dr. Horrible was totally worth the $4.

Back to work now...

Surviving

2008-07-14T11:17:00.007-04:00

Since the last blog post, I've survived a number of milestones:

1. My Birthday (July 2) -- 37.

Urgh. I hate the -7 birthdays, because that is when it hits me that I'm closing in on the next decade. I totally freaked out when I turned 27 because it meant I was Almost Thirty. So turning 37 means that in my own mind I'm Almost Forty. Which is, as we all know, the end of everything youthfull. I mean, at 40, I'll practically be an Old Lady. From here on out things will only sag, and droop, and crease, and cease to function more. I also freaked out a little because I realized that when my mom turned 40, I was 16. So she was in her 40s when I was in college. I'll qualify for the AARP before the Gadlet is in college. Worse, when she turns 40, I'll be 76. Math just wasn't working for me this birthday.

Despite my manic calculations, it really was a good day I worked some, hung out with my great little kid and went to a park for a picnic with Spousal Unit, the Gadlet, Innana, and her guy. (I forget what she calls him on her blog.) We got take-out from the cajun/fish place and hung out in the grass, playing bocce and watching the Gadlet eat her favorite food -- Cheerios. Plus, our town put on a fireworks display. Just for me! No, really, like most towns, it can't afford the fireworks for the 4th, which is ok with me because the 2nd is the more historically accurate day of independence anyway and then I get fireworks on my birthday. (By the way, what cities DO get to do fireworks on the 4th?) This year, though, we crapped out and went home to bed before it got dark. That's how you KNOW you're getting old, when you can't stay awake for the 9 p.m. FIREWORK display.

2. Vacation (7 days) with Divorced Parents who hadn't seen each other in years (15).

Normally, vacations are relaxing. And, it turns out, this one was, mostly. But, there was a BIT of tension around the start of it. Here's the story. Last Christmas we gave my mom the gift of a week at a lake house with us and the Gadlet and both of her kids. Unfortunately, my brother and his wife couldn't make it after all, so it was going to be just 3 adults and one baby in a house with beds for 6. Then, I get a call from my Dad and it turns out the only week he had off this whole year was last week, so he could either not see the Gadlet for a whole year, or be here at the same time that my mom was. Fortunately, my mom is really cool and graciously suggested that my dad should just join us at the lake house. It was nice in theory, but how would it really work? It was totally crazy. They got along like a house on fire. They didn't stop talking for the first few days -- sharing stories about long-forgotten relatives and gossiping about the scandals among their long-lost friends. It was wonderful and funny. They seemed to really enjoy each other's company, which was nice for all of us. It was so nice, we've booked the place for the same week next year for all of us again. I'm kinda scratching my head over this one, but also thanking my lucky stars and whatever gods of forgiveness there are out there.

3. Gadlet Urine Project -- The Specialist Edition

We finally got in to see the pediatric urologist this week. By now, that UTI that the Gadlet had is a long-forgotten memory, except for the preventative antibiotics she's been on since then. So we went to the Big City Hospital, where they did the catheter-dye-xray-pee test, which they managed to do successfully. The worst part for the Gadlet was being held down totally immobilized for 25 minutes. She screamed on and off pretty much the whole time. She was able to calm herself a few times by tugging on her hair while her hands were pinned above her head, and also when Spousal Unit sang to her. When it was over she just hugged me and sobbed. Then I gave her her favorite toy -- a stick with jingle bells attached. She got this huge grin on her face and started shaking the thing and dancing, which was sweet given her blotchy face and red eyes from all the crying. This kid clearly has a sweet short memory and easy disposition. Then we had some lunch in the cafeteria of the hospital. (A nice grilled Cubano Sandwich for me and Spousal Unit, kale and yogurt for the Gadlet.) Then we got to see the specialist. He came in, looked at her films, and pronounced her just fine. Then he took a peek at her coochie to check out the labial adhesions (or strings as Spousal Unit keeps calling them). He was utterly unimpressed and said so. Apparently, they'll go away after puberty, which is when she really needs the thing anyway. So, all's well that ends well. It's funny, though, all of these heroic measures from the Pigg-o-Stat onward just because the kid had a fever. And while I'm absolutely thankful that there is nothing wrong, part of me wonders if just because we HAVE the technology to do all of these things, whether we actually SHOULD do them. I don't mean that I want to neglect my daughter's health, but maybe we should have waited for her to get another infection before launching down the extraordinary measures road. The specialist did apologize for making us come all of that way, and did say point blank that had the medical care providers in our town been, ahem, better at inserting pediatric catheters, then we wouldn't have gone through all of this. Poor little local hospital.

4. That Which Shall Not Be Named

Still shall not be named. I'm inclined to clam up a bit on this one, but that probably isn't too healthy. So, I'll share. I got quite a bit done while my folks were here, but things have slowed down in the past week -- mainly because I lost one of my daycare days to the doctor adventure. I'm starting to feel the looming semester breathing down my neck, but will try to keep my chin up and get a lot done in the next couple of weeks.

Hope you're all having a great summer.

Go Figure

2008-06-27T07:48:00.003-04:00

I woke up at 5:30 this morning (the Gadlet's usual wake-up time) to a quiet house. But my brain was buzzing -- with ideas about the article. So, I got up and wrote two pages of notes about the stuff I was thinking about -- good material that will enhance both the chapter and the article.

Isn't the love-hate relationship that we have with our dissertations so funny?

Getting Better All The Time

2008-06-26T12:34:00.002-04:00

Thanks all for your great comments. I took a lot of the advice -- I chilled out a little, started taking it in little chunks, and working in little bits of time. I got my butt out of the house, which is usually the number one most important thing for me. I just don't work well at home. I like to work in crowded, noisy places where I'm alone with a lot of people near me so that I'm not lonely and where I can get food, coffee and/or books at a moment's notice. This week I've been at the big box bookstore with internal evil corporate coffee shop. Yeah, I know, it's evil, but they have free parking. But, it is pretty generic and soul-less. Funny story from Tuesday -- A woman sat down next to me in said evil cafe. Her phone rang, and she said "Hey. Where are you? I'm in the cafe." Pause. Looks around. "I don't see you." Pause. "Oh! You're at Borders???" She was in the Wrong Evil Corporate bookstore. She turned a little red, and then popped up and headed out the door. It would have been really funny if it wasn't such a sad commentary on the homogenization and gentrification of America.

Anyway, working there the past couple of days, I realized a couple of good things:

First, I realized that I don't have to make this article into something it isn't. I think I've been feeling like I have to gather EVERY POSSIBLE BIT OF INFORMATION out there on this subject or else the article will be shite. But, that just isn't possible this time around. It will be something very nice I will do for the book. For now, I just need to work with what I have.

That led to my second realization -- that I didn't actually know what it is I have. So, I did a bunch of organizing of my sources and have been taking notes on them for the first part of the article. It has been a HUGE help. I'm feeling good about what I'm finding and even enjoying it a little. Imagine that.

Plus, I decided that the quality of my life just isn't worth the freak-out. That I could choose to be insane and worried and stressed-out about this whole thing, or I could opt for calm and a degree of sanity and health. Maybe it is the wrong choice, but I think it is a better one for my long-term life, really. I don't know how long I could sustain the level of stress I was generating. My guess is not that long. Besides, both Spousal Unit and the Gadlet like it better when I'm less tense.

In the interest of the quality of life question, we're going "camping" with some friends this weekend. "Camping" in the sense that we'll be away from home, and sleeping in sleeping bags, but not camping in the sense that we're going to a nice place with a kitchen and bathroom and a lake. I'm going to take the computer and get up early each day and do a couple of hours of work both mornings, but I'm also just going to let myself have some down time. I think it might help.

Thanks again for the support. I'll check back in on Monday. Happy weekend!

Day, um, oh hell, I don't know...

2008-06-23T13:42:00.003-04:00

what day I'm on in this horrible countdown, definitely don't want to know how many days are left!

Personal note to Mom -- the rest of you can skip it if you want to:

(Before I write this, I just need to put in a disclaimer for my mom because she reads these things, freaks out, and the calls me immediately, sure that I'm either on the verge of offing myself or on the edge of going postal at the post office or something, and then her worry adds to the whole pressure of everything, cause, you know, she's my mom, and I don't want to worry her. So, Mom, chill. I'm ok. I just need to vent. I'd recommend that you don't read this post. If you do, I'm gonna regret telling you about this blog!)

I'm sitting at home in a panic. Serious panic. I keep getting these nagging emails from the editors of this volume that I've agreed to do, (What? It's only 2 years late, sheesh. Can't they just Chill?) and I'm totally panicked about this stupid freaking article. So much so that I'm becoming paralyzed, a little paranoid, and having a bit of a wig out today.

I realized that it is really hindering my progress on the dissertation -- I'm so worried about Getting It Right for this article, because god knows, the world is going to see it and judge it so I can't make ANY mistakes because it is the first real thing I will have published and it is going to be a pretty important volume in my field, so it must be right and perfect and not totally stupid and fucked up.

In the face of this need for total perfection (OH, and perfection really freaking FAST!!!) I just shut down. I spent the morning hiding in a novel and the afternoon staring at the computer in a bit of a tizzy. It sucks. And, the strange thing? I kind of just want to write the freaking chapter and forget all about this article.

But before all the well-meaning folk out there tell me to do just that, I have two important reasons for doing it, one selfish and one selfless.

Selfless reason: If I don't do this article, the volume won't be published. There are an unspecified number of other historians depending on me to do it. And they're all done, it is just down to me. So if I fuck up, I fuck up other people, not just myself.

Selfish reason: I don't have any publications, really, so I need this for the tenure track. If I don't publish, I'll lose my job.

But in a gordian knot-like situation if I don't write this article, I'll lose my job. If I don't finish my dissertation, I'll lose my job. But if I spend all of my time working on this article, I won't finish my dissertation, and I'll lose my job. But if I spend all of my freaking time reading novels because it is one way of handling a crippling panic attacks, I won't finish any damned thing and I'll lose my job.

How's that for pressure? Shit, no wonder I'm freaked out.

Plus, to add insult to injury this morning I sat on my glasses while on the couch reading said stupid novel, so I've been walking around all day squinting like Mr. Magoo from those old cartoons that you can probably find on YouTube because everything is on YouTube, although I prefer Hulu, myself.

Where was I? Oh yes, in a rant.

So here is where I stand. I have 23 pages of stuff that will probably work in the article with a little tinkering. They are also the bulk of Chapter 5 and as I tinker with them, I'll still be tinkering with chapter 5. On Saturday I wrote a rough draft of an introduction to all of this material and then spent Sunday ripping it apart. Hence the panic, I think. I now find myself with not much to show for a whole weekend's work. Oh, and plus today. ARRGHH!!!

And, I've got all this other shit to do, right? Class prep for the fall (I'm teaching a new freshman class) committee stuff for this group I'm working with, not to mention the hundreds of emails that people have sent me that I haven't replied to because every new email feels like the last little straw that just might kill me.

Well, thanks for listening. I appreciate the forum in which to vent my worst fears and to confess my deepest weaknesses. I'm going to try to calm down and do a little work before I go get the Gadlet. Who, incidentally, learned to sit up from a lying down position all on her own little self in the middle of the night last night. She let out this huge cry at 3 a.m., so Spousal Unit went in to check on her and there she was sitting up in the bed! I think she'd gotten up there by herself but couldn't figure out how to get back down. It was adorable. Even if it was 3 a.m.

She's the one thing right now that isn't making me panic. Isn't that funny, since I spent 9 months panicking about her, absolutely sure that she would bring all of this stress to my life?

Day 38

2008-06-16T19:36:00.002-04:00

Well, there it is. I sent off Chapter 4 to my advisor just this moment. I guess it is an accomplishment, but since I did most of the work on it months ago, it feels rather anticlimactic. Less of a victory and more like one less chore on a very, very long list. And since I'm pretty terrified of him in general, just because of what he is, not because of who he is, I suppose it is a pretty significant accomplishment.

Even though it may feel a little like it is adding a bit more stress - since it takes me one more step to the defense which I dread almost as much as, if not more, than childbirth and/or death (in that order). For those of you new to the story, I was pretty badly scarred by my oral exams, during which I was basically terrorized by a former advisor. (Which was confirmed for me years later by one of my committee members who sat silently on the sidelines as it was happening. Yeah, thanks a ton, dude.) Anyway, since then I've been really really really afraid of the defense. So much so that I think that I just may have perhaps been dragging my heels on this whole thing just a little bit (ha!) so that I wouldn't have to go through something like that again at the defense. I suppose, though, that since I survived childbirth, and hey, in my memory it wasn't even so bad (what is up with that hormonally induced craziness???) maybe this will also be not so bad. And, also, I am so fucking tired of being afraid of this, I think it is time to just get it over with.

I guess that's a good enough reason for going on as any, eh?

So tomorrow I'll be back to working on that article, after I drive to campus and attend an important meeting. Oh yeah, and unload a whole trunkfull of books and crap into my office. Since I cleaned all of my junk out of the room formerly known as my office now known as the Gadlet's room and moved my "office" into a 2'x3' corner of the upstairs hallway, there's a lot of junk that no longer fits into my new revised office space. (Which is working pretty well, actually!)

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Gadlet Update: Blueberries make for blue poop in the blue potty.

Yep, she's a-shitting in the potty at nine months. It goes like this:

Gadlet: Staring off into space with great concentration. "Ba."

Stewgad: "Hm. Whacha doin', Gadlet?"

Gadlet: Grunting and Straining. "Ba."

Stewgad: "Oh! Pooping!!" Grabs Gadlet, runs upstairs, pulls potty into bedroom, strips down baby with lickety-split, plops kid on small potty.

Gadlet: "Ba." Poops.

Stewgad: "Huzzah!! Well Done Gadlet! No poopy diapers to wash!"

Gadlet: "Ba."

The End.

Yep, two weeks and counting since I had to clean poop out of a cloth diaper. The kid is a very precocious pooper. I wonder if I can put that on her preschool applications?

Cheers, y'all. I'll check back in tomorrow.

Day 39

2008-06-11T20:34:00.002-04:00

Daily Report:

I finished the text of the fourth chapter. I had a draft of the conclusion done yesterday, but re-read it today and tinkered with it until it worked a bit better (I hope.)

I've worked through most of the citations, although they're kind of fucked up right now because my Bookends is kaplooie. But I'm working on getting the newest version of Bookends, (Anybody out there using it now who wants to comment?) so that should help tomorrow. I'm going to go ahead and send the chapter to my advisor first thing tomorrow morning regardless of the state of the footnotes, I just have to go in and remove those nice notes to myself that say things like "what the fuck are you talking about here?" And "Hm. I don't have any evidence for this but I'm going to make the claim anyway." I figure he doesn't need my help finding things wrong with the chapter, he can probably do it by himself.

Tomorrow, I'll get back to the article. So, I guess I kind of am on schedule, right?

Thanks all for the wonderful generous encouraging comments!! They totally made my evening when I checked email tonight! I'll respond more personally tomorrow.

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Little Gadlet Health Update

So we've got the appointment to see the urethra doctor on the 16th of July. Meanwhile the Gadlet had her 9 month checkup and the doctor took a closer look himself at her little coochie. Apparently she has something growing in there that is fusing her labia together. Spousal Unit (who took her in because I was working) called them "strings." And this from the scientist. Nice. Anyway according to S.U.'s interpretation of the doctor's comments they're not uncommon, they'll go away with some estrogen cream, and they could have caused both the UTI and the difficulty with the catheter. So maybe this is good news. I don't know, it sounds pretty icky to me, although the Gadlet seems pretty unaffected. Ah, parenthood...

Cheers until tomorrow!

Tick Freaking Tock.

2008-06-09T13:18:00.006-04:00

I'm sure that every dissertator (especially those Very Special Dissertators like myself who are on the, ahem, Longerish Path to completion) can relate to what I'm about to say. OK, here it is:

I absolutely hate this whole dissertation thing. I totally hate my work. What made me think this shit was interesting anyway? I completely hate my job because it requires this dissertation. I hate the writing. I hate the research. I hate the summer. I hate the pressure. I hate how terrible I am at this and how inadequate I am to the task. I mean, if I was really good at this, wouldn't I be done by now? Hate. Hate. Hate. And, by the way, uh oh.

Yep, just filled to the brim with a huge helping of self-loathing topped with a lovely misanthropic sauce, with a side order of bitchy sauteed in smelly fear over here in Stewgadland. (looking back at that extended metaphor makes me think I must also be a bit hungry...)

Here's the dealio -

I've got until September 1 (the day when classes resume) to finish my degree. FINISH. Not just finish the damned dissertation but finish the whole kit and kaboodle -- have had a defense and have submitted the stupid thing to the graduate school. Done. Fini. Complete.

And unlike my other nice little deadlines of the past that I could generally ignore in the interest of mental health, course preparation, baby having... etc. this one is final. Or else I lose my job. Period. Which seems pretty explicit.

Oh, and meanwhile, I have to finish an article THIS WEEK that I promised a bunch of folk I'd have done TWO YEARS ago.

Yes. I suck. And the worst part is that I don't really want to do it. All I want to do is hang out with my kid. Because she is the cutest damned thing ever. And so much fun. She shakes her little booty whenever she hears music. She's starting to get enough hair that it is curling. She eats Cheerios by the fistful. During naps she whacks her binky along the bars of her crib like a little prisoner with a tin cup trying to annoy the jailers. And she lights up when I walk into the room like I'm the second coming or maybe like I'm chocolate and springtime and dolphins and flowers and puppies all rolled into one. How on earth could anything else compete?

Nothing can, of course. So let me tell you the only thing that is motivating me to finish. Seriously, this is the only thing. I had this thought that if Spousal Unit kicks the big one and I'm stuck without him I have to support the Gadlet. In that case, I'm going to need a job. So, I might as well keep the one I've got, because I'm not going to find a better one anywhere. So, there it is. I'm going to finish so that I can keep my job for the just in case scenario where my husband dies and leaves me without a means of supporting my baby. How's that for twisted?

(In saner moments I remember that I actually love my job and that that is also a good motivator.)

Where do I stand with this whole bunch of shit that I have to do?

Dissertation:

Intro -- Written, Approved by Advisor, Ready for Committee

Chapter 1 -- Unwritten. But the chapter is synthetic, not original, so requires no challenging research.

Chapter 2 -- Partially written, needs revision.

Chapter 3 -- Written, Revised, Approved by Advisor, Ready for Committee.

Chapter 4 -- Written, Revised, needs 1-2 concluding paragraphs before being sent to advisor.

Chapter 5 -- Written, needs revision.

Conclusion -- Unwritten

Article:

25 pages of 35 written.

Clean-up research partially done.

No idea how to come up with the additional 10 pages.

Well, that's not true, really, I've got some ideas, but it needs work. The only good news is that it is a component of chapter 5, so any work I do on it can be translated into revisions for the final chapter.

I figure I'll defend the third or fourth week in August, with the draft of the dissertation going to the committee the first week in August, so let's make that August 1st. Hm. Maybe I better think about the timing of this whole thing...

It gives me: 8 weeks. Which given that I only have 3 day care days a week plus weekends is 40 days. Shitity shit. 40 days. Gulp. Double Gulp.

OK here is a Schedule:

Week 1: (this week) -- Finish Chapter 4. All that is left is a bloody paragraph or two for fuck's sake. Do that today. Send to advisor. Finish clean-up research, finish article.

Week 2: Really finish article. (hey, I know myself, ok?) Apply changes to Chapter 5.

Week 3: Really finish Chapter 5. Send to advisor on June 28th.

Week 4: Revise chapter 2.

Week 5: Finish revising Chapter 2. Start on Chapter 1.

Week 6: Finish chapter 1. Write Introduction.

Week 7: Revise, revise. Footnotes. (Oy vey, they're a mess. When I started this fucking thing I was using a prehistoric version of Endnote. Then I switched to a prehistoric version of bookends. I need to choose one, fix it up. Oh god. I'm going to die doing this, aren't I?

Week 8: Do all that other stuff that I thought I could do but didn't until now.

Well, I thought that would help. Maybe it did. Maybe it just made me more panicked than I was when I started this post. But hey, panic drives away ennui, right? In fact, I think I better stop blogging and get my sorry ass back to work. I'll resume daily update postings to keep myself honest and working during the days of the week that I have working time. So, tune in for the next few parts where I drag my sorry ass across the finish line with my fingernails while the Gadlet dances on the sidelines.

Dear Anonymous

2008-05-21T10:58:00.003-04:00

I was writing this as a response to a comment I received on my post Final Foibles '08, Part 1, and thought that it should make the main blog pages. Mostly because I'm curious about what the rest of ya'll think.

---------
Comment:
anonymous said...
Is this even appropriate? I wouldn't want some idiot teacher posting parts of my paper without my permission.

10:57 PM
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Dear Anonymous,

I don't usually respond to people who call me idiots, (and, by the way, thanks for that) but I feel inspired to so today.

First of all, I could see your point if I had posted the names of the students who wrote these sentences. However these sentences, like your comments, are anonymous. Their identities, like yours, are protected.

Second, and you could not know this, but I tell all of my classes before they turn in any papers that I keep a file of funny sentences to use in later handouts as examples of problematic writing. They are fully aware that what they write may be later distributed to others (again, anonymously).

Third, and you could also not know this, but I spend a LOT of time working with my students' writing to help them become better writers. If I was simply reading, making little checks in the margins, and then handing their papers back with a letter grade, it would be cruel and heartless to then make light of any errors. However, I spend about an hour with each student's paper that I read. Each paper. Every time. So, you do the math and decide how seriously I take student writing.

In view of these facts, I think a little harmless fun at the end of the semester is, well, harmless.

Thanks, though, for your concern.

SG

------------------------------------------
p.s. The blog is under a bit of construction right now, so don't mind the mess while I tinker with this new format to see if I like it. :)

Final Foibles '08, Part 2

2008-05-12T16:32:00.005-04:00

Whew. Another semester finished. All my grades are in and apparently I have survived my first foray in the the professor-mom experience. Yeah me.

Grading this time, I have to admit, was much much more fun because I spent the whole time looking for doozies for the Final Foibles Contest.

The Greatest Anachronism Prize:

"After the [American] Civil War... women were being admitted to higher education institutions, participating in medical training and other science-related fields, such as astronomy and the space program."

It is a little known fact that many people in the North considered colonizing the Moon after the end of the Civil War as the next step in Manifest Destiny driven expansion. Yes, it's true. Abraham Lincoln, that visionary, began the oh-so-secret Union Army Women's Space Program, where steam powered rocket ships fueled by coal were being developed to colonize the moon. With women.

Bonus points were given to this entry for the next sentence in the paper: "Post-Civil War technological advancements allowed women more freedom and leisure in terms of organizing and participating in community activities." Hm. Technological advancements like Rocket Science?

The Three Strikes and You're an "F" Award

(Or the Alas, Poor Martha Ballard Award)

1. "Martha Ballard's community was unhindered by astringent ideas of what it was to be a woman."

I did not know that they had this stuff way back in the 18th century. And, while, yes, the secondary definition does apply here and can make sense, harsh or strident is not the first definition that springs to mind when I hear the word "astringent."

2. "Martha Ballard was a marvelous woman who persevered through harsh colds, and endless deaths of others."

Yes, the common cold is terrible. As is death. Endless death, though, that is definitely the worst.

3. "Martha Ballard had no information on this [newer ideas about womanhood], nor was she a simple housewife pruning her children and calling on her husband's every need."

Please join me in sending money to the American Association for the Prevention of Baby Pruning. (AAPBP)

The Could You Vague That Up A Bit For Me? Award:

(at the start of a paragraph)

"More modern historians disagree with this notion. These new age authors argue that both sides had the same feelings."

Yes, we new age historians often consult our crystals while we sit under a pyramid in order to be fully considerate of the feelings of people in the past.

And finally, without further ado...

The Spring 2008 Grading Extravaganza Grand Prize Winner:

"There is also scholarly evidence of suggestions made by historians asserting their belief that the war was in a result a direct result of the establishment of transportation which then in fact led to the westward expansion of a nation which was severed at the hip."

Final Foibles '08, Part 1

2008-05-11T18:18:00.003-04:00

In the grand old tradition of attempting to enjoy oneself while grading, or at least not poke one's eyes out with the red pen, I offer the following fabulous sentences from this round of student papers.

In the I'm Never Going to Travel Again category:

"Many soldiers received sexually transmitted diseases from traveling overseas."

In the Badly Overstating the Obvious category: (with bonus points for the insanely repetitive use of semi-colons.)

"Abortion is a two-sided argument; both sides have drastic views about what is right and what is wrong.... those who believe that abortion is murder belong to the pro-life argument; those who believe in the right to choose thus belong to the pro-choice argument."

In the I Do Not Think That Word Means What You Think It Means category:

"When the differences were set aside, the regions could collaborate and work together in harmony, but the amber of the fire never truly died, it simply mustered until it had room to ignite."

Stay tuned for Final Foibles '08, Part 2. I get 45 more papers tomorrow.

...Three...

2008-05-09T09:43:00.005-04:00

I don't know what was worse. The testing or Spousal Unit's reaction to the testing.

OK, I do know. It was the testing. And the lack of an outcome. And the possible scary consequences.

Here's the story:

We got up at the crack of dawn in order to get to the 8:00 a.m. appointment at the hospital. These days that isn't so unusual since the Gadlet wakes up at 6:00 a.m. every day. This means that she usually needs a nap at about 8:00-8:30. (This fact will become relevant later on...). But, since she dozed in the car for the 10 minutes it took us to get there, I was hoping that that would tide her over. Yeah, right.

The first set of tests were relatively easy. They were simple ultrasounds. They squirted some goo on her belly and back and took a peek inside at stuff. The Gadlet wiggled and played with the toys I brought while we tried to get her to stay relatively still, but it was pretty simple for the tech to get an image even if she was moving around. All-in-all that took about 20 minutes. It turned out she did have a full bladder, good little eldest-child Virgo that she is, she was following the rules. (Which they amended when they realized how young she is. And, yes, breastmilk is categorized as a clear liquid. Go figure. But, phew, what a relief!) So I think they got some pretty good images.

Then came the hard part. We knew that the catheter insertion would be the least good part of this experience, but still. It was awful. For more reasons than one.

When we got to the radiology lab, the nurses were very nice and introduced themselves and told us about the procedure. They were going to insert a catheter into her urethra, then shoot some dye in there and take pictures. Pretty simple. Then they asked if I was pregnant. "Gasp! Dear God, I hope not!!" was my response. They said, "are you sure?" I said, "Well, since I haven't gotten my period yet, I don't know, but I really don't think so." But I guess that wasn't sufficient. They kept pressing and pressing, which ultimately prompted Spousal Unit to exclaim disgustedly, "I'm Sure!!" I chuckled, but the nurses looked aghast. I think they were feeling like that was TMI about our sex life, or lack thereof, and so got embarrassed. But they stopped asking if I was pregnant. Regardless, they decided that I'd have to stand outside anyway when the x-ray was on, just in case. So Spousal Unit had to wear the lead dress. Since his job was to be hanging out with the Gadlet during the x-ray process. My job, therefore, was to help her get through the catheter.

They got everything ready, we stripped the baby down, and put her on the table. At which point it was almost 11:00 a.m. and the poor little kid hadn't yet had her morning nap. Not surprisingly, she started screaming and waving her little arms to be picked up even before they did anything. I put my face next to hers and talked to her and tried to calm her down, but then the nurses pinned her legs down and started with the catheter. At which point she promptly peed. After a bit of tinkering, Nurse #1 decided she couldn't get it. In steps Nurse #2. She can't get it in either. Meanwhile, the Gadlet is belting it out at the top of her lungs. She is pissed, as well as covered in piss, and was letting us all know it. So, we take a break. The nurses decide to send for a pediatric nurse who specializes in this kind of thing. I held the Gadlet, nursed her a little, and got her calmed down. Spousal Unit lurked at the edge of the room and started asking questions about the x-ray dosage she was going to get and how many kilojoules or metaohms, or whatever measurement they use, and why she needed this intense of a dose. In the midst of this chaos, that guy, the damned x-ray scientist, had read the side of the machine and was doing some complicated calculations to compare it to the x-rays that he works with at the Big Science Thingey. I was worrying about her tiny private parts, he was worrying about her radiation exposure. I didn't give a shit about her potential x-ray risk, I just wanted someone to get the catheter in right so that we could get it all over with.

Before Spousal Unit got any answers that made him satisfied, along came the pediatric nurse and so we recommenced the process again. Gadlet on table, screaming, sweating, freaking out --me holding her head gently and telling her how proud I was of her -- one nurse on each side holding her legs down, and the nurse in the center trying to thread the needle, as it were.

She couldn't get it either. This did not bode well for the test. Or for the Gadlet, I was beginning to gather, as the nurses started to exchange grave looks.

They called our pediatrician. He happened to be at the hospital, so stopped on by. At this point, Spousal Unit was in a high state of anger. He was just ready to walk out and take our baby and never return. I think he was worried that the doctor would come in and attempt to show his superiority by doing what the nurses could not. Instead, our doctor, who I love, came in and called the whole thing off. But not for a good reason. Apparently, the problem they had getting the catheter in can be an indication that there may be something wrong with her urethra. So we have to go to the pediatric urology specialists in a Big City 2 hours away and get them to check it out. And if there is something wrong, she's probably going to need some surgery to fix it.

We walked to the car with heavy hearts and an exhausted, angry, sweaty and unhappy baby. When we get everybody squared away in their seats, Spousal Unit looks at me and said, (and I quote exactly): "It really upset me that all the women in that room constructed the experience as traumatic."

Gnuh? Constructed the experience as traumatic? Where the hell was he? Was he watching the same baby that I was? It wasn't CONSTRUCTED as Traumatic, it just WAS TRAUMATIC!!

Anyway, I guess he was feeling left out of the experience because I had been the one to take care of her through the catheter -- remember, he was going to be the point-parent for the x-ray and dye thing itself, so had it all gone well, he would have had his fair share of head holding and muttering through the screaming. But because the test never happened, he wound up kind of not getting to participate and he was feeling a little left out of the loop. So, I guess I could see his point, but I was little pissed that he thought that it was traumatic because all the "women" in the room had decided that it was.

So, while we had a big fight about this, the Gadlet slept and we drove to Target for toilet paper. I left the two of them in the car and engaged in a little retail therapy, buying the Gadlet some new toys: The Fisher Price talking retro phone

And her first set of Tonka Trucks

Bad parenting at its best, no? Bad experience? Here kid, have a toy. I swore I'd never do that. But, she really loves the phone -- she's been playing with it nonstop since I got it home.

So, really, I guess what was most interesting about the experience was to see our very different reactions to the stress. Spousal Unit opted to use his expertise as a scientist and get grumpy about what he had knowledge about, and then he decided that the whole thing wouldn't have been a bad experience if it weren't for the adult (read "female") emotions in the room. I just freaked out. Was freaked out. And still a little am freaked out. I dreamed last night that I drove my car off of an icy road into a lake and as I was going over into the water I realized that I couldn't get the Gadlet out of her carseat in time before she would drown. (For those of you who don't know, it is pretty tricky to get a kid in and out of a carseat.) I think this was a clear metaphor for what is going on -- we've slid off course and I can't save her from what is looking like it might be a very bad experience. I guess this is a normal part of parenthood -- always worrying and always having a terror that something will harm your child and knowing that you can't save them from all of the bad stuff that will come down the road.

In the schema of the bad stuff that CAN happen, this is probably nothing really major. But it could be something unpleasant and scary for her. And scary for her is really, really scary for me. Just when I thought I was managing my global fear of disasters, along comes a potentially deformed little urethra to gum up the emotional works. Poor little Gadlet. Although she, of course, seems totally fine. She has gone back to normal -- dancing when she hears music, cackling at all things even remotely funny, exclaiming "Ah!" when she discovers something new, and adamantly refusing solid food. I suppose if I can keep from killing Spousal Unit, we'll all survive what ever comes next.

Testing...One...Two...

2008-04-27T14:56:00.004-04:00

This week the poor little Gadlet went through some terrible stuff. Not as bad as it could be, thank the stars, maker, Gods, God, whoever and whatever, but deeply unfun nonetheless.

She started off last week with a low-grade fever and serious grouchies. Horay, I thought, Teething! Um, no. The fever persisted for days, so I took her in to the pediatrician. At first pass, they thought it might be pneumonia, so the Gadlet had to have a chest x-ray.

How do you x-ray a squirmy infant? Funny you should ask.

They stuffed her into this thing:

I don't know what kind of baby happy crack they put this kid on to get this picture where he looks all calm and normal except for the vacant look in his eye, but the Gadlet did not like this thing AT ALL. She screamed her little tiny head off. Worse, she looked at me the whole time going "mamamamamamama!!!" in between sobs as if I had betrayed her in the vilest way. Which in a way I had because it was my job to stand there HOLDING HER ARMS ABOVE HER HEAD watching while she screamed, so clearly I was in on this torture that she was undergoing. It was horrible. All the while, the X-Ray technician was swearing to me up and down that it was actually better if the Gadlet screamed because then they could get a clearer image of her lungs. But you know she had to be lying just to make me feel better.

I just found out while looking for this thing on the internets that it is appropriately called, and I shit you not, a "Pigg-O-Stat." I don't know if that means it is a way to make a pig static, in which case I'm deeply offended that my infant is deemed a pig in medical terminology, or if the poor inventer's name was Pigg. Either way, it did not bode well for the little Gadlet.

Well, the X-rays were fine, she did not have pneumonia. So they sent us home and told us it was viral, but to check back in a couple of days if her fever persisted.

It did, of course.

So then we had to go back on Friday. In the fun baby luck of the draw we got the rookie PA rather than the doctor, and she thought maybe ear infection. So she spent 40 minutes trying to look into the Gadlet's ears while I held her immobilized. After 30 minutes of violent screaming and even more violent squirming, I almost wished I had the Pigg-O-Stat.

The PA finally gave up and called in the Doc. He took literally about 10 seconds to look, got a good view of her ears, and said, "Nope, not an ear infection." That meant worse. He said, in a very loud voice to overcome the Gadlet's screams, "Sorry, but now we have to take a urine sample and that means sticking a catheter into her urethra. Do you consent?" Once again, I became Mama the Vile Betrayer. And she thought the ear exam was bad. Woah. Add to this very rude intrusion on her internal private parts the to the fact that she never actually stopped screaming from the bungled ear-checking, and boy, was she one pissed-off infant. And then of course she peed everywhere as soon as they took it out. So she was wet, cold, mad as hell, and probably in some pain. By this point she had been crying nonstop for about 45 mintues solid. She screamed so hard that she did that sobbing breathing (huh-huh-huh haaaa, pause, Huh-huh-huh haaaaa) afterwards for half an hour even though she fell asleep. Poor little cookie. It broke my heart. Next time they stick some tubes in my baby or decide to plunk her in any thing O-Static, Spousal Unit has to come along and be Papa the Vile Betrayer. I'm not doing that one again.

Except, I think I am. It turns out that she's got a urinary tract infection and is on antibiotics. The bad news is that there has to be more testing on May 8 at the hospital to make sure there isn't anything wrong with her bladder, urethra or kidneys.

And what are my instructions for before the testing? Get this -- we have to: not let her eat after midnight, and then make sure she comes in with a full bladder for the test.

Uh, yeah. Right. The fact that they are suggesting this prepratory process for an 8 month old (it will be her 8-month b-day on the test day) does not inspire my confidence in the hospital that has requested such a thing. Don't you'd think they would know that you can't tell babies not to pee and have it work?? I mean, hello, hospital? Dealing with babies all of the time?? And not nurse her after midnight? Do those foolish hospital workers want to come to my house and deal with my screaming baby at 2:00 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. when I refuse to nurse her? I'm guessing probably not.

Oh, and did I mention I've got 36 papers to grade this week, 25 to grade next week, and get another 50 on May 12? And I got another scolding email from the volume editors reminding me (as if I could forget...) that I'm a year behind and delinquent on this article I'm supposed to be writing? Add to this the fact that Spousal Unit is at his hardest point of work for the next 6 months (Overheard phone call from the Lab today -- Spousal Unit "It blew up?" Pause. "How loud?" Pause. "He should really report this, especially if he is still hearing ringing in his ears." Pause. "O.K. Well, how much got out?" Pause. "Hm...that's not good." At which point I was so freaked out, I left the room.) I think we're both feeling like we're stuffed into in the Academic equivalent of the Pigg-O-Stat.

I guess at this point all we can do is hope that the Gadlet doesn't have another Pigg-O-Matic, (oops! Static, Stat, whatever...) in her near future.

"Don't Come Back Monday" or The Six Word Memoir

2008-04-17T21:14:00.005-04:00

Academama tagged me for this meme, (Thanks Academama!!!) which is funny because I'd just been thinking about this idea because I'd heard of the book that sparked the meme.

This is actually really challenging. It is really hard to sum up your whole entire existence, which feels enormous, in 6 little words. As I try to do it, I keep thinking about two stories -- one from reality and one from my alternate reality. Which is Buffy, of course.

When my grandfather was just starting his trip down the Alzheimer's Superhighway, he once told me that he was working on writing his memoirs. I was intrigued. This was a man of few words. He was a quite, tense kind of a guy who seemed to carry a lot of anger around inside but who didn't really express himself very frequently. I knew that when he was younger he had done some painting and drawing, so I knew he had a creative streak. I thought that maybe this memoir project was a new direction for his artistic interests. Intrigued, I asked him to tell me about it. He said that he hadn't written much of anything yet, but that he had hit upon the perfect title: "Don't Come Back Monday." He started to explain that the title was because he had been fired from so many jobs, he couldn't even count how many. I guess this bottled up anger he lived with would occasionally escape its containment structure and burst out at inappropriate moments. Usually at work, and usually directed at his boss. Papa said that that phrase, "Don't come back Monday" was one he heard repeatedly, usually preceded and followed by cursing. As a 4-word memoir, it isn't bad, I think, for describing this man's work life. As his life's work, well, I don't know, maybe it isn't bad for that one either.

The other thing I keep thinking about when I contemplate this 6 Word memoir is in Buffy, Season 3. A new character has appeared in the group, Faith, and the group is trying to explain to her all of the varieties of folk they have in their group. In particular, they're trying to reveal that one of their own is a werewolf. Somebody says,"Oz is a werewolf, but oh, it's a long story..." Then the said stoic werewolf, Oz, tells his story: "Got bit." And Buffy says, "I guess not so long..." "Got Bit" pretty much sums up the whole thing.

So, somewhere between "Got Bit," and "Don't Come Back Monday" are the six words that sum up my whole life to date. I've got to admit that I'm struggling to find them. The best one I've come up with is: "Just working on overcoming my fear." But, I'm not sure it is really THE one. I'm going to keep thinking about this one, and if I come up with a better one, I'll pass it along.

I did come up with a good 6 Word Birth Story: "Who's that screaming? Oh, it's me."

I'm much happier with this one, a variation on the theme that I saw at ParentDish.

:) Let me tag the academic mamas (Academama, Mimi, Nik) (and any other great mamas who are reading this!) out there to come up with their 6 Word Birth Stories! And, let's see, Innana, Amanda, and Ragey for the 6 Word Memoir.)

And in the meantime, back to grading.

That's a good one, huh? Maybe that is my REAL 6 Word Memoir: "In the meantime, back to grading."

After Ecstasy, the Laundry

2008-04-08T16:12:00.004-04:00

Yeah, so you know it has been way, way too long since you've last posted on your blog when the only comments you've gotten in months are spam advertisements in unknown Asian characters. Worse, you know it has been way too long since you've blogged when you're insanely happy that some Asian automated spam program found your blog since you assume that just about everybody has given up checking it for new posts, except for perhaps your Mom. (Hi, Mom.)

So, in the interest of returning you to the state of Stewgad, I'll give a little update on my world.

Hi everybody, I'm Stewgad. I'm an x-th year grad student, a 2.5th year untenured professor, and a new mama. I'm working on raising a kid, staying married, teaching classes, finishing a dissertation, and having a life. (Pretty much in that order.) I'm finding that my new life with baby involves a lot of cross-identity stuff each day. I'm never just a Mama, or a Wife, or a Professor or a Writer at any given moment, I'm usually trying to be all at the same time. Like Professor Mama Writer Wife. And I'm finding that it doesn't usually work all that well.

Well, maybe that's not true. I guess after 7 months of this juggling act/highwire walk/escape artist trick (or pick any other arcane and never seen circus performance metaphor you would like, I mean, are there still circuses, anyway?) I am getting a little better at managing all that I have to do in a week, at least better than I was at the start of this semester. But, I do feel like I always have 10 things to do and that I'm really only able to do about 5.5 of them, and only 4 of them well. I'll let you guess which ones I opt for.

Anyway, things here in Stewgadland have settled in to a pretty nice little routine if I really think about it. I get up, I feed the Gadlet, I pack her up, I drop her off at Darby's Fabulous Home Day Care, I go to work, I teach, I come home, I pick up the Gadlet (on most days, some days Spousal Unit fetches her), we cook, we eat, I feed the Gadlet, I go to sleep. I wake up, I feed the Gadlet. I sleep. (Repeat the last 5 steps 2-4 times a night, depending.) So we've got things down a bit. And if I'm a little jealous that Darby gets to spend most of her time with my baby, that's reasonable and normal, right? And if I'm a lot jealous that she has the time (and Magical Martha Stewart-esque skills) to do things like whip up some homemade felted Babylegs from an old sweater when my kid poops on the ones I sent her to daycare in, then that's just my own cross to bear as I suck it up and am deeply happy that the Gadlet has someone so absolutely amazing in her life.

Right now, there are only 5 weeks left in the semester, and although I haven't even graded my midterms, (and I'm supposed to be doing that RIGHT NOW) I think I may survive it. Really much to my own surprise.

I spent the first half of of the semester agonizing about how terrible I felt that I had to go back to work and how all I really wanted to do was be at home with the Gadlet. In fact, I bitched about it a lot to anybody who'd listen. (Except, oddly enough, the blog... perhaps the most appropriate forum for such feelings.) I was unhappy to be back at work, I felt so behind on all things academic and/or intellectual, and I hated leaving my daughter every day. But mostly, I think I was annoyed that I HAD to work at all. I mean, isn't there a life somewhere out there where all I had to do was be with my baby and play with my great new Mama friends and read novels and buy stuff? Couldn't I have that life if I wanted it? Well, yes. Maybe. But Spousal Unit made it clear that if I wanted that life, which incidentally required us to give up half of our income, then I'd have to first finish the dissertation and then give teaching another year before I made a decision. Damn him and his reasonableness. I guess I'd kinda hoped that giving birth got me out of that whole dissertation thing. Well, the man called my bluff. So, I trudged along for a while being pissed at my whole horrible situation.

Yes, you say, horrible? Come the fuck on, Stewgad, you spoiled princess, you. And, yes, I finally came to this realization myself, after probably spending far more time complaining about having to work than I was actually working. A few things helped me snap out of this self-pity spiral.

First, I was bitching and moaning to another friend of mine who is also a professor and who is also on maternity leave with her first baby. She listened politely, smiled, and then said, "Stewgad, honey, this is the best job you could ever have with a baby. You only teach 30 weeks out of the year, and you only have to go to campus 2 days a week. The rest of the time is your own to work on what you love and to be with your family." Hm. Well, since you put it like THAT.

And while I was chewing on this idea, a different friend of mine reminded me about Buffy. No, no... really, wait... don't go away yet. Hear me out. She said that Buddhists have a saying about the return of normal life after amazing life changing moments: "After ecstasy, the laundry." She pointed out that Buffy, who dies in the 5th season and is sent to heaven, returns in 6th season to feel that her world is hellish -- that the normal stuff of everyday life is torture, compared to heaven. But then the Truthsayer on the show, Spike, reminds her that everyday life isn't supposed to be bliss, it's just supposed to be lived. I think for me that having a baby and getting to stay home with her was the ecstasy. It was this amazing, transformative time when I was so happy and felt so fulfilled. But, it couldn't last forever. There is still work to be done. My own intellectual laundry.

So between Spousal Unit reminding me that I still had work to do, my friend reminding me that of all the work I could do, this one is great, and my other friend reminding me that life isn't always bliss and that I still had some laundry that needed seeing to, I started to feel better about my job.

Then came Spring Break and I spent a week at home alone with the Gadlet. I was totally psyched to spend the week hanging around and staring deeply and adoringly into my infant's eyes. Well, she apparently, had other plans.

Funny thing about infants. They start to become real little humans -- babies -- and they stop wanting to gaze into your eyes all day and start wanting to do things like gnawing on anything dangerous they can get their tiny little hands on. And it turns out, the Gadlet is developing actual Opinions and Ideas. These Opinions and Ideas render her somewhat less adorable at times, actually. For example, she does not like to put on clothes. Naked is her ideal state. And, in fact, if you attempt to put a shirt on her without giving her something to do with her hands while you do it, she bitches and moans and wiggles and does this funny thing with her hips that is a spot-on imitation of Elvis as she attempts to squirm away from the torture of clothing. Likewise, she engages in substantial bitching when I sometimes attempt to do something personal in the bathroom in the morning for which I would rather not have company, ahem, and so put her down on the play mat in her bedroom and walk 2 feet away into the bathroom. Bitch, bitch, bitch is all I hear the whole time. My response? "PLEASE calm down, Honey, MAMA HAS TO POOP!!" She's usually unimpressed by this argument and grumpily continues her bitching.

But the Gadlet reservers her top quality #1 bitching for mornings when I'm trying to get her ready to go and to pack up the 10,000 things that are required for a baby when you leave them with someone else for a day and to get ME ready to go and to pack up the 10,000 things that I require to be a professor in a different city all day. That's when she really lets it rip. Like this morning. I think that kid griped at me for a good hour because I couldn't hold her AND pack the frozen breastmilk, (a.k.a. The TitMilk as a friend of mine calls it), fold the cloth diapers, pack up an extra set of clothing for Poop Explosion Emergency Contingencies, track down the diaper rash ointment, the snowsuit in case it is cold, the sweater in case it is only a little cold, a sun hat in case it is sunny, a warm hat in case it is snowy, pack up the breast pump that tediously extracts said TitMilk, find the million tiny parts belonging to the breast pump and clean them (I think Spousal Unit is afraid to touch that thing and since he's The Cleaner in the relationship, those darned parts are never clean), find the papers I was grading, pack up the laptop and the book I was reading for class, find extra pads to insert in my shirt so that the TitMilk won't leak and make an embarrassing stain that reminds my students that I have Tits that make Milk, make green tea so that I can drive without falling asleep, prepare toast so that I have sufficient calories to produce the TitMilk, and stuff all of the above into the car, all the while listening to an ever-escalating chorus of baby bitching. And what does baby bitching sound like, you ask? "NNNNGGGGGNNNNN!!!!!!!" Or occasionally she varies the consonant sound to "MMMMMMM!!!!" But the Gadlet mostly sticks to the NG range of things.

Don't get me wrong, I love her more than I ever thought I could love anything. But, lately she's more interested in exploring her world than in being adored by me. Which is all right and proper and good and will only increase with time. Which makes me heartily grateful that I didn't quit my job in February when I really, really wanted to.

And, um, so what about the dissertation? Oh, That. The whole raison d'etre for this bloggy business. I finished (almost ... like I've got one paragraph or so and a little tidying to go) a chapter over break, but haven't had time to return to it since then. I'm hoping that by the end of May I'll finish this one (really finish) and revise the next one. Then, by the end of June I will have finished drafting the next one and revised the last one, leaving only a conclusion. That's the rough plan, anyway.

I guess in general that I'm just trying to do the laundry of my life. To remember the ecstasy, and to treasure it and my time with the ever-changing Gadlet, but to also work on enjoying the work of my life and to appreciate the process of getting things clean, both metaphorically, mentally, and literally. So, now I'm off to wash some diapers.

The Obama Obsession

2008-02-11T17:02:00.000-05:00

The Obama Obsession : A Drama in Three Acts

Act One: Preparations

The Scene: Spousal Unit and Stewgad are at home when the phone rings. A friend has invited them to tour a historic house that he has just purchased and is renovating. Spousal Unit hangs up the phone and our heroes start to prepare for the journey.

Stewgad: I wonder what the weather is like today, and consequently how warmly will I have to dress the Gadlet? Have you heard?

Spousal Unit: Nope.

Stewgad: OK - I'll check.

(click, clickety, click, tap, tap.)

Stewgad: Oh - a bad cold front is moving through along with some snowfall for the whole [region we're in].

Spousal Unit: Wow. I hope it doesn't hurt Maine.

Stewgad (utterly bewildered): Maine??

Spousal Unit: Yeah, a storm could really impact the turnout.

Stewgad: Maine?!! Your first thought was Maine??? We're about to go out and take our child into the tundra and your first thought was Maine???

Spousal Unit (sheepishly): Yes, well it is a caucus state, so it is really important for Obama to have...

Stewgad: (Rolls eyes and groans.)

Act Two: The Tour

The Scene: Historic House Under Renovation

Friend: So this is the house. Here is where the historic kitchen was. Now we'll move through the hallway into the upstairs apartment.

Spousal Unit: Wow, this apartment sure is great. What a great view! From here you can even see the Obama headquarters!! (Turns to Friend) Can I witness for you about my feelings for Obama?

Friend: (Mumbles uncomfortably and changes subject.)

Stewgad: (Groans and rolls eyes.)

Gadlet: (Takes opportunity to spit up into her snowsuit, onto her mother's wool coat and, splat, onto the newly refinished historic oak floors.)

Act Three: The Drive

The Scene: Our heroes have just gotten into the car. It is quiet until Stewgad speaks.

Stewgad: Wow, that was really a great house.

Spousal Unit: I don't think Friend likes Obama.

Stewgad: Oh. My. God! Is that all you think about?? I don't think I can survive this election season! Can't we talk about anything else???

Spousal Unit: Yes, we can.

The End.

----------------------

This little drama was brought to you today by Obama Obsessed Anonymous (O.O.A). Please contact us if you suspect that you or someone you love has a problem.

The Grading Meme

2008-02-07T13:46:00.001-05:00

Oh. My. God.

I had totally forgotten how much I hate grading. I am currently sitting on 50 some short (1-page) preliminary assignments and every fiber in my being shouts out that it DOES NOT WANT TO GRADE THEM.

So, in the interest of procrastinating this fun task, I'm reviving my "Five Things I'd Rather Do than Grade" Meme, updated for the New and Improved Parental Stewgad.

5. Listen to the Gadlet shit knowing full well what has to happen after that.

(Especially since the little critter saves up all her poop for a week and then gets it out in one fell swoop. Usually at the most inconvenient moment possible, of course.)

4. Attempt to extract a squirming, grumpy 13-lb human out of shit-infused clothing without enabling that human to ingest some of the shit.

(After one similarly explosive and uncontained poop the husband of a friend of mine suggested as a solution to this dilemma that they just "cut off" her daughter's onesie. She was not amused.)

3. Remove all of said shit from the back, arms, legs, knees, toes and various other tiny nooks and crannies while small squirming human attempts to roll over and/or play with aforementioned shit.

(Who knew babies had so many crevices in which to hide small morsels of shit??)

2. Clean the encrusted baby shit out of the gussets of the elasticized leg openings of a cloth diaper wrap with a toothbrush.

(Yep. Toothbrush. It's the thing that works best to get that shit out of there. And yes, cloth. Given that I lie awake at night and worry about where all of the trash goes, this seemed to be the only solution.)

And last, but not least, the # 1 thing I'd rather do that grade....

Listen to Spousal Unit wax poetic about Barack Obama WHILE attempting to accomplish #2-5.

-----------------

And now, back to my regularly scheduled workload.

Thank you all for stopping by.

Feel free to share the 5 things you hate more than grading.

Obama Drama

2008-02-04T10:52:00.001-05:00

I feel that it is only fair for me to tell you that Spousal Unit has fallen in love with someone else.

I am trying to be open-minded and fair about this new relationship and at the same time hold on to the husband I know. But it is hard because he won't shut up about this new love. Worse, he expects me to follow along and to be happy that he has found this new person who gives purpose to his life. Frankly I'm a little jealous. He's devoting all of his time and emotional energy to his new love interest. I even caught him ignoring the Gadlet the other day while he was on-line with his new honey.

Yes, my man has fallen hard for Barack Obama.

And let me tell you, he is absolutely head-over-heels obsessed. It's a leetle insane. I keep catching him obsessively perusing the internet for spin and information and polls. He brings

his computer to bed every night so that he can follow the situation. I feel like I'm sharing a bed with Barack Obama.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan. I happily voted for the man yesterday and waited in a long line to get to do it. The first time I saw Obama speak, I got the chills -- I knew I was watching our first black President. I just knew it. Whether this is his moment or not, I don't know. I have hope, but I don't know. Regardless, he moves me. (And speaking of hope, if you haven't seen it, go and watch this tear-jerking video.)

But Spousal Unit is over the top. Yesterday morning he was in the foulest mood I've ever seen him in. He was grouchy with me, short with the Gadlet, and stormed around the house all morning with a dark cloud lurking over his head. I decided to remedy the situation by leaving. Then last night when he got home he was all sunshine and light. What had caused his bad morning mood? He finally confessed that he was stressed about Super Tuesday. Yes, politics is controlling his whole world.

The beautiful thing is that he is putting his obsession into action. He has been hanging around the local Obama campaign headquarters making calls and canvassing. The other day he took the Gadlet while she was sleeping and she hung out there in her stroller and he made calls. It is really cool and admirable. I'm way to shy to do things like that, so I'm really impressed that he's so into it. Plus, the Gadlet will get to say someday that she campaigned for Obama.

The best part for me, though, is that I get to tease Spousal Unit with the poetry of the Gadlet's favorite book -- Llama Llama Red Pajama. It's all about this baby llama going to bed whose Mama has stuff to do and doesn't get to him as quickly as he wants. And as you may expect, there is a lot of rhyming. Whenever the Gadlet sees this book, she smiles. It is adorable. But anyway, there's this line in the book when the Mama returns to the baby llama as he has a tantrum: "Little llama such a tizzy, sometimes Mama's very busy. Please stop all this Llama drama and be patient for your Mama." In our house I've adapted it: "Spousal Unit, what a tizzy. Sometimes politics are busy. Please stop all this Obama drama and help the Gadlet's patient Mama."

Ok, so maybe the joke doesn't translate into written text so well. But it is very funny to those of us who have to repeatedly read the same book to the kid over and over so much that we've got it memorized.

Anyway, I don't usually post about politics - there are far smarter and more engaged folk out there doing it for me -- but I wanted to share this Drama with you all since yesterday was a pretty good day for all of us Obama Llamas. And because finally for the first time in weeks, Spousal Unit can relax with the Gadlet's mama.

_____________________

Dreaded D:

I've got an article to write that is due by the end of the month. Since I've put these folks off for about a year (Gasp!) I really, really, really have to do it this time. The good news is that it is a good chunk of one of my chapters, so hopefully by working on this article I'll also be making progress on chapter 5. I'm a little nervous since I haven't been at this for a while, but hopefully it will be OK. I'm going to hold my nose and dive right in. Wish me luck!

Professor Stewgad Redux. With Mucus.

2008-01-25T15:57:00.000-05:00

Well, we survived the week. Barely.

On Monday I suited up for the role and put on something other than jeans, spit-up stained shirts, or pajamas for the first time since the Gadlet was born. I donned my new button-down shirt and fancy work pants, which were only made possible by the control-top tights that held in my postpartum gut. As I tugged those things on I fervently hoped that the "control-top" helping me hold in my flabby belly would also help me hold in my flabby emotions. But for some reason that wasn't one of the benefits advertised on the package.

I gathered together the million and a half bags it takes to get a baby and a returning professor out of the house, packed up the Gadlet and drove her over to Darby's. I brought her in and kissed her goodbye and was thinking I'd make it out without tears until Darby asked me how I was doing. I got a little weepy then and so bolted out the door before I had a total breakdown.

Then I was free. I thought it would feel awful. I had fully prepared to weep in the car. But I didn't. In fact, it was great. I felt so good. The Gadlet was safe, cared for and happy and I could work uninterrupted for HOURS at a time. The last few weeks it had been really challenging to feel like I had to be working on my dissertation, prepping for classes AND taking care of the Gadlet. Monday I just had to do one of those three things. Life had gotten much, much simpler.

The only less simple and slightly crazy thing was making sure the Gadlet had enough milk for the next day. In the interest of multitasking, and since I have an hour commute with nothing to do in that time period, I had decided to pump while driving. To facilitate this bit of automobile gymnastics I bought this insanely overengineered bra for "hands free" pumping. It looks and feels like an unholy cross between my grandmother's knickers and a Madonna video. So in the morning along with my control top undergarments, I put this contraption on underneath my shirt, then put in half of the pump part (the part that covers my boobs), and stuck it through the convenient hole in the bra leaving exposed the hollow pipe that hooks up to the valves, etc. I looked exactly like a femmebot with guns sticking out of my jubblies. After I dropped the Gadlet off, I got in the car, hooked myself up and pumped while I commuted. I don't love pumping, but I love the Gadlet so I kept at it. I was simply terrified the whole time, though, that I'd get stopped by a cop for something and he'd look down and I'd be hooked up to the milking machine. But at least I was "hands free." I mean, if there's laws about cell phone use while driving, what about pumping?

Fortunately I was not arrested for indecent exposure while driving on my first commute. I got a lot done on Monday to prep for teaching on Tuesday. I printed out a bunch of stuff and got my syllabi and handouts ready. (I'm one of those profs that handout out a million pieces of pieces of paper the first day of class.) Then I headed home to the Gadlet.

When I got to Darby's, apparently the Gadlet had been crying or grousing for about an hour. Poor kid. I think she was ready to go home, because as soon as I put her in the car she started chattering a mile a minute -- like she had to tell me all about her adventures of the day. Then at home she got very quiet and subdued and wanted to be held all night. I was worried that she was trying to show us how good she could be so that we wouldn't take her back to day care. But Spousal Unit said I was being ridiculous.

The best part of Monday, though, was coming home. I walked in the door and the house was clean and all lit up and it smelled wonderful. The table was set and there was a beautiful salad waiting. While I admired all of this and unpacked the Gadlet, the oven timer beeped and Spousal Unit pulled out homemade enchiladas. It was so amazing. I felt so cared for and supported. The only thing that might have made it better was if he'd been buck naked except for an apron. But since we live in the North and it is January, I can understand why he decided to keep his clothes on. But lack of nakedness aside, let me tell you, I don't think I've ever been so happy to come home and find dinner waiting.

Tuesday's commute was a little trickier because I had to drop the Galdet off and then pick up my commuting colleague. But it worked fine. Then I taught again for the first time in ages. It felt great. Well, after I got over that gut-wrenching nervousness of the first class. Within a few minutes I remembered how much I love teaching and how much I love my students and how much I love history and how much I love my colleagues. It was such a good day. I was totally high and as I left work I felt really ready to launch into the Dreaded Dissertation on Wednesday.

Then I picked up the Gadlet on Tuesday night. Darby said that she had been coughing so desperately badly all day that she had made herself hoarse. It was terrible. My baby was sick. This ocean of guilt crashed into me. I had left her and she had gotten sick and she felt bad and didn't have her mama all day. I was the worst mother ever to enter into mothering. How could I have been so cruel? I was never ever going to leave her again. Tuesday night she was so full of phlegm she couldn't sleep because she kept coughing herself awake. So I took her to the pediatrician Wednesday morning. They stuck this pipe cleaner looking thing up her nose and sucked out a booger to test it for RSV, a respiratory virus that little kids get. Then they tested her blood-oxygen levels to make sure she was getting enough oxygen. The scariest thing was that they wanted to know about a family history of ashtma. (Maternal Grandmother, Mother, Brother, and me a little when encountered with molds.) But she was negative for RSV and they didn't think she has asthma. Just a cold. Phew. But oh did I feel terrible. Oh, and best of all? The pediatrician said that she couldn't go back to day care because she might make Darby's baby sick.

I deflated like a little balloon. So much for feeling liberated and like I had time to do my own work. Dammit. I had to stay at home with the baby. But, wait, isn't that what I wanted to do all along? How confusing. Then I felt all guilty because I felt bad that I had to stay home with my sick baby that I wouldn't have wanted to leave anyway because she was sick. See the conundrum? It wasn't fun.

Anyway, I lost Wednesday's work time because she just wanted to be held all day. Back to being a Mama and feeling like I had to do other stuff also. Thursday was Daddy Day so she got to be at home with Spousal Unit and I got to go to work guilt-free. Then Friday I caught the cold so we just lazed around together, me blowing my nose, the Gadlet squirming and screaming while I used that bulbous thingeymabob to suck the boogers out of her nose. Good times, my friends, good times.

So all in all, a complicated emotional roller coaster this week. With mucus. But somehow we survived and are poised to try it all again next week.

____________

Housekeeping:

I haven't updated my blog list in forever and I really want to apologize for not adding all of the new readers that have been coming by lately to the sidebar. It isn't personal at all -- believe me! Also, I've been a bad blog citizen and haven't commented on ya'll's blogs. Thanks so much for all the support and comments -- I love them. I'm just swamped and haven't had a chance to reciprocate. But I will do someday soon, I promise.

Also I have two giftlets waiting for addresses from that gift meme a while back. If I don't hear from the two people who ostensibly won them but never sent me their addresses, I'll give them to the first two folk to send email to stewgad@yahoo.com. Delurk and drop me a note and I will send you a cool little thing that has been cluttering up my desk since October!

Leaving La Gadlet

2008-01-15T07:48:00.000-05:00

So I have a bit of a confession to make.

Before the Gadlet was born I got a bit obsessed with a joint-authored parenting blog and I spent quite a bit of time reading all of the posts about lead paint hazards and celebrity births and fun games for toddlers and single parenting and tips for travel. I think I was really trying to figure out beforehand what parenting would be like. (As if one really could?) I was particularly interested in the posts by one author whose baby had been born a few months earlier. I think I figured that her experiences would parallel mine and that I could see what I'd be going through in advance. But this is not my confession. My confession is this: A series of her posts were about how devastating it was to her to go back to work. She wrote about sobbing hysterically because she had to leave her child at daycare and return to her office. When I read this I got all snarky and superior. I mean, come on! Hysterics? The kid was going to be three blocks away from her office. How ridiculous to be so emotional and so obsessed. It's not like she was leaving her kid forever, she was just going back to work. At a career she chose and liked. Sheesh. And I confess I think I even sent a link to Spousal Unit mocking this woman's pain.

Yep. Karma's a bitch.

I spent most of the day on Sunday in hysterical weeping because I have to go back to work next week and leave the Gadlet in Daycare for three days a week. I was snorting, sobbing, and moaning and Spousal Unit was supremely unsympathetic. Didn't he understand that MILLIONS OF YEARS OF EVOLUTION were telling my in the strongest possible hormonal language NOT TO LEAVE THIS CHILD! Apparently not. Nor did he understand that telling me that I Absolutely Had to Finish My Dissertation RIGHT NOW did not help AT ALL. Although to give him a little credit, reminding me that I actually had something pretty important to do while the Gadlet was in daycare may have seemed like a somewhat reasonable response to my Extreme Reluctance to part with my child. It was not. I would not be appeased. It was a pretty miserable day.

While I know intellectually that the Gadlet will be fine and I know that she'll really enjoy her new situation (it is at the house of a woman -- Darby -- with lots of nanny experience and only 1 other kid, her 6-week old little boy) and I know she'll love Thursdays with Daddy, it still feels really hard to think about this special time we had together coming to an end.

To help myself make this transition and to make next Monday "easier," I went over to Darby's yesterday equipped with a box of stuff for the Gadlet to have there, like extra clothes and diapers and stuff. At the suggestion of a friend, I also toted along an extensive typed list of things that Darby may possibly need to know about the Gadlet. This list contained vital, critical things that only her Mama knows and that I was sure Darby could not figure out on her own -- things like "she likes to be held upright rather than flat" or "she only poops every 4 days so don't freak out if she hasn't pooped." I carefully detailed her favorite toys and how she likes to roll over and how we're handling the cloth diapering and when she sleeps each day. Darby very sweetly listened to me yak about this for an hour or so, nodding with great interest. We talked a lot about her baby and mine and what it was like and what she wants to do with the two of them. And then, as I was making a move to leave, she gently asked me to write down who the Gadlet's pediatrician was and what my emergency contact numbers were.

Doh!

Yes. I had carefully explained how often the Gadlet needs to excrete but had not written down my cell phone number.

Clearly I do not want to leave this baby.

Last week it also hit me that there were going to be lots of things that I was going to miss. I was thinking that I wouldn't be around for some really important milestones like rolling over and sitting up on her own and crawling and walking and talking... the list goes on. But as I was sitting there worrying about it as I sent some emails, the the Gadlet, on her play mat beside me, started a strange grunting. So I looked over at her only to find that she was on her belly. Yes, she had rolled over for the first time while I wasn't looking only moments after I had been worrying about missing her rolling over. I leapt up and grabbed the camera and took this:

I'm sure she rolled over because she was dressed in what I like to call her "My Daddy is a Physicist" shirt. But, anyway, in that moment she taught me a really valuable lesson, that wily little kidlet. I was sitting right there next to her and I missed a major milestone. So maybe going away won't be all that different. Plus, her milestones are hers, not mine. They're important to me, sure, but even if I miss the first one, I'll catch the second:

Or the third or the fourth. She'll do it again. And I'll be there for those moments.

In addition to the hormonally induced hysteria (H.I.H) and Fear of Missing Something Big (F.M.S.B.) I think I am also really reluctant to end my leave because of what it means for me. Maternity leave has been just great and I think the first six weeks of her life were the happiest of mine. I was the least stressed, the most fulfilled, and the most calm that I've ever been. I mean, I didn't have to worry about anything at that time. I set it all aside to just be with her. I can't adequately describe what it felt like to put down all of my self-imposed pressure, all of the academic pressure, all of the crap I've been carrying around for a decade or so and just Be. Just Live. It was indescribably special. So I guess I'm not only mourning the loss of my uninterrupted time with the Gadlet, I think I'm also mourning the loss of that happy self who didn't have anything else to worry about except feeding her baby.

But if I'm really honest with myself, I haven't been that person for a while. (In fact, since November 11. Blogs are great, huh?) And lately, I've found myself resenting the Gadlet sometimes when I'm trying to get something done and she wants my attention. And then I resent myself for resenting her. And then I get stressed that I'm not getting anything done
AND I'm not fully being present with the Gadlet and I resent the universe that structured it this way. So maybe it will be a really good thing for me to have some uninterrupted time for my own work and then when I'm with the Gadlet, I'll really be with her and can enjoy that time because I won't also be trying to do a million other things.

At least that's what I'm telling myself today. We'll see what I tell myself on Monday morning as I walk away from Darby's house without my baby.

--------------------------------
Dreaded Dissertation Update

I've spent the last couple of days getting things together that I needed to do to go back to work, so the DD has taken a back seat. But, I'm feeling hopeful that next week's daycare will buy me more time. The rest of this week will also be consumed with prepping for the semester. (I haven't even started on my syllabi!!)

The only good news is that I tried on my work clothes yesterday and my pants still fit. Shirts are a different story, but those are easier and cheaper to replace than the Ann Taylor suits. :)

Whirlwind

2008-01-12T07:01:00.000-05:00

Since today is a Saturday I decided I didn't have to get up at 6:00 a.m. to do work because Spousal Unit will be around all day to help out with the Gadlet, but then I woke up anyway. I guess I'm starting to train myself into a schedule.

I lay in bed for a while this morning and just let myself feel the chaos of craziness that I'm feeling right now about all of the things that I have to do in this next week. It felt kind of like an internal tornado. When I tried to focus on it, I felt like my mind's eye was a camera and the stuff I have to do were pieces of paper being swirled around in a whirlwind. I couldn't see any one specific thing at a time, but sometimes one piece would come into focus and then whirl by to fast for me to grab at it.

Since this was the image that I had and it felt like internal chaos, I did a visualization exercise whereby I divided the central hallway of my brain into 4 doors: dissertation, teaching, other work responsibilities, and personal. Then, I visualized that all of the flying paper fell to the ground as though the wind was gone. Then the wind blew each of the doors open, one at a time, and blew each set of papers that belonged to each issue into the right door. Then I visualized closing the doors.

Sounds crazy and a bit psychobable fruity, I know, but it really helped calm the internal chaos.

It also helped me to decide that what I need to do this morning while I've got this time is to make some separate to-do lists for each of these issues. So maybe if I write these things down I will be able to make the chaos feel more manageable.

Plus I'll get some time today to work on finishing up the Congressional debates. Uh, horay?

Happy Saturday folks!

I'm Awake But...

2008-01-11T06:40:00.000-05:00

So is the Gadlet. So much for sneaking out of bed and getting to work early. I got up at 6:00, but then so did she. Doh!

Yesterday I got through 3 days of Congressional debate. Talk about boring. At one point in my life I got really excited reading this. I can actually remember a moment in the bowels of the library when I had the Congressional Globe in my hands and I was so interested in what I was reading I thought with great glee, "Wow, maybe I could do this for my dissertation!" It was a pivotal moment in my graduate career. Fast forward to a decade later and boy do I not give a shit. Let me tell you that after 10 years of reading political posturing by Congressmen in the 1860s, the magic has gone out of the relationship. But I did it and I got through 12 lengthy speeches.

It was good because now I have a sense of what the fault lines are in the debate so I think I can breeze through the next 6 days of argument a bit more quickly. But that is my next step. So, I kind of accomplished all of my limited goals for yesterday. Horay?

Today I've got a lot going on and since the Gadlet is awake, I don't think I'll get much done this morning. But, my new goal is to finish the reading by Saturday and start the writing on Sunday with high hopes (perhaps unrealistic) to finish the writing on Monday. We'll see how it goes and I'll keep you all posted. Heh heh ... get it... blog posting... posted...Oh, I'm killing myself here... Man, is it way too early for puns. Sorry, guys. On that ridiculous note, I'm off...

Check In

2008-01-10T08:04:00.000-05:00

Well it's not 5:30 a.m., but I'm up, I'm at the computer and the Gadlet is asleep.

Speaking of which, she slept from 7 p.m. until midnight last night without waking up. (HORAY! The sleep-strike pattern is broken!) She fell asleep on the couch in her clothes and in a BumGenius cloth diaper that hadn't been changed since 4:00. Yes, we are bad parents. Frankly, we both forgot about the diaper until dinnertime (after using disposables for 2 weeks on the road it has been hard to get back into the habit of remembering how frequently you have to change the cloth ones...) and then we were going to nurse her and then change it after we nursed but she fell asleep and I could not bring myself to wake her up. But my point of this whole story is that this diaper did not leak!!! Man, oh Man am I impressed with this diaper! (I got it at Jillian's Drawers -- a great site for cloth diapers FYI.)

Anyway, back to the point of the post. I'm up. I'm preparing to work. Spousal Unit is on Gadlet duty today, so I have the WHOLE DAY for myself!!

Here are my goals:

1. Finish reading through the new primary material I'm going to add to this chapter. (There's a lot, it's ancient Congressional Speeches, and the type is so tiny I have to use a magnifying glass. It might take a while.)
2. Make some notes on this material so that I can start thinking about what to write when I start composing this section tomorrow.
3. Make a list of things I need to do to actually finish revising this chapter and make a plan for doing it.

That last one is probably the one I'm least inspired to do. It seems like I'm perpetually making "to do" lists and perpetually failing to do the things on the list. It's like I'm just constantly setting myself up for disappointment and failure rather than for success and accomplishments. Maybe instead what I'll do is make a list of things I want to do for the next day's work instead of a global list. That would probably be better.

Well off I go. Wish me luck.

Road Trip

2008-01-07T13:52:00.000-05:00

Whew. Well we're back. Bet you didn't know we'd gone anywhere, but the radio silence on this end of things probably clued you in. Spousal Unit, the Gadlet, and Yours Truly took a two week tour of the middle section of the country, which I lovingly called our "Hicksville USA Tour, 07-08." Oh, and FYI, driving across the country with an almost-four-month old isn't exactly the most RELAXING way to spend your holiday season. Combine the visits with hundreds of relatives, the, ahem, interesting midwestern cuisine (ah, how I haven't missed Jello salad since leaving...), the screaming child who doesn't understand why we wouldn't take her out of the car seat THAT INSTANT even though the car was moving, the grouchy husband who had to drive the whole time because Somebody Who Shall Remain Nameless has let her driver's license expire (and it turned out to be a VERY Good Thing that he drove since we got stopped in Hicksville town #6 about an hour from home for speeding. Fortunately, the nice cop took one look at our exhausted faces, the screaming baby and the Subaru stuffed to the hilt with Christmas bounty and let us off with a warning which I'm sure he wouldn't have done if it had been me forking over that license that expired in July...), and the cold the Gadlet picked up somewhere along the way and it all adds up to the fact that I'm totally exhausted. It probably doesn't help that the Gadlet decided that on the trip the only way she would sleep would be in the bed with us, and so for the past three nights that we've been home, we've spent them "sleep training" trying to get her to spend ANY time sleeping in the co-sleeper instead if in my armpit. So far, the training is working very well. She is training us very aptly to let her sleep in our bed. Seriously, I think the only stretch of sleep I got last night that lasted more than 30 minutes was between 2:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. when I caved and let her sleep with me. It is like we're back to newborn stage. This lack of sleep is making me stupid. Yesterday, the Gadlet was grousing a bit and I just watched her do it for 10 minutes trying to figure out how a kid with a clean diaper, lots of toys, being held by her mama could be unhappy. Then it hit me -- I needed to FEED her. Oh, right. That. Seriously, in my dazed state I had totally forgotten that that was what she needed. Oops! What is really great about this whole sleep strike she is on is that my maternity leave ends in two weeks and it will be back to the academic salt mines for me. So right now is the perfect time for me to not be sleeping because I don't have anything else that I'm trying to do like prep for classes, get back to my own work, and get the house in shape for the semester, and feel like I can actually handle raising a child and working and having a life.

Wow, this sounds like I'm just totally complaining. What a gripe I am. So, let's hear the positives. On our trip we did some really neat things, like touring a small-batch bourbon distillery in Lexington and visiting my hometown and discovering that it is a Hicksville no more -- they got a Starbucks. Either that or Starbucks is really reaching into the back-end nooks and crannies of America. Which is, I suspect, the case. Anyway we spent some wonderful time with all of the Gadlet's Grandparents, and got to see my dad's mother again. The Sleepless One also got to meet my mother's mother, her Great-Grandmother, who gave her a little Catholic Medallion of the Virgin Mary that her Great-Grandmother had given her. So this thing has survived for eight generations in my family! Although none of us are Catholic or have had Catholic family in eons, it is really cool for the Gadlet to have something so old. (And like Innana says, Mary is a wonderful representation of the Goddess). If my kid can hold on to it long enough to give to her Great-Granddaughter it will have survived 12 generations. Neat, huh? (And Like Innana says, she's a Virgo, so she'll definitely hold on to it.)

Here's my favorite photo from the trip:

And now back to griping. In the interest of full disclosure, which is the point of this blog, I haven't looked at my dissertation stuff in some time. What is worse, I even packed it all up and lugged it with us across the country "just in case" I got some time to work on it while there were many hands to hold the Gadlet. I think I opened that bag once, read one paragraph or so before I fell asleep. If I think about it, I don't think I've left home in the last decade without lugging a bag of dissertation shit. Did I ever get much (or anything) done while I was away? Nope. So why do I do it? Why can't I leave it behind when I travel? Or, hell, why can't I leave it behind period? Maybe as a dissertator I just can't set aside my emotional baggage about this project and so am physically manifesting it by perpetually toting this backpack full of research and computers and drafts and books around wherever I go. I guess I could read this as a negative -- something strange and pathetic. I'd like to feel that it is hopeful instead of desperate, but really it is probably just anxious.

And speaking of hope, I'm really really really hoping that this will be the Year of the Dissertation. But I thought it was going to be last year -- that last year I'd finish, have a baby, and then settle into my job. In that order of course. What really happened was that I got pregnant, got really sick, had a baby, and promptly and happily forgot about the dissertation and job. Ok, not really, but both have absolutely moved to second (or third or 245th...) place in my world. Now that I'm facing the return to work, it is all rushing back in and I'm feeling more stressed than I have in a very long time. Which makes me very anxious.

I've also realized that the only way this thing is going to get done is if I start pushing myself a lot harder than I ever have. Not only intellectually -- which will feel very strange since my brain feels a lot like it has been sitting on a shelf getting dusty for the past four months (8 months? Year?) -- but also physically. I've decided that the only way I'm going to get writing work done is if I get up every morning 2 hours before the Gadlet and write. The old Virginia Woolf aphorism that a woman needs a room of her own in order to write has felt less true to me than that I need some time of my own. But, until I can get more than one hour of sleep together at a time at night I don't know that waking up at 5:30 a.m. is all that possible. At least it hasn't been for the past two days. Which is, of course, making me very anxious.

One thing that I think will help is to return to this space as a clock-watcher. From here on out, I'll post a check-in post first thing in the morning when I get up to do the work and that way I can document how I'm doing with this new schedule and plan. And I can report on how I did the day before. And then maybe, just maybe, I can eek out some space and time for myself and this Damned Dreaded Dissertation and ultimately get it off of my back.

Hair

2007-12-07T08:57:00.000-05:00

As I had predicted, things got much better the next morning. Except for the fact that I hadn't gotten much sleep. Alas. Anyway, Spousal Unit voluntarily took care of the Gadlet all the next night and I took over the tasks he usually does -- like the dishes and cleaning up. It was a nice break. I think we might alternate evening jobs from here on out. Then, yesterday he stayed home all morning so that I could do work. It was glorious. And, he has promised to stay home all day every Thursday until I go back to work so that I can get stuff done on the Dreaded D. So, all in all, a good fight that cleared the air. He thinks maybe every now and then we need that kind of catharsis. I think that the next time he wants a catharsis I won't let him anywhere near the Nyquil.

Now on to funner more trivial things. Ever since I got pregnant, I have been growing my hair. I did it because I figured 1) I should take advantage of the fabulous super-model pregnant hair while I could and 2) it would be easier with a tiny baby to not have to dry and style my hair every day but to just pull it back into some kind of restraining device. So for the first time in my adult life I let my hair grow past my collar. It hit about shoulder length, with some layers. And while I was pregnant, it was great. All that extra hair (you don't shed while pregnant) was fantastic and it always looked good no matter what I did. And I was right that while having a tiny baby the last thing I wanted to do was to fuss with my hair. But I have to confess that ever since the Gadlet was born, it has pretty much looked terrible no matter what I did. Add to this the fact that about a couple of weeks ago I started shedding. Well, shedding implies a slow, gradual process. This has been more like I was a collie dog blowing my coat at the end of the winter season. It was like, WHUMP -- there goes all of my hair. Seriously -- it has been coming out by the fistful. And like when your dog blows its coat - the hair is everywhere -- on all of the furniture, in my bed, covering all of my clothees, and worse, stuck to my kid. Every time I look at the Gadlet, she's been covered in my hair. Once one strand got so tangled up in her fingers I thought it was going to cut off the circulation It was getting really gross. Plus she's started deliberate grabbing -- so my hair, right at her grabbing reach was perfect for her to pull. Not fun.

So yesterday I had it whacked. My hairdresser, Fair, is so great -- she's been cutting my hair for about 13 years. She did my hair the day I got married. When the Gadlet was born, I made a special trip into the shop to show off to Fair. So, this hairdresser has seen it all. I went in yesterday and said - get me back to my normal hair! My chin-length, short do that tucks behind the ears.

Here's a photo:

(Looking good, huh? -- well, if you ignore the double chin, anyway...)

The Gadlet has also been considering making some hair changes. She was thinking about going Goth:

But, it looked way too Diana Ross for her taste.

Then she thought perhaps Red was the new Black ...

But while she felt very contemplative and poetical, it wasn't quite right.

Then, she found it. The perfect Gadlet Hair:

Throwing Out the Relationship with the Bathwater

2007-12-05T00:43:00.000-05:00

Let me preface this post with the following disclaimers:

1. I love my husband very, very much. I intend to spend the rest of my life with this man and am more than happy that I have spent half of my life thus far with him.

2. He has been fighting a really terrible cold.

3. He is a great father and a fantastic husband.

4. I have not had a full night’s sleep in about a year. (Factoring in the pregnancy and the Gadlet’s needs).

5. I have put my dissertation work on hold for the past month while he worked on a Terribly Important Conference Presentation

6. I am writing this post at midnight. – a time I have not been awake for (of my own accord) in about a year.

7. We have just had a terrible fight and the Nyquil kicked in for him before we could finish it.

------------------------------

Today was a totally terrible day. It began with griping, ended in sobbing, and in between was filled with maggots, dirty dishes, dirty laundry, a chaotic house, and a constipated baby. (Oh, and had a smidgen of therapeutic Buffy.)

Here is how it began. My schedule last night:

9:30 p.m.: Nurse, go to sleep
3:00 a.m.: Nurse
3:3:0 a.m.: Return to sleep
5:30 a.m.: Nurse
6:30 a.m.: Spousal Unit’s alarm goes off. He keeps sleeping.

I lay there between my sleeping baby and husband and listen to some damn story on NPR about how the world is coming to an end because of global warming or homelessness or Iraq or Iran or Russia or Bush or trash or flying monkeys. I ask Spousal Unit “are you listening to this?” He says, “sort of.” A few minutes later, just when I get interested in the special interest story about pie eating contests or a swimming pig or the two-year-old art prodigy that is supposed to make me feel better about the fact that the world is coming to an end, he hits the snooze. I lay there looking at the ceiling for a while until The Gadlet wakes up and nurses again. We hang out in bed a bit, she dozes. I don’t. Spousal Unit hits the snooze button. Again. Around 8:00 a.m. the Gadlet and I get out of bed. Spousal Unit decides to stay home from work because he feels so crappy, so we try to let him sleep. I take a shower and leave the Gadlet in her co-sleeper with a monitor on so that I know if she’s getting grouchy. After I get out of the shower, I gather all of the bathing equipment and give the Gadlet a bath. All goes according to plan, until I try to put her clothes on – at which point she starts screaming bloody murder. Seriously shrieking. I had to stop dressing her and pick her up for cuddling with her shirt hiked up around her neck and one arm through the sleeve. By the time I’ve calmed her down enough to complete the clothing process, I’m exhausted and she’s starving. So, we go downstairs to nurse at the “nursing station.” (a.k.a. a chiar that is comfortable and a nursing pillow most embarrassingly called, I shit you not, “My Breast Friend.” Gak.) Then I notice the laundry that has been piling up for days and the suitcases that haven’t been unpacked since we got home on Saturday. I take the Gadlet into our bedroom -- that has since been vacated by Spousal Unit -- he’s downstairs doing computer work. I get through folding a basket of clothes and the sorting before the Gadlet starts cranking again. Did I mention that she hasn’t crapped since last Thursday? Makes for a mightily cranky baby. I take her into her room/my study, change her, and stick a thermometer in her ass to attempt to get her to poop. (The pediatrician told me to do it, I swear!) She doesn’t even look phased in any way. She grins and coos and continues to refuse to poop. So, I give up on the Useless Poop Induction Project, set her down and start to send some email about work stuff, when Spousal Unit comes into the room.

“Why did you leave the bathroom such a mess, can’t you ever finish a task?”

Huh? I looked at him incredulously. What bathroom? Oh, right, the bathroom. That was hours ago. But, wait. The man is not complaining to me that I didn’t empty the baby’s bathwater after that screamfest we survived and all the other stuff I've been doing since? Oho, yes he is. I blinked a couple of times, and replied: “Well, if it was in your way, why didn’t you empty it?” He had the grace at least to look sheepish and to admit that that might have been a good solution to things. We have a good chuckle, and he goes downstairs.

Where he finds an army of maggots crawling around on the ceiling. Yes. Maggots. On our kitchen ceiling. Clearly they have hatched from some badly packaged snack food or wheat product and are questing around in search of a place to lay their damned eggs and turn into moths or perhaps flying monkeys that will then get into all of the rest of the nuts and flours and beans and dried fruits. So, Spousal Unit embarks on a de-maggotification. He empties out the whole pantry cabinet and puts all of anything that is suspect in the garbage. Kudos too him for this horrible task. Meanwhile, I empty the annoying and offensive bathwater and continue multitasking the day – laundry, cleaning, childcare, email, health insurance, work stuff, nursing, cleaning, cooking. I do these things all at the same time – so nothing is every getting my full attention but I’m working on 100 things at a time.

When lunch rolls around, thinking that he had had such a shitty morning, and because he feels so sick I make him homemade chicken and matzo ball soup. Yummy. After lunch, the Gadlet falls asleep in the carrier, so I lay down on the couch with her and watch some Buffy (Season 4: Something Blue & Hush). Spousal Unit also takes a nap. I doze a little. After the nap, we both go back to our respective tasks: He’s working on work stuff, I’m working on the house. We jogged along pretty well until bedtime.

When he gets into bed. Spousal Unit decides that now is as good a time as any to bring up the baby’s bathwater. So, he asks me why I can’t ever finish tasks and why he has to always clean up after me. I respond in a completely kind and rational way by asking why the hell he never does anything ever to help out with HIS baby that I spent nine months yakking for and 10 hours in intense pain for and that left me with a frankencoochie and belly and huge ass and a body that will never be the same and that I do everything for at all times every day all day. Then he complained that I never give him credit for the stuff he does do. I reasonably respond by sobbing my heart out and asking why he never volunteers to help so that I can work on my dissertation. Before we can both get actually reasonable, the Nyquil kicks in and he falls asleep. Yes, right in the middle of a fight. Before he is completely unconscious, he murmurs something about how I am right and that he loves me and zzzzz…..

So, here I am – pissed off, crying, alone, exhausted with a terrible headache and a heart full of crap that I need to vent about how annoyed I am with my favorite person in the world.

Except that lately there’s been a bit of competition for that spot. Which is weird and awful, while at the same time comes from something wonderful. And it is kind of ironic, really, that we had this fight today because yesterday I think I came to a really important conclusion about relationships and about being a parent and a partner.

Before the Gadlet, it was obvious where my relationship energy should go – to Spousal Unit. There was just the two of us, and so it was normal and reasonable that he got all of my love and attention. Then the Gadlet was born and this strange thing happened – where there were once two people, now there are three. And we have to create a whole new dynamic of a relationship with her and with us. And for me, that has meant putting her needs above anything else – above my own and above Spousal Unit’s. Her survival depends on my giving her all of my energy – so I took it from all of my other places, from my work, from my own health, from my relationship. I mean, where else can you get the energy for parenthood? It has to come from somewhere. While being with her is so great it gives me some energy back, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t draining my reserves and my other outputs to give to her. Which I want to do – more than anything.

But, yesterday I realized that someday she is going to leave me. It is not only inevitable it is right and perfect that she should do so. And I realized that if I give her all of my energy – everything, and if I don’t save some for myself and for Spousal Unit, when that day comes that she does leave to go and begin her life as a grownup on her own, I’ll be left with nothing. As I was thinking about this, it occurred to me that Spousal Unit is the one who will stay with me when the Gadlet goes. So, yesterday, I decided that I should find a way to give him more of my energy. And I decided that I needed to find a way to give myself some time and energy as well. But today, I forgot to tell him all of this great stuff. Doesn’t that suck? Shitty timing, universe. Shitty timing.

I know tomorrow we’ll wake up and go down to the maggot-free kitchen in our clean clothes and realize that we both were right and we both were wrong and that we love each other more than anything else except the Gadlet and that the other stuff doesn’t matter in the long run. But tonight, feeling like sleep is the last thing I’ll find even though I know that I’ll have to wake up in 2.5 hours to nurse, I’m feeling like life and parenthood and relationships are pretty hard, dammit.

Roadkill Bingo

2007-11-15T10:35:00.000-05:00

On my way to school last Tuesday for a group of meetings that I couldn't miss, I hit my 8th animal since starting this particular commute.

That's right. Eight. In two and a half years. A senior colleague told me that in 20 years of driving the same drive, he hasn't hit anything. About a decade ago I commuted to a different location, but yet from here, and for two years I never hit a damned thing. Clearly, I've been cursed in the intervening years. I'm starting to rack up such large numbers that I think I have to make a Roadkill Life-List just so I don't forget them all. This would be bad because when I get to the Pearly Gates and have to have to account for all of my evil deeds, if I can't even remember that 589th chipmunk that I will inevitably hit on my way home from my last day of commuting when I retire in 25 years, I'll be fucked for the next karmic cycle. (How's that for mixin' up the religious myths?)

So, here's the list (roughly in order...)

1. Exploding Robin, August 2005
2. Suicidal Chipmunk, September 2005.
3. Mysterious Ratlike Critter, February 2006 (It was either a large rat or a small possum, but it was cold and snowy and nightime, so I didn't stop to investigate.)
4. Another Suicidal Chipmunk, March 2006.
5. The Deer,November 2006
6. Ziggy the Squirrell, April 2007 (It dodged back and forth and back and forth while I tried to brake, but then ultimately made the wrong decision -- he Zigged when he should have Zagged.)
7. Yet Another Suicidal Chipmunk, May 2007
8. Speedy the Squirrel, November 2007 (This sucker was so fast, I just saw a flash in my peripheral vision and then felt the thump.)

For the first 7, I was completely upset when it happened. I cried. I said a little prayer/mantra/blessing to the Big Wow asking he/she/it to look out for the soul of the little thing that I had just so totally obliterated. (Well, except for the Deer -- for that one I was just so freaked out I think I forgot to thank the universe for the sacrifice of that animal to Petroleum, God of the Commute and to Tenure, Goddess of the Academic Career.) But, by #7 I confess I was becoming a little cynical and perhaps instead of making up my own little prayer I just repeated a great line from Buffy that Willow said when she made an animal sacrifice in order to bring Buffy back from the dead. (What? It could happen.) "May You Find Wings to the Kingdom." It sounded vaguely religious and thankful but yet nonspecfically churchy. But for this last one, though, I swear, I laughed out loud. The damned thing just ran right under my wheels so quickly I didn't even have time to stop. I was driving along, minding my own business, keeping my eyes on the road, and then flash, whump, no more critter. Maybe I'm like Dr. Kevorkian for small furry things. They go all terminal and decide it's their time, and so wait for me to come along and put them out of their misery. Anyway, on Tuesday this squirrell dove under my tires before I even knew what happened. OF COURSE in the only 2 days this whole semester that I drove up to campus, I hit a critter. Statistically, I can see how you might hit a few animals in say, 45 days of commuting per semester. But, shit, I went TWICE and hit something. What the fuck is up?

I've decided now that maybe I'm attracting the roadkill in some way, so I'm going to shift my thinking about it. I've adopted a whole new attitude about this whole thing. From now on, I'm going to be seeking out animals to hit. That's right, little rodents, you better watch out, because here I come -- Stewgad and her Flaming Subaru of Death want YOU. And, just to sweeten the deal, I've made up a bingo card. Perhaps the emu, platypus, pterodactyl and moose are a bit of a stretch, but I'm really holding out hope that I'll bag that flying monkey. So, little mammals, consider yourselves warned. I'm comin' for ya.

The Honeymoon is Over

2007-11-11T17:21:00.000-05:00

For multiple reasons that I can't actually discuss here, today has been a terrrible, horrible no good very bad day. It's like the universe said "you get exactly 64 days postpartum to be with your daughter in a state of unreal bliss, but on that 65th day, the shit is going to fly and stress will bring your happy little world to a screeching halt."

Can I go to bed now and not get up until this stressful day is over?

From the Café #2

2007-11-09T09:28:00.001-05:00

Checking in from my second mid-day Thursday in the Coffee Shop while Spousal Unit hung out with the Gadlet.

He really enjoys the time with her, it is so great. But today his first comment when he came home at noon was “did you mean to dress to match your daughter?” I looked down, and realized that we were both wearing white shirts, grey sweaters, blue jeans, and dark shoes. While my shoes don’t have sweet little pink flowers on them, we were remarkably matched. I hope this isn’t the start of the mommy-and-me demented matchy-match disease, which is ably documented in the Hanna Andersson catalog. Soon, we’ll look like this:

Shudder.

Anyway, I got a lot accomplished today while drinking my skinny mocha (why do they always ask if you want whipped cream? I think the word “SKINNY” when you order conveys a certain anxiety about the calories and fat you are about to consume, thereby implying “hell no, don’t tempt me with your evil whipped cream, please.” But they always ask anyway. But I digress…) I think that only having 2 hours or so at a stretch is really, really good for my work ethic. When you’ve got a seemingly infinite amount of time looming before you, it doesn’t seem so critical to haul ass through your work. If I’m really honest with myself, I suspect now that I spent about half of my working time farting around – looking at websites, checking the news, reading and commenting on blogs, sending emails, searching for random stuff like “pregnant nausea help” or “babylegs knitting pattern” or “dissertation anxiety” – instead of actually working. But now I know I’ve got 2 hours before SU has to be back at work. That means I have to get as much as possible accomplished. And, it turns out, I’m actually getting a lot accomplished.

Today, I worked through revisions on about 20 pages. Granted, it the section that was in pretty good shape already, but still I feel pretty good about getting through all those pages. I’ve now completed the revisions. But, I realized this time through the chapter, the conclusion sucks. I’m truly terrible at conclusions and always have been. When I get to the end of a chapter, I’m like, OK. There it is. I’m done. I mean, really, didn’t I just say it all? Weren’t you reading the last 50 or 60 pages? If so, you know what I mean so these three terse sentences ought to do it. And that is what my conclusions all look like. I realized today, though that this is becoming a bit of a problem. And that this chapter, which is all about the lead up to the passage of one critical piece of legislation, ends without actually discussing the passage of that legislation. Stupid. I’m really a little stunned that I didn’t do this. It seems so obvious. Anyway, it does give me a great way to end the chapter and to write a new conclusion. Why I didn’t think of this before, I have no clue. But, I’m glad I saw it now.

Basically, though, I still think I can meet my self-imposed Nov. 15th deadline. Cool, huh?

Later Evening Update from the World of Cloth Diapers:

I sunnily went along for the past few days LOVING the cloth diaper experience. Then, the Gadlet remembered to poop. Oh. My. God. Not since the shitty bath have I seen such mess. Essentially, the diaper might not have been there at all. It was like putting a Kleenex on Niagra Falls and hoping to stop the deluge. Man. Spousal Unit gagged. I thought he was going to faint. Again. But, since he installed said diaper, I wasn't very sympathetic. After this whole experience I'm a little less thrilled with the cloth-diaper thing, but I've got a plan for dealing with it. My plan is to ensure that she’s in the disposables for every time she poops. Good plan, huh?

Good thing she's adorable and learning to chuckle.

Learning

2007-11-04T14:05:00.000-05:00

I’m back in the coffee shop doing work while the Gadlet hangs out in her bouncy seat (a.k.a. the Baby Vibrator) while her father works on MATLAB. In a miracle of miracles, he dressed her this morning in COMPLETELY MATCHING clothing. I don’t know if the Dadness had left the building or what, but her pants actually went with her shirt. Go figure. And Kudos to Spousal Unit for successfully forging his way through her outfit drawer. He's learning.

She had her 2 month birthday yesterday. We celebrated by hanging out with this completely awesome group of Mamas and Papas that I met through prenatal yoga last night. We had a total blast and the Gadlet stayed awake, alert, and completely calm through the whole evening party. She just hung out and watched everyone and everything. She’s completely observant for an infant. She only got a little cranky when I wasn’t holding her – she had an attack of the Mama’s Girl last night -- even Spousal Unit wouldn’t do. (I was secretly a little pleased. Is that sick and wrong?) As a bonus for the evening, everybody loved the hot Crab and Artichoke, the Roasted Red Pepper and White Bean, and the Smoked Sundried Tomato dips that I made.

Plus, in a major developmental milestone, the Gadlet found her fists last night (or was it this morning? It occurred somewhere in between the normal human awake periods when she and I are the only ones in the whole world awake.) I watched as her pacifier fell out (a.k.a. The Baby Crack – you should see the gorked-out face she makes when she gets that thing while screaming. Total drugged-out bliss) and she stuffed her fist into her mouth, lost it as she flailed about, and then deliberately stuck the same fist back into her mouth. Isn’t she a genius? Spousal Unit (who I just called… yes, I’m insane and lurking…) said he swore she just now tried to reach for her feet. So, the Gadlet has discovered that she has limbs. Next thing you know she’ll be rolling over, crawling, walking, driving, and sky-diving.

The other developmental milestone is that she learned to shit this week. I shit you not, it is something that they have to learn. I know this because as an overprotective insane parent I called the pediatrician when it had been 4 days since any poop emerged from this kid. When one goes from what feels like 20 poops a day to none, it can be quite distressing. (As I think it was for her – for two nights running before she shat again she screamed for a couple of hours between 5-7, which was quite uncharacteristic.) Anyway, I called the pediatrician and she said that somewhere around 6-8 weeks of age, the automatic eating-shitting reflex goes away and the baby has to learn how to poop. Apparently all humans are born with this reflex that tells our guts to expel whenever anything is put into them. The Gadlet outgrew her reflex this week and so had to poop of her own volition. Finally, on Friday when I was hanging out with some of my yoga mamas and babies, the Gadlet let one rip. It was very smelly and gross, so I went up to change her. While I was changing her, more poop emerged. And more. And more. I stood there for 20 minutes gagging and holding diapers under her ass as she crapped out 4 days worth of poop. It was quite an adventure. It also made me glad that we’re getting cloth diaper delivery starting tomorrow since I threw away 3 diapers just so she could complete that pooping adventure. (FYI the service diapers are washed in an “eco” process and the delivery truck is run on veggie diesel. Don’t I win the greener-than-thou award?)

Anyway, so this week, my child learned to shit and find her limbs. I know I didn’t learn anything nearly so important this week.

Enough about the Gadlet’s bodily functions -- back to me at the coffee shop. I’ve set myself a goal of finishing the revisions on this chapter by Nov. 15, which seems completely doable. In fact, I only have 27 more pages to dig through. (This is the 2nd round of revising this one…) I’ve managed to work about every other day this week. Mostly thanks to Spousal Unit, who came home from work during the day on Thursday to babysit, and who is hanging out with her now.

When I finish this chapter, I will have to bite the bullet and approach The Advisor – who I haven’t seen since, um, March? Gulp. But, I’ll jump off that bridge when I get there.

I suppose in a weird way, finishing this dissertation will be a lot like learning to shit -- not pleasant, pretty damned uncomfortable, better than the alternative and fundamentally necessary.

Beware of the S.O.S.

2007-10-28T15:41:00.000-04:00

Giving it up to the Universe sure does work. For three nights in a row, the Gadlet has slept in her own "big girl" bed (AKA the co-sleeper) for 3-5 hour chunks at a time. Huzzah!

And, in fact, things have been going so well this week while Grandma Unit has been here, Spousal Unit and I had our first post-baby date last Thursday.

It began when I left The Gadlet with her Grandma, and drove to pick up Spousal Unit, totally excited for the romantic date. I had shaved my legs, put on sexy panties, my smallest pre-pregnancy jeans (which fit, miracle of miracles), a cashmere sweater and spiffy knitted scarf. I even blow-dried my hair and styled it. I was feeling pretty hot, and was thinking in the car about how excited Spousal Unit would be to see a facsimile of his former wife when I remembered that I hadn't brushed my teeth. Ew. Then, I started thinking about it and couldn't actually remember when I had last brushed my teeth. I think it might have been days. Double Ew. So much for sexy and attractive. I started looking around, but we didn't even have any mints or gum or anything in the car. Only Taco Bell Hot and Mild Sauce, which I would have gargled, but I figured that probably wouldn't help the situation. There was nothing for it but confession. And somehow, telling Spousal Unit about my unbrushed teeth opened the floodgates of my private world and began an evening of confessions.

Here's how it went:

Hostess at cajun/fish/bbq joint: "Table for Two?"

Stewgad: "YES, because I've left my six week old baby at home without either of her parents for the first time!!!"

Spousal Unit: Rolls eyes and tries to look like he isn't actually with this Crazy Lady.

Hostess: "Um... Ok... Uncomfortable Pause. Right this way?"

We were seated at a nice table by the windows. Then, the waiter came to the table.

Waiter: "I hear this is a special day?" (Clearly the Hostess warned our Waiter that a Crazy Lady had just entered the restaurant.)

Stewgad: "YES, and I'll have a HUGE Maker's Mark Manhattan and a Dozen Raw Oysters, since I can eat them for the first time since last December when I got pregnant and I left my baby at home for the first time and I don't have to breastfeed for a while so I can get totally plastered for the first time in months!!!!"

Waiter: "Um. Ok. Uncomfortable Pause. Well, let me know if there is anything I can do to make the meal more special."

Spousal Unit: Rolls eyes and tries to look like he isn't actually with this Crazy Lady.

I don't know what was wrong with me -- it was like hormonally induced confessional verbal diarrhea. The only thing I didn't tell the waitstaff was what my new and improved giant bra size is and when the last day was that I had to take a stool softener. (Ah, the joys of pregnancy.) I really don't know why I felt the need to inform total strangers about my private life, maybe it is the influence of the blog, but at least I drew the line before I started describing the post-partum Frankenpussy.

Despite the Sudden Over-Sharing Syndrome (a.k.a S.O.S), we had a great dinner. We shared that Huge Manhattan and the Oysters and got a little tipsy from both. Then I had a Crabcake with Sweet Potato Fries and Spousal Unit had Blackened Catfish with Beans and Rice and Brussel Sprouts. It was yummy. And I only worried about the Gadlet a little tiny bit. She had a great time with Grandma Unit, drank a bottle like a champ, and was happily sleeping when we got home.

She's clearly growing up. Soon, she'll be suffering from S.O.S. and confessing to some random waiter her innermost secrets when intoxicated on freedom and hormones and oysters while leaving her baby at home for the first time.

Giving It Up to (and for) the Universe

2007-10-24T18:25:00.000-04:00

Sometimes things just work better when we let them be. Or perhaps things always work better when we let them be -- when we stop trying to control the whole world and just allow stuff to take care of itself. I've been thinking about this a lot lately since when you have a child there isn't much you can control, and that control gets less and less as their little lives progress. Of course, for those of us who are control freaks, asking us to surrender even the illusion that we're in control is like asking us to just stop digesting, or using our hands, or wearing clothes to church. But, sometimes, occasionally giving it up to the universe pays off in a really tangible way.

Yesterday, WTN's wife (WTNW?) came to my front door -- which has NEVER happened-- and came into my house to tell me that even though they had planted some bushes in the Disputed Property Next to Our House, they wanted me to know that I could still do whatever I wanted to that land and that they didn't want us to feel like we couldn't use it just because they'd put in some plants in over there.

While this still implies that she believes that they own the space and that she is graciously letting us do what we want on our own land, I'm SO OK with it. The evening that I had my Coffee-Shop meltdown when I saw WTN planting, SU and I talked about what was going on with WTN, I realized that I really don't care what they plant or do over there, I mean, they're the ones who have to look at it more frequently. (It's on a side of the house that we never visit, and only have 2 windows on) But, as I told him, I just wished they had talked to us about it.

In the interest of my own sanity, Spousal Unit and I decided that I should surrender my worry about it to the universe and the responsibility for dealing with it over to him. (He then rapidly proceeded to do nothing... but since I had agreed to turn it over to him, I had to keep my big damn trap shut.)

But, back to my good thing -- apparently the universe heard me and sent WTNW over to chat. So, it was good that neither of us went over and got all postal on the neighbors. It all worked out like I wanted it to. Cool, huh?

Now, I need to give the Gadlet's sleeping/eating habits up to the universe. Last night the longest stretch between feedings I got was 2 hours. Usually it was 1.5. I think that waking a prisoner up every 1.5 is prohibited by the Geneva Convention. Apparently, I've got a little Bushie on my hands who thinks the Geneva Convention doesn't apply to her. Add to this, despite 2 nights running of sleeping in her own co-sleeper next to the bed, last night she was having none of it and so grunted and wiggled her way through the night sleeping in my armpit. This did not make for good sleep in the 1.5 hours I did manage to get before feedings. This morning, I'm drained. Literaly and figuratively. I told the Gadlet at the 7:00 a.m. feeding that I was just about ready sell her to the gypsies. But apparently her father (who totally slept through this whole drama, dammit) seems to like her and wants to keep her, so she's safe for now.

From the Coffee Shop

2007-10-20T15:31:00.000-04:00

I've abandoned my daughter to her father's care. Granted, when I left her she was sleeping happily on his chest, and he seems perfectly capable of handling anything she might need. Plus, there’s even a bottle full of milk waiting in the fridge that I squeezed from my own tit (which I find to be a mesmerizing process. I mean, there is MILK coming out of my body. A lot of milk. How weird is that? It’s juice squeezed from a human - from me. Wild.) And, granted I am a whole 10 blocks away at the coffee shop with the cell phone at the ready and the car parked in front so I can make a quick getaway if I need to. Yipee? Nope. I’m totally teary. Fucking hormones.

So, am I weepy because I’m leaving my daughter for the first time for longer than 10 or 15 minutes?

Or am I weepy because as I pulled out of my driveway, I caught my White Trash Neighbor, (hereafter WTN – and while I fully acknowledge the racist and classist dimension of the term, I feel that when you have not one, but 2 non-functioning vehicles rusting in your driveway and not one but 2 major appliances rusting in the yard, and a dog that tries to kill your neighbors through the fence every time they walk into their own yards that one fully lives up to the designation) who is passionately and irrationally persuaded that the foot of space between our house and his driveway belongs to him because in antiquity sometime one of his fucking relatives had a fence on that strip of stupid ass grass despite the multiple surveys and city records that indicate he does not actually own every inch of the land up to the very fucking edge of our house, planting a YEW bush on my property. I fucking hate yews. They look nice for a year or so and then they get all weedy and threadbare. I fucking hate WTN. I’ve been worrying about this for a while now because in the last couple of weeks they tore up all of the grass over there and put in mulch, which to their credit looked a lot better than the weedy-ass grass that nobody every cared for and was a continuation of the mulch I put in on my side of the yard. But I took it as a sign that they’re moving in on the space thinking that we’ve neglected it for a few years. I’ve found myself obsessing about this late at night and trying to hand it over to the Big Universal Wow for he/she/it/they to take care of instead of me. But, planting something implies a firmer degree of ownership in some way, don’t you think? Anyway, I think it made me weepy even though I called Spousal Unit and asked him to take a little walk with the Gadlet (whose presence should be soothing to both SU and WTN – I mean, who can have a knock-down drag-out fight with a neighbor with a baby?) and check the situation out. Anyway, I’m a little bit freaked about it.

Or maybe I’m weepy because I had to ask a woman who was hogging 2 whole tables in this very small space if she could share one of her two tables and she was less than kind about it. Doesn’t she know that I’m leaving my baby for the first time and that my neighbor might possibly be planting a yew tree in my yard and my husband might attempt to kill him over it?

Or MAYBE, just MAYBE I’m weepy and panicked because I’m returning to my dissertation after 2-ish months of being completely away from it and 6-ish months from being mostly away from it. What if it is all crap? What if I can’t do it? What if I’m a better mother than I am dissertator? What if I lose my job? What if I don’t even actually care if I lose my job because I so much prefer being a mother?

But this doesn’t seem very productive or conducive to actually working in the very short time I have to work. So for now, I’m going to swallow the weepies, know that the Gadlet is OK** with Spousal Unit, let the universe (or SU) take care of WTN, and know that I can do this dissertation thing. I mean, hell, if I can not only squeeze a human out of my own body, but also the juice to feed that human, surely I can do anything, right?

(Ha! As I wrote this, a Very Famous Song by a Much Beloved 60s Band whose refrain very prominently features the Gadlet’s first name is being played over the coffee shop stereo. So much for attempting to forget her and do my work!)

[Update: I spent 2 productive hours away at the Coffee Shop. (Well, one productive hour and one emotionally charged hour, anyway.) I revised the introductory section to the chapter I’d been working on when last I was in dissertation land. Not a huge chunk of pages (only 6) and I was really only working with prose, not with major ideas – but I did accomplish a major stylistic shift from a really passive depiction of what was going on to a more active one that centers the historical figures in the sentences. And, I only looked at photos of the Gadlet on my iPod once and didn’t worry about WTN at all. So, good for me, huh?

I'm about to leave, but called home first -- Spousal Unit did not answer. I'm fighting visions of him neck-deep in Gadlet shit attempting to clean her up, or of her screaming so hysterically that he can't hear the phone. Or, worse yet, of her cuddled in his dead arms as he's splayed on the stupid fucking foot of land that WTN thinks he owns as WTN stands over him with a shotgun and as their evil dog nibbles on his toes and makes hungry eyes at the Gadlet. Oh shit, I must leave this instant!! Panic!!!!

Update #2: Nobody died. Phew. Spousal Unit didn't answer the phone because he was feeding the Gadlet the bottle I left. I got all weepy AGAIN when I came home. Fucking hormones.

Update #3: WTN DID plant a shrub on our property. Fuck fuck fuck. Spousal Unit says he'll handle it. So, I'm going to keep my sticky little worried paws off of that one. Fucking hormones.

Gifties!

2007-10-18T10:56:00.001-04:00

Since I signed up for a gift from Overread, I promised to make the same offer here.

To the first 5 commenters, I'll send some sort of tangible, physical gift before the end of this calendar year. It might be something arty, or foodie, or smarty. Hope you all are interested!

Pretty Cool, Huh?

----------------------------
The Gadlet is learning to smile when I talk to her. And grunt when she's hungry. She's like a little grinning bald piglet.

She's sleeping right now and I'm hoping to get some diss work done. Wish me luck!

The Bath

2007-10-12T10:26:00.001-04:00

My first mistake was to shower first.

I thought that while Spousal Unit was late for work anyway, he could watch the Gadlet long enough for me to at least wash my ass. I could tell he was a little resentful that I asked him for this, since he was already late, but I think he could sense the desperation in my voice so graciously agreed. I got enough time to wash and to put on a bra and underwear, but decided against other clothes so that I wouldn't overheat in the bathroom for the next step.

After I showered, I turned on the space heater in the bathroom, and undressed the Gadlet. Second mistake. I thought maybe her little hiney would like some air time for a few minutes while I got out her bathing equipment. So, she lay on a diaper and a towel on the floor while I got out the giant baby-shaped sponge that sits inside the bathtub, her little baby bathtub, a baby towel, a washcloth, a little bottle for pouring water, and the Insanely Expensive Organic Natural Unscented Special Baby Soap in a Bottle.

With the tub filled with nicely warm water, and everything all set for her bath, I picked her up to shift her from the bathroom floor to the bathtub, and she peed all over me. So much for ME being clean. Oh well, I thought, at least one of us will be clean today. I plunked her in the bath and wiped myself off with the diaper that she had been laying on. Then I wiped up the pee from off of the floor so that I wouldn't be standing in pee while I washed her.

This done, I start to clean the baby. I scrubbed away, washing all of her parts in order (cleanest to dirtiest), and being sure to dribble water in her face so that she will be used to it and not be afraid to put her face in the swimming pool when she starts lessons in 5 years. I soaped everything up, then rinsed her off, and as I turn to grab the towel to take her out of the tub, I saw a strange greenish-yellow tinge appear in the water -- and for a second I didn't know what it was or what was going on. I was confused. Then I realized it -- she was shitting. Into the clean bathwater. Which surrounded her completely. After I just finished cleaning her. And suddenly there was shit everywhere. Between her toes, all over her legs, all over the baby-shaped bath sponge, and of course, floating in the bathwater.

I grabbed her and moved her to higher ground in the tub - well away from the water and the shit. And then I just stood there totally kerflummoxed. How do you clean a baby when the equipment for cleaning her is full of poop, and therefore, unclean?

Meanwhile, disturbed by the state of events, as well as by my awkward one-handed grip on one of her underarms (trying to keep away from the shit myself), the Gadlet starts howling. Shrieking. Screaming.

As best I could, I ran the water in the sink that was awkwardly situated behind the baby tub and used that water and the washcloth to remove the shit from her as she howled. Then, I put her back down on the towel to continue the deshitification, which she did not like one bit. More screaming. At a higher pitch and intensity.

Finally satisfied that my baby was clean enough that she wouldn't get the cholera from touching her legs and then putting her hands in her mouth, I picked her up, sat on the toilet and tried to calm her with the boob, which she likes very much. She nursed for a few moments and relaxed. Good, I thought. I have a naked baby to dress and a tub full of shit to deal with, but other than that, things are good. (I'd given up on cleaning the baby pee off of myself.) The screaming had stopped, life seemed back on track. Just when I thought that, she pulled off of the breast and spit up a copious amount - like gallons - all over me, herself, her towel, and the bathroom floor.

So there we were, both of us in varying states of nudity, both of us covered in baby yak, sitting next to a tub of shit and a floor nicely decorated with pee and vomit. At which point I just started to laugh. Clearly, some form of her bodily fluid was going to cover her today no matter what I did.

It seemed quite plain that Fate had determined that Cleanliness is not next to Gadletness.

Getting Out the Gadlet, Part 2

2007-10-09T10:14:00.000-04:00

(Continued from Part 1)

With The Great Fainting Crisis behind us, Spousal Unit and I determined that the contractions were 2-3 minutes apart, which seemed pretty darn serious to us. Especially since we had been told to call the doctors when they were 5 minutes apart. So, we called. On the phone, the doctor told us to definitely come to the hospital. After this, we called our doula C, and told her to meet us there. At the hospital, they first made me do some paperwork (which was stupid because I had sent it all in the previous week.) but finally I was wheeled me up to the maternity ward, which seemed a little more hectic than it was when we were there for our tour the week before. It turns out, there were 14 other women in labor that night, including 3 emergency C-sections. This for a hospital that averages 2 births a day. It was more than a bit nuts. But, ultimately, it was pretty great, because it meant that the medical folk pretty much left us alone because mine was about the easiest birth happening that day. Nobody kept sticking their heads in to pester us about drugs or monitoring or anything.

One of the harried nurses checked us into the birthing room, which was pretty much a nice room with a lovely view of the woods and hills and lakes (although I couldn’t see those yet because it was 3:00 a.m.). I put on my Unit Family Reunion Tee-shirt (we have about a million of them left over so I figured if this one got gross, it was no big loss. Plus, it was blue. As you know, I firmly believe that all things should be blue.) Then, I got onto the "bed" (a fancy bed-like contraption that has handy holding onto bars for gripping, a nicely hidden set of stirrups, and a secret bio-hazard bag to catch all the ucky stuff that can be revealed at a critical moment when ucky stuff emerges.) I hung out there for a while, trying to breathe through the contractions like the hypnobirthing playlist had told me to. The breathing wasn’t really a problem, I was pretty good at that. What surprised me, though, was the moaning. For some reason, I just needed to moan. I always had great scorn for the women on TV who scream and moan through labor. How fake, I thought. Such Hollywood hysterics must have just been for dramatic effect, and so completely manufactured and false. Well, apparently, I was bucking for a part on some dumb sitcom where childbirth is both a ploy to resuscitate bad ratings and a tired comic foil, because I was a moaner. Each contraction required some heavy-duty Ooh-ing and Aahh-ing.

After a while of this, I was really wishing for my iPod, if for nothing else than to drown out my own damned moaning. Fortunately, Spousal Unit had brought his, so he hooked me up with Patrick O'Brian Which did pretty much the same thing as Hypnobirthing because I often listen to that before bed as well. So, the nice voice of Patrick Tull discussing rigging of the mainsails and midshipmen crawling through the lubber’s hole helped calm me down and distract me from the pain. Our doula later said that I had to be the only person she had ever encountered who had listened to an account of the historical British Royal Navy to relax while giving birth. It did lend a slight nautical air to the whole proceeding. Which led us to the Tub.

At this point in the labor, the sun had come up, it was morning, and I'd been at it at the hospital for at least 5 hours. The weird thing was that my legs were shaking so badly, SU and C had to take turns holding onto them to keep them still. So, C suggested she see if The Tub was available because she thought the warm water might help calm my shakes, as well has help labor progress. The Tub was the way the Hospital could market itself as supporting hippy-dippy birthing experiences. It was a very nice jacuzzi tub that they showed everybody on the tour as if to say, "See, we aren't REALLY a scary medical facility, but just a cleaner and more posh substitute for your bathtub at home!" But, the trick to The Tub was there was only one of them. So, you had to get it on a first-come-first-serve basis. Apparently, they didn't want a WWW-Smackdown between laboring women in the hallway outside of the tub fighting over who needed the jacuzzi more in their critical moments of labor...

I thought for sure that with 14 other women there it would be completely occupied. But, nope. The Tub was empty – and all mine! Whopee! So, we wheeled me down the hallway and I stripped and got into The Tub. It was heavenly. Definitely more posh than my filthy, ancient cast-iron tub at home. It was so warm, and so relaxing for a few minutes I forgot why I was there. Then, ouch, contraction. Right, that's what was happening -- I was in LABOR. As I hung out in The Tub, the contractions started to get much more intense, and SU and C took turns pouring warm water over my belly when they happened, and giving me ice chips and cold washcloths after they were over. SU took the chance at this point to go get a little breakfast. (He has since been touting the Hospital cafeteria as the best place in town for breakfast. I don't know if it was the actual quality of the toast, eggs and bacon that he got or the $1.50 price tag that turned him on so much, but so far I've resisted taking a special trip to the Hospital just for breakfast, as he keeps urging.)

After about an hour or so in The Tub, the contractions became so intense I decided I needed to get out. Back to the birthing room we went, where I proceeded to yak. Appropriate, really, since I was sick the whole pregnancy. The good thing was I had brought my own bucket to yak into. A few weeks before, I was expressing anxiety to C about having to have great aim at this moment of severe crisis while birthing. I mean, have you seen the size of those little tiny bedpan/barf catcher kidney-shaped thingeys at the hospital? They're like 2 inches long and an inch wide. You must be a seriously precise puker to manage to hit those things. For some reason, before labor I was really obsessed about having to have such great aim with my vomit, which I knew I would not have and so would wind up upchucking onto the floor or bed or Spousal Unit. To solve this problem, C had suggested that I bring my own bucket to the hospital so that I could stop worrying about where I was going to puke. Fortunately, I took this advice. So, when I felt the barf a-coming, I just said "Bucket!" and Spousal Unit grabbed our nice white plastic Berry Farm bucket that we purchased the last time we went berry-picking and I puked into that. It was a nice good size for catching the puke, no aim needed. The only downside? I'm not sure I'll ever use it for picking berries again.

Fairly soon after this puking episode, I decided I needed the Drugs. Things were getting pretty intense (read PAINFUL), and I figured I had quite a while yet to go. I mean, first labors are long, right? It was about 9 am and I figured I had the whole rest of the day and night to go. Especially since my water hadn't broke yet. I was pretty sure I couldn't handle the level of pain I was in for another 10 or 12 hours. Spousal Unit, in his drive to get us a natural childbirth, sneaky bastard, asked if I could handle 10 more contractions. I decided that I could, so we worked on counting those down, saying goodbye to each contraction as they passed, glad never to have to do That Exact Contraction ever again. After those 10 went by, we sent for the doctor. Of course, by the time the doctor appeared about another 15 contractions had gone by. I was pretty anxious and in inreasing pain. To ease this, we thought we'd try a different position to labor in -- I had been pretty comfortable on my back in the bed. But, we thought maybe a different position would help. Oho, how wrong we were. I tried Child's Pose from yoga, where basically, you get on your hands and knees with your ass in the air. This was fun for me at this moment because I was totally and completely naked (somewhere along the way that I can’t remember, I lost both the Unit Family Reunion tee-shirt and the hospital gown.) So, there I was, mooning the ceiling when the next contraction hit. It was the most incredible awful pain I had ever experienced in my whole life. I thought I was being ripped in two. I started to scream. And Scream and Scream. I couldn't stop screaming until the contraction was over. It was beyond horrible. So, not a good position, Child's Pose.

At this auspicious moment, the Doctor came in and started poking around to see how things were going down there and to see if I was progressing enough to get the drugs. Not good timing. But, she didn't seem phased at all that her first introduction to me was to my hind end, or that I was screaming like a banshee. I suppose if you're an OB both are par for the course. Anyway, as she looked up in there, my water broke. At which point, the doctor said, "Well, you could have an intrathecal (a short-duration epidural), but really, Stewgad, you're 9+ centimeters dilated and fully effaced. It's time to start pushing. Do you feel like pushing?"

I thought about this for a moment and quickly decided that I had never felt like doing anything less in my whole entire life. Nope. No way, No How. Oh, how I did NOT feel like pushing. I knew what would happen if I did, and it didn't sound any more appealing in that moment between intensely painful contractions (still scream-inducing despite the return to my back) than it had for the entire 10 months before that moment. But, everyone else in the room seemed to think it was the thing to do and they were so earnest about encouraging me to do it. Plus, C told me I had to in a very stern voice. So, when the next contraction rolled around, I pushed. And screamed my fucking head off. I could push 3 times per contraction, but the doctor seemed to want four pushes per contraction. This made me a bit resentful, but since I was kind of in the middle of something at the moment, I couldn't really tell her how I was feeling. Especially because she wasn't actually my doctor. Which is funny because I secretly really wanted my doctor to be a woman, but I didn't like the practice that she worked for. (there are only 3 OB practices in town.) So, for 9+ months, I saw my male doctor and kinda sorta hoped that when the time came, he wouldn't be around and I'd get to have a woman. So, despite the fact that I wanted to tell her that she could take that last 4th push that she seemed to want so badly the next time I had a contraction and put it into HER hind end, I thought better of it since I was really glad she was there.

Fortunately, I got a bit of a break between contractions at this point. They were coming with great regularity every 3 minutes, and every 4th contraction was kind of a faker, less intense and less push-worthy. But when the real ones came around, I'd launch back into my screaming and pushing. I did wonder if I was terrifying all the other poor women on the floor with my screams, and in the break period between contractions I would think rationally that I probably shouldn't be screaming so loudly. But, then another contraction would hit and I'd be back at it, shrieking at the top of my lungs. I swear, I couldn’t help it and I needed to do it. And to do it loudly. It was very primal.

By this time, I could feel the baby moving down into what is euphemistically called "the birth canal," but which was really my vagina. I could also feel it getting kind of sucked back up at the end of the contraction. And then, I had a bit of a miracle. In the midst of the blinding pain and heinously loud screams (could someone please tell that crazy woman to shut up?) I had a memory -- a brain wave -- a brilliant thought. A few weeks before, my friend M, who had had 2 kids, told me that when the baby was moving down and you were pushing, that you should engage your muscles a little bit in between contractions to keep the baby in place, so that you don't have to push it out the whole way every time. I couldn't really believe that I remembered that critical piece of information at the exact right moment, but I did. So, the next contraction that came around I did what she had suggested, and kind of held the baby in place. It was weird, but after that, the doctor was really encouraging, and said just a few more should do it. She asked if I wanted to feel the baby's head - and I did, but didn't really think much of it – kind of hard and firm, and in the way of my getting out of pain. I don't know, maybe I was too out of it to appreciate that a human head was coming out of my yoohoo.

As I re-read this last paragraph, it seems as if I was alone in this. Of course, I wasn't. Spousal Unit was holding onto my right leg and C was holding on to my left one, but it really was kind of an internal, alone type process. I mean, I was the only one pushing. And the only one screaming for that matter. I think that SU and Christine were both saying nice, encouraging stuff, but I don’t really remember.

Anyway, the doctor was right. When each contraction ended and I stopped the screaming, I held on a bit with my muscles, and I could feel the baby moving farther out as I pushed. At which point I experienced what the books call "a ring of fire." Which is essentially when the baby's head rips you open because it is too big for your coochie. I think I said something like, "ring of fire, my ass!!" Which got everybody chuckling. I think what I meant was "fire? VOLCANO is more like it. MAGMA, or something even more dramatic and hot and horrible than fire. But, the next contraction hit and I pushed like a motherfucker right through that MAGMA of pain and burning and tearing and then the head came out. Oh, my god, did that hurt. And then the rest of the baby’s body just slipped out, and instantly I felt more relieved than I have ever felt in my whole entire life. It was over. That thing I had been dreading my whole life, the thing I was so afraid of, and the thing that I wasn't sure I could survive -- childbirth -- was over. I was done. It was heavenly.

AND, to boot, I got this beautiful baby. Between emerging from my vagina and getting as far as my belly button, she started screaming on her own. She was kind of blue-ish, and had some gunk on her head and body, but by the time she got to rest on my breast, she calmed down. I said, "Hi Gadlet, I'm your Mama," while Spousal Unit cut her cord. She was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen. Well, OK, maybe she did look a bit like my 60-year-old Dad, and maybe she did poop some black tarry gunk onto me while she was hanging out on my chest, and she was kind of scrawny, but she had these big, bright eyes and pouty little Angelina Jolie lips. Spousal Unit cried, but I was too distracted by the doctor, who wouldn't leave me alone yet. There was the whole placenta thing to expel, and may I say, ew. Slimy. And then she had to stitch me up. There were “second degree lacerations,” which I think sound worse than it was, but still sounds pretty bad. I managed not to scream through this part of it, but it was only because I was holding the Gadlet and I didn't want to scare her. And, besides, my throat was so sore and raw from the earlier screaming, I didn't have much voice left. (FYI, I still haven't checked things out down there too carefully. I'm just too terrified. I'm desperately afraid of finding that I’ve now got a Frankenpussy. {Thanks to Nadine for the term, which is too freaking funny given the patched-up and stitched up state of my poor vagina!}) Anyway, enough about my private parts.

Back to the baby. They let me hold her for about 45 minutes or an hour and then they started the process of cleaning her up, etc. Oh, yeah, and then they let Spousal Unit hold her. He and the nurse put her under his shirt so she could have skin-to-skin contact with him too. He was so moved. It was very sweet.

The great thing about a natural childbirth, planned or not, is that everyone thinks you're a hero -- starting with the doctor. She and the nurses were both just raving about how great I was at giving birth, and how wonderful it was to see both me and the Gadlet so alert and awake, since most of the moms and babies she sees are tranked up and groggy. So, I totally felt like the biggest Bad-Ass ever for having done it drug-free. I was totally high on the praise and felt gorgeous and powerful and insanely perfect even though I smelled like raw meat and looked like hell.

The doctor also said that I should be careful, because my next baby (HA!) will probably be born in the elevator, this labor was so fast. Start to finish it was 10.5 hours. Far less time than I had feared. Far less time than I thought was even possible for a first birth.

If I had been really and truly honest with those crazy people who had asked me what kind of birth I wanted, I probably would have said this: I want a short labor, with contractions that let me rest between them. I want some time in the bathtub because water is soothing to me. I’d like to feel safe and secure and I’d like to feel like I could handle what was happening to me. I’d like a woman doctor, and a supportive hospital that didn’t push the drugs if I didn’t want them. I’d like a natural childbirth if I can do it, and I’d like to not be too damaged afterwards to enjoy the baby and Spousal Unit as we start our new family. If I had been really honest, I would have confessed my deep secret desire to have a girl, and owned up to a petty wish that she not be too ugly or covered with funky birthmarks. Oh, and, I would have told them that I’d like that little girl to be born on 09-08-07 because it would be the coolest birthday ever.

I know in a deep and fundamental way that all children are miracles – and that is certainly true of the Gadlet – I mean, heck, I cooked her up inside my very own body and then used that body to get her out into the world. And now she does things like coo and pee and notice stuff and nurse. Even if she’s now going bald and has acne and so looks like a strange hybrid 85-year-old teenager, she’s absolutely miraculous. But, I’m not talking about the baby here as the miracle. That her birth was precisely what I would have asked for, even down to the smallest detail, if someone let me order up a birth experience on a platter (that is if I couldn't have the Star Trek Beam-It-Out Birth), well, that seems pretty damned miraculous to me.

Getting Out the Gadlet, Part 1

2007-10-08T11:51:00.000-04:00

There are certain moments in life that strip away all one's pretenses and self-delusions and leave behind the primal essence of the Self. Childbirth is certainly one of them. And, as it turns out, my primal essence Self is a Screamer. Spousal Unit's is a Fainter. But, I'm giving away the ending before I start. So, let me start at the beginning.

Roughly 10 months ago, Spousal Unit and I got busy one great night and I woke up pregnant. Of course I didn't know it yet, but there it was. A little thingey working away at dividing and making itself into a human. A few weeks later, I peed on a little white stick and two pink lines appeared, informing me of this state of things. Immediately, I had to go and have my blood drawn at 24 hour intervals to determine if everything was all good in there with the little thingey. (A previous ectopic pregnancy made this stage critical.) On New Year's Eve 2007, the doctor called and told us that the blood work was great. The Gadlet was a very successful little embryo. It was pretty much the best way to start a year ever.

And then came the pregnancy. I was sick. Sick, sick, sick. A lot. All of the time, in fact. For about 2/3rds of the pregnancy I could pretty much eat only one thing at a time. One week it was Goldfish crackers. One week it was Wheat Thins. Then I did a couple of weeks of Red Jello (I didn't care about the flavor as long as it was red.) Soon after that came the two or three weeks of green apples. Add to this all of the puking, and I was pretty much growing increasingly angry with the little parasite that was colonizing my body and making it very very unhappy. Then the nice doctors gave me drugs to make the puking go away and things got much better. (I would joke with Spousal Unit that the Gadlet's middle name should be "Zofran" after this wonderful miracle pill that got me through the end of the pregnancy.)

All in all, by the time the official due date rolled around on Friday, September 7, I was feeling pretty good, if increasingly tired and unwieldy. Oh, yeah, and scared shitless. But, there was no easy way out by that point, so I was working on getting away from scared and toward resigned. This project was not helped by the fact that at this point in the pregnancy, people started asking me "What kind of birth do you want?" Well, hell if I know! I've never done it before, how can I know what I want? I think that what I wanted, was, um, a birth. Beyond that, I just wanted to survive. I was pretty sure I would not make it through the whole thing alive, because, I mean, how could you? How could you extrude a whole human being and survive the process? Didn't seem very likely to me, global statistics be damned. So, my answer to this question was usually, "a healthy baby." I'm sure what they wanted to know was did I want a natural home childbirth complete with hairy armpits and crunchy granola for breakfast, or a water birth where the Gadlet and I engaged in an elaborate dance of synchronized swimming as soon as she was born, or a hospital sanitized medical birth where I was tranked to the gills and strapped to a table and sliced open lengthwise. Since none of those choices sounded good to me, I decided that I didn't care exactly how it happened, so long as it happened and that the Gadlet and I both walked out of the hospital alive and (mostly) intact. (Although, as it turns out, we got driven in a wheelchair so neither of us actually walked.) OK, so I lie a little. The one thing I didn't want was to go into labor, spend 48 hours in labor and then have a C-section. That would be the suckiest kind of birth, I think, because you have all of the pain and misery of labor and none of the convenience of a scheduled C-section. But, really, I just tried to be open to whatever had to happen and to try to appreciate the end of the pregnancy without having expectations or panic attacks.

Toward that end, when I got up the morning of my due date, I thought, "Hey, I should take a picture of my belly so that I have a record of what I looked like pregnant on my due date." In the back of my mind I was thinking that I had another couple of weeks to go so that I should be able to compare this pictures to how huge I would ultimately become. So, I took one photo and it was blurry. So, I took another. Black screen. "Hm. That's odd," said I. I took a few more pictures. All black. I flipped over to the photo view. Black, black, and more black. I replaced the batteries. Took out the memory card, replaced it. Still, black screen, totally black photos. Bad news for the digital camera. I looked it up on the internet, and it turned out to be a known problem with the model camera we have. Canon would fix it, but we'd have to send it to them. "Oh well," I thought, "tomorrow is Saturday and Spousal Unit and I can go to Best Buy and get another camera tomorrow so that we'll have one for the birth."

By the time I had finished battle with the camera, it was time to go to the doctor. (See this post for the details.) Then, I hung out with a new pregnant friend for a while at her house because she had central air and it was about 900 degrees out. We had met at the Co-op and bought lunch. I got spicy peanut noodles and a bar of Dagoba chocolate with chili pepper. I thought it was a little odd that I was craving spicy food since I hadn't been interested in it for the whole pregnancy, but I didn't really give it that much thought. Then, that night Spousal Unit and our two best friends took me out to our favorite Tapas place for dinner to celebrate the due date. I had spicy chipotle potatoes and drank some of SU's red wine, because, heck, it was my due date. Our waiter (a longtime familiar guy) comped us our bar bill, I think because I told him it was my due date and he was terrified that I'd drop the baby right there in the restaurant so he wanted to hurry us out of there!

When we got home, I hugged Spousal Unit good night and asked him if he would cut my toenails the next day because I couldn't bend over enough to reach them and I was getting desperate. The good man promised he would and kissed me good night. When I got into bed, I got out my iPod and tried to listen to my Hypnobirthing playlist. It was to help me practice relaxing, and then in the birth, I'd listen to the same playlist and remember how relaxed I was at home in bed and therefore not be in pain during labor. Yes, this was a little bit of a pipe dream, but it was part of my "accept the inevitable" plan of childbirth. Practice relaxing while thinking about childbirth was definitely a good thing for me at that stage. Anyway, so I got out my trusty old iPod, tapped the menu button, the thing jumped halfway between one menu and another and then froze. I tried everything I could think of doing to the thing (that didn't involve getting out of bed) to no avail. Dead iPod. "Oh well," I thought, "Tomorrow is Saturday, I'll reboot and reinitialize the thing tomorrow."

It did strike me as a little disturbing and more than a little ironic that both of the major bits of electronica that I knew I would need during labor crapped out on my due date, but by this point in the evening, I was so tired, I didn't really stress about it. I figured I had plenty of time to remedy both the digital camera and the iPod situation. I was wrong.

At about 12:30 I woke up having some cramps, fairly well contained in my lower belly. I thought, "Aha! False labor." All of the books said that false labor felt like menstrual cramps and that "real" contractions would involve your back and upper belly. Yeah, ok. So, I got up, went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet for a while. (Where else do you sit when you hang out in the bathroom?) After about an hour, I realized that these "false" contractions were increasing in intensity (read pain) and were getting (quite) a bit closer together. Thinking maybe I should have some company in this process, I went back to the bedroom and woke up Spousal Unit. "Honey," I said, "I think I'm in labor. I think we need to start timing contractions." He said groggily that he'd find his watch and be right there. So, I went back to the bathroom.

A few moments later, SU barges through the door, and says "Get off the toilet! Get off! I'm going to barf!!!" So, I sprung up and hightailed it out of the bathroom and went back to the bedroom. After a few minutes and hearing nothing from him, not even giant heaving sounds (SU is not a quiet, dainty puker. But then, who is, really?) I thought maybe I should check and see how he was doing. Not well, it turned out. I opened the door to the bathroom, and there was SU, splayed out in an ever so slight bit of a faint, as green as that gunk they used to pour on people on Nickelodeon back in the early days of cable. He was actually still conscious, but just barely. I've never seen him looking so completely awful.

So there I was, standing there in our bathroom, legs splayed, leaning over the sink for support, pretty sure I was in Actual Labor, rather than False Labor, wondering how in the hell I was going to get Spousal Unit out of his pajamas, into some clothes, into the car, and to the hospital without actually giving birth in the Subaru as I drove us both there. It was a Daunting Prospect. Particularly considering the fact that I couldn't actually bend over, so picking him up off of the floor to start with was pretty much an impossible task.

Thankfully, we avoided this disturbing eventuality and fairly soon, Spousal Unit managed to murmur a bit and to regain some of his normal flesh-colored color as well as a degree of consciousness. A few minutes later he was timing contractions and phoning the doctor like an old pro, completely back to normal. [As he puts it when he tells folk the story, "At the greatest moment of my whole life, I looked fear in the eye and ... crumpled like a leaf." He then strongly suggests to the listener that the next time they have a crisis, they'd do well to call me instead of him.]

(To Be Continued in the Next Post...)

And to keep you engaged here's a photo I like to call, "Ode to Stripes."

The Gadlet

2007-09-18T15:31:00.000-04:00

Look what I made!

I'm working on a birth story post, but barely get any 2-handed time right now. The Gadlet likes to be held, so I comply. When she's not being held, I'm sleeping. Par for the new parent course, really. But, in the meantime, I see no reason to deprive you all of a photo. This one was taken at the hospital 9 days ago. Enjoy.

It's a Girl!

2007-09-09T13:53:00.001-04:00

The Gadlet has arrived!

on 09-08-07 at 11:08 am, weighing in at 6 lbs and 13 oz.

After a 10 1/2 hour drug-free labor. Yep. You heard me. Drug Free.

Stewgad, Spousal Unit, and The Gadlet are all doing fine and are going to take an early departure from the hospital today so that they can sleep tonight without the distractions of a medical environment.

Full Gory Details (and yes, they are a bit gory) and some nicely anonymous infant photos to come.

Due Date

2007-09-07T17:36:00.000-04:00

Nothing much happening on this Auspicious Estimated Delivery Date. But, I did go to the doctor today and he determined in the least pleasant way possible ("You might feel some pressure." Pressure, yeah. Right.) that I'm 2 cm dialated and 50% effaced.

Of course, those numbers mean pretty much Absoutely Nothing in the world of labor and delivery.

Still, it is a sign that there are Things Happening down there since last week the numbers were 0.

So, it could be any time. It could be in 2 weeks.

Just thought you all might want to know.

(Oh, and in celebration of the Due Date, Spousal Unit is taking me to my favorite tapas restaurant for dinner. Yippee!)

Racing Stripes

2007-09-05T17:49:00.000-04:00

As those of you faithful readers know, this hasn't been a fun pregnancy. I've been sick for most of it, exhausted for all of it, and peevish and whiny for a good 2/3rds of it.

But, I did have one little ray of hope that I had held onto this whole time.

I didn't have stretch marks.

None. All I had was a beautiful, nice smooth belly -- with no Racing Stripes. Just my normal green-white skin. A lot bigger, to be sure, but still my skin. (An aside --it really is so white it's green. I do not tan. At all. Even in 1985 when I lay around in the weeds of my back yard in 90 degree heat slathered in baby oil in a desperate attempt to fit in with the in-crowd who spent their summers playing tennis and sipping Diet Cokes by the pool at the Country Club to which we did not belong. Nope, giant case of sunburn and a slight case of heatstroke was all I got out of that one.)

Anyway, back to the real story. Last night I was lying on the couch, hot as hell, so I hiked up my shirt over my belly (which you would do too if you were incubating another human. Key word here INCUBATE.) Spousal Unit looks over and says, "What's that, honey? Do you have a rash?" After a bit of contortionist stretching and a lot of groaning, I was able to get a closer look and fuck me if there weren't these chicken scratch looking big-ass red lines directly underneath my belly button. It kind of looks like a red tattoo of a trident.

Well, hell. There goes that one thing I was clinging to. Now, I guess the only thing I've got to be thankful for is that my belly button hasn't popped out like the built-in turkey timer. Luckily, I'm still a nice little innie.

**** We Interrupt this PERFECTLY good Stewgad Rant for a Message from Spousal Unit******

After I read this post to him to display my witty cleverness in the face of Vast Adversity, Spousal Unit, clearly unimpressed, reminded me with a completely straight face and deadpan manner that all indications point to the fact that we have a very healthy baby and a totally normal pregnancy and that therefore I have much to be thankful for about this pregnancy and strongly implied that stretch marks are a small price to pay for a healthy Gadlet.

******Now back to our regularly scheduled Griping ******

Oho! Big Mistake, Spousal Unit, big mistake. Word of advice for you guys out there. Do not, ever, ever tell a grumpy, tired, hot and hungry woman who is 2 days away from her due date and staring down the barrel of a 2-3 day process that involves EXTRUDING A WHOLE HUMAN BEING THROUGH HER VAGINA that ANYTHING she is experiencing is trivial compared to the joy that a healthy new baby will bring. I don't care how minimal those symptoms are. If she gripes that she has a hangnail and that that hangnail is making her miserable, you just commiserate and sympathize and offer to fetch the nail scissors and gently trim it for her. And if you can't find those nail scissors, you get down on your knees and trim that little fucking hangnail with your TEETH. Sheesh.

IF, however, you DO make such a blunder with your VERY PREGNANT partner/wife/lover/girlfriend there is only one clear fix for the situation. Run as fast as you can --do not walk because she might go into labor while you're gone -- to the Apple Store for one of these. Yes, I'm here to tell you, that even Very Pregnant Women can be bought, regardless of how many new Racing Stripes they're bemoaning.

Waiting

2007-09-02T15:52:00.000-04:00

On Thursday night, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. with cramps? contractions? so intense it made me nauseous. After I got done panicking, I thought, OK, maybe this is it! I lay there and tried to breathe through the bad feelings while I thought hard about how I was not going to barf and tried to decide whether or not I should wake up Spousal Unit. After a few minutes of the deep breathing, I fell back asleep. I woke up the next day feeling awful and exhausted. So, I spent Friday on the couch. Waiting for Something to Happen. Anything, really. Nothing did.

By the end of the day, I was totally pissed at myself for wasting the day, completely freaked out about childbirth, and so unreasonably lonely that by the time Spousal Unit came home from work (later than he said he would), I was primed for a major meltdown. I sobbed and sobbed. Plus, I got all clingy -- like a toddler with stranger danger. The sobbing has stopped, but the clinging has persisted the last few days. I don't want Spousal Unit to leave me at any point right now and I keep wanting to be assured that he'll be there "on the big day." Very strange. I like to think of myself as a tough, independent person who got over the co-dependent relationship phase once she left her teens. And normally I'm not that much of a weeper. But today I was reading one of my oh so many pregnancy books and it said that many women in the 9th+ month get needy and weepy -- hormones and all that. So, I do feel a little better about my desire to wrap myself around Spousal Unit's leg and not ever let go. (I have a very funny vision of him dragging my big-ass pregnant self along as he works on equipment at the Big Sciency Thingey and his co-workers look on in horror.) Oh, and FYI - he's been a prince the last couple of days, doing everything and anything he can to make me happy and secure. It is lovely and sweet and reaffirms what a great guy he is.

But, this waiting thing is hard. Mainly because of the part where you don't know what is going to happen and when. I'm not very good at either being patient or at letting go of control of things, both of which are essential when you are very pregnant and have a little less than a week to go until your due date. Yes, I know, due dates mean absolutely squat in this business. 7 of 10 babies arrive after their due dates, so it's not like there is a schedule or anything. But, it is precisely that that is driving me bonkers. I mean, couldn't the Gadlet send me a little email or text message or at least a dream or a vision or something saying, "O.K. Stewgad, you've got 6 more days, so make the most of them!" I suspect I've got more like 14 days -- but man, if only I had some certainty! I'm not very good at the waiting patiently for anything, really, let alone for my life to completely change.

To help me with this Waiting Conundrum, yesterday I decided to clean out the bathroom cabinets. Have you looked in your bathroom cabinets lately? You might want to. It was Very Educational. I was astonished. Here's a partial list of stuff I found: a prescription bottle of drugs from 1996, a huge bottle of 200 echinacea pills that expired in 2004, 10 used razor cartridges that just got stuck back in the cabinet instead of thrown away, 5 bottles of lotion with less than .25 an oz in them, all of the cabinet hinges and handles and screws and accompanying hardware that we replaced with nicer ones when we moved in 4 years ago, five used toothbrushes that I kept for cleaning grout in a bathroom that has no tile or grout, and a leg-waxing kit that I used once (and by once I mean one strip of wax, one strip of fabric, one rip, one giant excruciating sensation, one hysterical scream, and one vow to never attempt anything like that ever again) three years ago. Apparently purging and cleaning out the hinterlands of one's house is also a 9th+ month symptom of pregnancy. It's like those hormones drive you to make sure that your child can enter the world without bearing the karmic burden of your old boxes of leg wax and jars of expired flower powder pills.

I haven't tackled anything else today, but next on the list is the closet under the stairs. I'm pretty sure that it contains every coat I've owned since college, all of Spousal Unit's sailing and sporting equipment, our rollerblades, plus all of our camping gear. (stored there because when we moved in I insisted that it couldn't be kept in the basement because of the smell. Nothing is worse than a moldy smelling two-man tent!) But, there's got to be more than that in there since when you open the door, it is like a cartoon closet -- the wall of stuff is so complete it fills the door frame and threatens to spill out so you just shove what you've got back into it and close the door and hope it all stays put. Yep, I've got my work cut out for me there. That should help with the Waiting.

And speaking of waiting, you may wonder how our kitchen is faring. We're actually really, really pleased. The framing, electric, and windows are all done. This weekend S.U. is doing the insulation and is miserably scraping all of the glue from the ceiling that held the ancient cardboard ceiling tiles to the ancient beadboard ceiling. Both of which are essential steps so that the carpenters can start drywalling on Tuesday. They anticipate that the drywalling and initial plumbing will be done by the end of the week, so that next week we can do the painting and cabinet installation ourselves. (And by we/ourselves I mean Spousal Unit and whoever he can find to help him who isn't insanely pregnant.) Woo hoo! Paying someone to do most of the remodeling work sure is a hell of a lot faster than doing it all yourself! I'll post pictures next week sometime when we have the drywall up.

So, that leaves me with the Waiting. It's not like I don't have anything to do. There's the dissertation, the knitting, the cleaning, the laundry, the dissertation, reading, walking, weeding the garden, oh, and did I mention the dissertation? But, playing the waiting game so far hasn't been very conducive to Important Thinking kinds of tasks. So, I guess I'll muddle along until the day, trying to be patient, trying to Allow the Universe and the Gadlet to make their own schedules without me, despite the fact that it is MY BODY, dammit, and trying not to make predictions about what that schedule might look like.

[However, if YOU want to make predictions about that schedule, there is a small betting pool going on around this and the gender issue. Histgrad has called September 9 (got a gender guess Histgrad?), my Mom says a girl on the 11th, Phaeon says a boy on the 15th, and Spousal Unit says the 14th and doesn't have a gender guess, but I don't know if he gets to bet since he wins a new baby at the end of it all. Many, many dates and gender options are still available if you want in! You could win your very own Honorable Mention on Pretty Hard, Dammit -- almost as good as real cash!]

Oddly Panicked

2007-08-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

Periodically in my life I've had bouts with anxiety. What dissertator hasn't, really? Breaking into a cold sweat, heart pounding, tightening abdomen, shortness of breath -- many things could set of this physical reaction. Like encountering an advisor unexpectedly, reading an article title that seemed to "scoop" my project, sometimes even just sitting down to work would kick it up.

Today, I just woke up panicked and I don't really know why. Well, hell, I probably do know why. Sometime in the next two to three weeks (my due date is a week and a half away, but I'm hoping for a little extra leeway...) my body is going to do this incredibly challenging and painful thing that I've been abjectly terrified of ever since I found out that babies had to get out of their mother's bodies somehow.

And if that isn't frightening enough, as soon as I get through that ordeal, my lifestyle is going to completely change. Even little things are going to be different. Like this morning, I ran Spousal Unit up to work so that I could have the car and he could still make his morning meeting. When he got out of the car, he thanked me and I replied without thinking about it, "Any time." As I drove back home to wait for the carpenters, I realized that from now on it might not just be as simple as "Any time." It won't be a matter of just throwing on some pants and hopping into the car. Any time will turn into "never" or "not without an hour of preparation that involves packing up everything the baby owns along with the baby."

These panicked feelings may also be compounded by the fact that I'm behind on my own work as well. I really, really need to finish the chapter that I started at the beginning of the summer. But, for the life of me I've been really struggling to make my brain work. I think it is probably mostly hormonal -- I'm having a hard time focusing on anything more complicated than television right now. Like last night Spousal Unit was telling me about this scientific discovery he made during the day yesterday and I found myself totally drifting off -- which does tend to happen when he gets going on the big sciencey stuff -- but last night I really, really wanted to pay attention and to hear what he was telling me but I couldn't do it.

And yet, I still have enough brain power to berate myself and feel guilty and work myself into a nice little frenzy. Because that last paragraph sounds to me kind of like an excuse for not working when I should be. I mean, the fucking clock is ticking! What am I waiting for???

So, how do you cure an anxiety attack when two of your three usual tools are not really options? (Obviously, I can't resort to the drugs since there are two humans living in here and one of them is not really ready for psych-meds. And therapy is out because its been over a year since I've been and I know it would take a week or two to get into see my therapist and by then the whole thing will probably be moot.) I already tried the guided relaxation techniques from my doula. When the woman in my iPod declared in her calm voice that, "I look forward to birthing with joy and ecstasy" I wanted to scream. SO not working! Which that leaves me with courage.

Here's what I'm going to do with what little courage I've got right now. I'm going to gird up my expansive and squirming loins (the Gadlet is pretty active right now) and I'm going to go for a swim because that always clams me down. Then, I'm going to pick up some lunch at the little Armenian deli and grab a chocolate croissant from the patisserie next door, and then I'm going to come back here, sit down with this chapter, and do something, ANYTHING, to make myself feel like I'm making some progress on this front.

Hopefully, by the time we take our tour of the hospital tonight I'll be in better shape and so won't run screaming from the building when they show me the birthing wing!

Ph.D. Pre-Parental Penis Poll

2007-08-24T09:46:00.001-04:00

With T-2 weeks to go on the incubation of the Gadelt, Spousal Unit and I have been having a Very Serious Discussion lately and have come to no good conclusion. So I thought today I'd throw The Discussion open to you, my internets folk and see what the opinions are.

To Circumcise or Not to Circumcise? That is The Question.

Now, as you all know, we do not know the particular arrangement of the Gadlet's private parts. They are, still, private. However, since we're having a hospital birth, this kind of question has to be dealt with pretty soon after the Gadlet makes its grand appearance, so we're trying to be prepared for anything that might appear in that general area of the Gadlet's body.

For background, there's no cultural or religious reasons for us to do it. We're both midwestern American mixed-grill WASPS. So, we can't really look to cultural or geographic heritage to help us with this decision. Statistics do not help either. In our town, it runs exactly 50-50, so no matter what we do, the He-Gadlet would have cohorts that "look like him." (Although, really, I mean, does this matter? Do guys look? Do they compare? I suppose they do, especially as little dudes.) And, in the U.S. in general, about 55% of boys are circumcised -- again, about half. Not that the "I'm going to do what everyone else does" argument has ever been interesting to me or Spousal Unit.

But here are some arguments that are more interesting. On the one hand, there is some compelling medical evidence in the recent studies indicating that it reduces AIDS transmissions and Cervical Cancer in the circumcised men's partners. On the other hand, there's the common sense argument: "Hi Little He-Gadlet, welcome to the world -- WHACK! There goes a fair bit of your most sensitive part." That just cannot make for a nice introduction to life in general.

But there are also plenty of strange arguments that are not so compelling. For example, the whole "matching your dad" argument seems pretty lame. I read a great story once where the uncircumcised son of a circumcised man asked his dad one day why their penises looked different. His dad explained what circumcision was, and that at one time doctors thought it was best for everyone to have it, but that ideas had changed and so they had decided not to do it to him. The little kid looked up at his dad with huge terrified eyes and said "Thanks!" Could be an apocryphal story circulated by those anti-circumcisionites, but it is kind of sweet.

One thing that turns us both off is how those who fall into the anti-camp all seem to resort to some twisted Freudian kind of arguments -- it's like they can't resist making completely unsubstantiated links between circumcision and human behavior. Like the one that claims the U.S. and Israel are the most war-like countries and also have the highest rates of circumcision. Please. Not only does this smack of anti-Semitism, but it completely ignores all of human history which indicates that humans, no matter what their penises look like, are just really freaking warlike. While it makes a funny joke to think that American men might be less patriarchal assholes if their first few moments in life weren't spent having their penises snipped, I don't think that this really counterbalances the medical studies. I mean, who REALLY believes that Dick Cheney would be a nicer guy if his dick was, well, more of a dick?***

But, then again, are these medical studies really persuasive? You can pretty much find medical studies to support almost damn near anything. Particularly if we're talking big-money business like cancer research. Although unlike all of those studies paid for by the beef industry telling us that beef is the most healthy food on the planet or by the broccoli lobby getting us to eat more broccoli because it ends cancer, I don't think there's a foreskin lobby out there pouring merry buckets of cash into the research on circumcision.

So, here we are. Compelling reasons on both sides. Shitty reasons on both sides. I guess this is one of the first difficult decisions of parenthood -- one of many that we will make that undoubtedly will have profound consequences for the Rest of Our Child's Life. But, unlike choosing a name, or deciding on whether to use a pacifier, or which preschool to enroll the kid in, this one is irreversible. And, frankly, I'm just not sure there is a good answer here.

All in all, I think we're both REALLY hoping that we get a She-Gadlet instead so we can just chicken out of this decision!

Anyway, thoughts? Comments? Opinions?

-------------------
Dissertation:

Don't ask, not telling. In the infamous words of my beloved Buffy, "I'm taking a vacation from dealing."

Students:

I opted for a middle route: I told them I'd be happy to do it, but not in the next 6 weeks or so, so that if they needed them sooner, they had to ask someone else. All said they didn't need them until later and were happy to wait, so I postponed that for a bit and will still be able to satisfy my sense of obligation -- at a point when I know exactly what I'm dealing with as a new parent.

*** Given his date of birth, and the statistics for the nation at that time (conservative estimates say 60%) I'm making assumptions here. Allow me to reassure you that I have absolutely no personal experience or information about the nature of our Vice President's private parts.

Thursday Meme

2007-08-23T09:40:00.000-04:00

Thanks, Dr. Mon for tagging me for this meme!

4 jobs I've had in my life
-concession stand operator at local pool. Boy, did that job suck. It mostly involved scraping fake yellow nacho cheese spread out of a huge can into a crock pot and waiting for it to heat up, while fending off ravenous 8-year olds demanding instant nachos. Why they didn't spring for a microwave at the pool instead of using a SLOW COOKER (!!!) I'll never know.
-office assistant
-Gap salesperson (Christmas season 1994 -- the 30 minute holiday tape that I had to listen to 80 million times in a shift about drove me mad. If I never hear "Santa Baby" again as long as I live it will be too soon.)
-College Professor

4 place I've lived
-Midwestern Hell, in a state beginning with an I
-Midwestern Paradise, in a different state beginning with an I
-Northeastern City
-Current hometown

4 favorite foods
There are so many! Right now, I'm jonesing for all of the things that I can't eat -- so here they are in order in which I want Spoual Unit to bring them to me in the hospital the moment the Gadlet has exited my body and is safely tucked away in the bed next to me ...

-sushi
-salami
-brie
-pate

4 places I'd rather be
-on a beach, any beach
-in an art museum
-Paris
-not pregnant. Can that be a place?

4 movies I can watch over and over
I watch all movies I like over and over. It drives Spousal Unit crazy. The top four are probably:

-Pride & Prejudice (A&E/BBC Colin Firth version, of course.)
-Persuasion
-Amelie
-Raising Arizona

4 TV shows I like to watch
I don't have any TV reception or cable - just a TV and DVD player, so I watch all my TV on DVD.
-Buffy
-Veronica Mars (S. 1)
-Firefly
-Alias (S. 1-2 ONLY)

4 websites I view daily
-New York Times
-The Onion
-Defamer
-Perez Hilton (yes, I know, embarassing to admit, but it's a guilty pleasure...)

4 computers I have owned
I'm a very loyal and passionate Apple evangelist.

-Apple II+
-PowerBook 520
-iBook
-PowerBook G4

4 people to tag
-Scrivener
-Jo(e)
-academama
-sfrajett

Decongestants, Deconstruction, and Departures

2007-08-14T11:21:00.001-04:00

You may ask, is there anything worse than a summer cold? Why, yes, in fact, there is -- A raging summer cold when you're 8.5 (9.5) months pregnant, your kitchen is deconstructed completely, you've just come off of 10 days of houseguests in a row, and you're 2 chapters and one article behind where you needed to be before the big day arrives. Oh, and you're being bombarded by students requesting letters of recommendation.

1. The Cold: Par for the course, really. Just miserableness compounded by the pregnant woman's restricted ability to take drugs to decongest and the deep exhaustion that I've been feeling for the past week or so. Yesterday I didn't get off of the couch. It meant a lot of Buffy time, which is good, but not much else. (For those who care, I'm re-watching Season 2.)

2. 8.5 (9.5) months pregnant: I'm about two and a half weeks away from the due date. The Gadlet is head down, butt side right, kicking left. Everything looks good to go. It weighs about 6 lbs now and the doctor said "it can come any day." (Gulp!)

As for me, I can't see my toes, bend over, put on socks, and sit down or get up without emitting an involuntary "Oof." My ankles are starting to swell, the acid reflux is taking over, I have to pee every 20 seconds, and the Gadlet has really developed some lower body strength- when it kicks it feels like it's attempting to forge a new exit through my side. All told, I'm beginning to feel like there is just one too many humans hanging out in this body.

The only saving grace is that for a very pregnant person, I think I look pretty darn good.

3. Kitchen: Last Saturday, Spousal Unit and a friend or two took the sledgehammers to the walls and sink of our kitchen. Here's the result:

I spent the previous week assembling a pseudo kitchen in our dining room to make up for the destruction.

One of our houseguests asked how we were going to cook in the next few weeks and I optimistically and with great cheer said "Crock Pot, Foreman Grill, Rice Cooker, Microwave!" At this Spousal Unit looked at her and said, "Um, yeah, Translation: Carry-Out Thai, Pizza, Chinese, Calzones, Mexican."

So far, Spousal Unit has been right, I must confess. Not having a kitchen has been rather interesting, particularly this weekend when Spousal Unit's parents and sister came to visit and our poor single bathroom had to do double duty as a bathroom for five adults (one of whom has to pee every 20 seconds) AND as a kitchen water source. Over the weekend, we gave up and just washed the dishes in the back yard with the hose. It was kind of like camping, only without any of the vacation time or natural beauty that comes with roughing it. Since then we've been washing things at the bathroom sink, which is a fun juggling act because the sink is a tiny corner unit with no countertop space.

Our carpenter was supposed to get in to start work on things this week, but he was really sick over the weekend and so we're pushed back a week. Does this make me anxious beyond all things? Um, yes. Will the kitchen be done before I give birth? I'm having serious doubts. Please send "late baby" vibes to the Gadlet. I'm hoping that like most first-timers, it will want to stay in there as long as possible. So, despite my increasing discomfort, I'm figuring that it is easier to take care of my distended belly, aching back, and acid-reflux without a kitchen than it will be to take care of a new infant without a kitchen.

4. Houseguests: They all wanted to come and see the belly before it was gone -- which inspired a new trick that the Gadlet and I perform. When it gets the hic-ups (at least twice a day), and we have an audience, we re-enact that scene from Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is stomping in, but the people on the tour couldn’t see it yet, they only knew something was up because they could see the ripples in the water in the glass on the dashboard. The part of the T-Rex in this little drama is played by the Gadlet, while I perform the role of the car dashboard and hold on to the water glass. Gadlet hics and the water shakes. It's a big crowd pleaser.

The nice thing about houseguests when you're extremely pregnant is that everybody pitches in in a huge way to help with all the stuff you're working on. My Mom got the ball rolling on Gadlet clothing. My Dad and Spousal Unit put together all of the Ikea cabinets (not a simple task, incidentally. It was like a giant tinker-toy set with very specific pictorial non-English instructions.) So, now those are ready for installation, as soon as the other kitchen stuff falls in line. Then, an old grad-school friend came and she helped me clean out the fridge and get the new "kitchen" ready. The day after she left, Spousal Unit's folks breezed through for a day. They were only here for 24 hours, but we had a lovely time hanging out at a local natural park. They all took a hike. I sat on my ass in the sun and read (well, dozed, really.) But, needless to say, not much of my own work got done in that 10-day stretch when there was someone here every day.

5. Which leads me to... Chapters, Article. Not really up to dealing with those yet. Later in the week, perhaps. I'd like to be able to at least sit up and maybe even breathe through my nose before I tackle those things. Today, I'll do some mental work on my expectations about those things and try to make a realistic assessment of what I'm really capable of doing right now. All while watching Buffy, of course. Nothing like some teenage ass-kicking to make a sick, pregnant woman feel better about her own work.

6. Students: I need some advice here. I'm exhausted, I feel awful, I'm about to have a baby, and I'm on leave for the semester. Do I have to write letters of recommendation now? I don't really want to -- I want to check out completely from the job. I want to focus on me. Plus, I don't have letterhead or anything like that at home. I'd have to email the letters to the department assistant and have her print and sign them for me. Not all that difficult a task, really, but enough of a pain to make me balk. I know that I do have responsibilities to students that don't go away just because I've got this huge thing going on for me. But, I gotta say, my brain is SO not in that space. I don't know if I could write a good letter right now. But, I do feel like I owe them. So, opinions? Thoughts? Advice?

Well, that's it for now, folks. For me, it's back to nose-blowing, coughing, sneezing, peeing, dozing, and Buffy.

13

2007-08-06T16:02:00.000-04:00

Thirteen years ago today Spousal Unit and I had an amazing party filled up with people that we love. I wore a yummy white dress that floated out behind me like a cloud and Spousal Unit donned a dashing and dapper tuxedo. Our friends and family sang and read poetry and played cello and piano. In front of our community of folk we promised to love each other and take care of each other and fight and cry and make up and work on our relationship for the rest of our lives. The wildflowers in Ball jars splashed vivid color on the dinner tables, and when the music came on everybody, I mean everybody, danced. It was the perfect day. Even the ant that crawled down the front of my dress in the middle of the ceremony and had to be plucked out by the minister made the day perfect because every wedding needs a good funny disaster story.

Happy Thirteen, Spousal Unit. You are the best decision I ever made.

Monday Messing Around

2007-08-06T15:54:00.000-04:00

Well, I don't know about the worrying part of this whole thing -- I'm a worrier. No doubt about it. But, the fact that my life is about to change profoundly does seem to be pretty true!

You Are The Fool

You are a fascinating person who is way beyond the concerns of this world.
Young at heart, you are blissfully unaware of any dangers ahead.
You are a true wanderer - it has be difficult finding your place in this world.
Full of confidence, you are likely to take a leap of faith.

Your fortune:

You are about to embark on a new phase in your life.
This may mean changing locations, jobs, friends, or love status.
You are open about what the future will bring, and free of worry.
You have made your peace with fate, and you're ready to start down your new path.

What Tarot Card Are You?

Knowing Each Other

2007-08-03T09:52:00.001-04:00

Being pregnant is a very strange and alienating experience that mostly involves being tricked by one's own body. Take for example, the nausea and puking. Your body doesn't usually do this on its own unless something is very, very wrong. Wrong as in I just ate a plate full of 10-day old fish kind of wrong. Or wrong like perhaps those last shots of tequila I did last night were 5 or 6 too many. But when you're pregnant and puking your guts out, nothing is wrong. It's all good. See? Trickery. Likewise when things move around inside of you without your active engagement, that isn't usually a good sign either. Again, I reference the post-I just ate a plate full of 10 day old fish sensation. It isn't usually a good sign when the parts move around enough in there that you notice them, it's a feeling that is usually a pre-curser to something pretty bad, or at least deeply unpleasant. But when you're pregnant and your whole belly distends, distorts, jumps to one side, and shakes so hard it makes your whole body move, as well as shifting the chair that you're sitting in -- these are all good things. Oh, and don't even get me started on labor. The worst pain of your life? Good, not bad. Your innards turning themselves inside out? Very, very good, not actually the horror movie of wrongness you might imagine that that would be. Yep. Base trickery.

Right now, I'm struggling with trying to be amused by the yogic gymnastics the Gadlet is perpetually engaging in. I find all of this internal movement disconcerting at best, and deeply uncomfortable and weird at worst. Don't get me wrong, it is far, far better than the alternative. (Go ahead Gadlet, kick and wiggle away!) And I must confess that it is kind of fun to play Whack-a-Mole with the kid's foot when it decides to try to push its way out sideways and I push back until it pops up in another location. But, despite all of the flowery bullshit I've read in the pregnancy books and blogs and websites, I don't really love the feeling of having another human being living inside of me. Miracle, shmiracle. I mean, how many people can one sack of bones and flesh and juices reasonably contain? Although the answer is apparently, quite a few, in my personal experience, one is plenty. These days, what with the two of us in here, I'm starting to feel claustrophobic in my own skin.

Between the claustrophobia and the feeling of being duped by my physical self, I'm feeling more than a little alienated from myself, my body, and the baby. This makes me worry that I'm on the fast track to the Terrible Mother Hall of Fame. (Since I've already made the Slow Dissertator Hall of Fame, I'd like to stay out of this other one. It looks pretty greedy if you get inducted to more than one Hall of Fame in any single lifetime.) But seriously, I've been a little worried that this feeling of alienation isn't really healthy for me as a pending mother or healthy for the baby as I am coming into the home stretch of the pregnancy. Shouldn't I feel connected to the baby? Shouldn't I love it more than anything? Shouldn't I have a sense that it is the most precious thing ever? I don't know if I do, really, and that has been bothering me more than a little. Plus, shouldn't I find it adorable and sweet when it kicks my bladder and tricks me into thinking I have to pee when I don't really, instead of merely being annoyed? Shouldn't I find its tiny hiccups charming instead of irritating?

And then I've been wondering, if maybe I am not completely in love with this thing yet because I am still trying to hold on to a past self that is no more -- the young, carefree person with responsibility only to herself. (Oh, and occasionally her husband...) New Kid on the Hallway has a really interesting post up right now about labels and life stages that started me thinking about this. Is it just that I'm resisting adding the label "mother" to my list of self-identifiers? (Which are, in no particular order: student, professor, wife, lover, friend, daughter, geek, fan, blogger, historian, scholar, dreamer, foodie.) Or is it that I'm too selfish to do this properly because I have some resentment about the difficulty of this physical and emotional colonization process that has occurred? And then I wonder, if this alone isn't enough to put me in the Bad Mother Hall of Fame because I don't want to give up some things that are really important to me in order to have this baby. (like my own space or my own sense of myself.)

Add to all of this the terrible degree of uncertainty that goes along with pregnancy and it is enough to make this particular control-freak freaked. I mean everything is completely unknown. How will our lives change? Will I ever read a book again? Will I be able to work and think after I have the baby? Not to mention the complete unknown of this other person that is about to move in with us. That is pretty scary too, because, I mean, don't you very carefully screen your roommates? We're just letting this person in without even a pre-interview. So, it makes me wonder about even the very simple things like: will the kid have hair or be bald? Will it have its father's nose and curly hair and athletic grace and inner calm? Will it get its mother's eyes and prehensile toes and love of chocolate and sense of aesthetics? Or how about this horrible one, will it be ugly? (Yes, I'm awful enough to worry about this.) Ah, hell, I don't even know if it is a boy or a girl. I don't know any of these things. And I do not like not knowing.

Today, I don't really have answers to these questions nor do I have any better sense of whether the baby loves chocolate, but yesterday a small little thing pushed me down the path in the right direction. I'm still no candidate for the Pregnancy Hall of Fame (which this completely fucking crazy lady has to be in for having spent a grand total of almost 10.5 years of her life pregnant. Totally insane. Not sure I really want to be inducted into that one.) But, maybe I'm a little closer to feeling connected to the colonizing, barf-inducing, hiccuping, wiggling critter that lives inside of me.

Here is the small good thing: yesterday at the end of my massage with my amazing massage therapist, the baby was kicking and she put her hand on my belly to feel it (with permission) and, as usual, the kid quieted down. It is very shy sometimes and won't kick on demand, dammit. (What chance is it going to have to make its old folks rich when it becomes a child star if it doesn't overcome this performance anxiety?) Anyway, I told her that it kicks up a storm when I put my hand on my belly, but that if other people do it, the baby tends to clam up. Her whole face lit up and she said, "You know each other!" I agreed that, yes, it probably knows me and can tell me from others. But, I hadn't thought much about the reciprocity involved.

We know each other.

That idea haunted me for the rest of the day. The baby knows me. It knows who I am. It recognizes my touch from all others, even if it is the Whack-a-Mole poke. And I do actually know it. I have been living with it for 35 weeks. The things that have been happening to my body that alienate me are also the things that make me aware of its presence, and are the things that help me to know it. We know each other, this internal alien and I. I know it likes to keep its butt on the right side of my body and kick on the left. I know it gets hyped up when I have a mocha or some other deliciously sugary consumable. (Hm... maybe it does like chocolate!) I know that it gets the hiccups more than once a day. I know that it gets really active in the early evenings and early mornings. I don't know if it will be ugly or have Spousal Unit's curly hair, or be a boy or a girl, but maybe, just maybe, the fact that we know each other will help me to feel less colonized, tricked, claustrophobic, and uncertain.
_____________

Dissertation Update:

About 10 more pages of revision to go on this chapter -- I figure it is one day's worth of revising and one day's worth of tidying and re-reading and then I can send it off to the advisor. I trucked along for a bit yesterday and the day before and got a fair amount done. Today, I'm going to head off to somewhere air-conditioned and try to finish up that last 10 pages of revising. Wish me luck!

Onesies, and Footies, and Booties, Oh My!

2007-07-30T15:25:00.000-04:00

My mom has been here this weekend for a visit -- mostly to look at the belly and marvel, but also to help me get shit ready for the Gadlet. Which has been great, but at the same time completely terrifying.

When she got here she was a LITTLE concerned because as far as she could tell there was nothing in our house that indicated that a baby would be arriving in 6 weeks. (Gasp!!!) That was, in a big part, deliberate, I think. After some previous reproductive disappointments I really didn't believe in this baby (even as I was hunched over the toilet at 2 am because of it) until pretty recently. I'm not really superstitious, but I think there was a part of me that didn't want to buy baby things because I was afraid to have them in the house in case things didn't turn out ok. There is still a big part of me that is in that mode -- I guess I worry too much about the bad that could happen and I thought somehow that if there weren't any baby things out in plain view that if I lost the baby after birth then I wouldn't be as sad. Which is, of course, boneheaded stupid. Losing the Gadlet would totally suck beyond all things no matter how many sweet little hats are sitting on a shelf waiting for a baby that would never arrive. I know this intellectually, but I’m still working on it emotionally.

The other problem is that in order to have room for the baby, I kinda have to give up my study. MY room. Nevermind the fact that I don't work at home and have never really have been able to work at home. And nevermind the fact that my study is mostly a repository for junk and papers and stuff I don't know what to do with and multiple paper copies of my dissertation and magazines and useless things that I might someday find a need for. Nevermind that my desk is usually so completely covered with paper that even if I wanted to work in there I probably couldn't because it would require days of excavation to find the surface. It is my room. Mine. It is the place where I store the things that make me me -- my work, my research, my artwork, my art supplies, my junk from high school and college, my childhood books, the paper dolls I made from scratch for myself in 6th grade because I wanted to outfit them in a whole 80's genre wardrobe (imagine little paper shirts with Esprit written across the chest and tiny little docksiders), the cassette tapes that Spousal Unit made me when we were teenagers and falling in love, I could go on, but you get the picture, right? It is the repository of all things MINE, and MINE alone. In almost all of our houses, I've had my own space. It has been important to me to maintain my own space -- probably as a way to hold onto myself while in a relationship. Not that I am likely to lose myself, I'm pretty big and so hard to misplace after all, but I think it can be a danger when you're with someone for 18 years that you become only the self-in-relationship and not also the autonomous self. As a feminist, as well as someone consciously working on a healthy relationship, I've always thought it was vital to have an autonomous self. My room was a physical manifestation of my identity as a separate person from Spousal Unit. It was my space in which to be my autonomous self.

In this house, because we had 3 bedrooms instead of 2, Spousal Unit got a study too. It required the most remodeling and for two years sat completely gutted down to the rafters and ancient balloon construction walls before we put it all back together. SU and a friend built a whole-wall built-in cherry bookcase lit with recessed lights. The room is absolutely beautiful and he is so happy to have some space that is his own. Because it is on the main level, though, it wouldn't be a good candidate for a baby room. My room was always slated to be the baby room in the Big Life Plan, so I kinda knew it was temporary, anyway. But knowing and KNOWING are two different things. And I'm having trouble letting go. ESPECIALLY because losing my autonomous self into the identity and role of Parent is one of my huge fears about this whole process.

The most obvious way this has manifested was that for the past few months anything that we accumulated for the Gadlet, mostly from friends, along some small new purchases, has gotten chucked into the closet of my room into two big storage buckets. Out of sight, out of mind. Right? Plus, nicely consolidated and clutter-free. These buckets have been great, but their time has come. Ruthlessly, with the single-mindedness of an over-protective grandparent determined to ensure that her future genetic material is properly equipped, Mom has disgorged everything from the buckets onto the dining room table, floor, hallway, SU's study, my study/Gadlet room, the living room... Mostly, she was quite relieved to discover that between those blue buckets and the huge packing box excavated from the basement that we've had since some friends passed it on three or four years ago, we have just about damn near anything you could need for a baby. Me? I am completely overwhelmed and freaked out.

The good news is that we've arrived at a somewhat workable compromise on the space front. We have divided the room formerly known as MINE in half with a bookcase. The front half of the room will be Gadlet space -- crib, dresser/changing table, rocking chair. The back half remains my study -- desk, files. That way when the little one is little, we can hang out in there together. It is a bit of a tight squeeze, but how big is a baby, anyway? Plus, SU has allotted me some bookcase space and a small desk in the corner of his office. So, I kinda get two work spaces instead of just one -- lucky me! Likewise, we’re dividing the closet in half so that the back half can contain the junk that constitutes my stuff and the front can have shelves for baby stuff. A very solomonic solution.

I guess the upside to all of this is that sooner rather than later I'll have stuff ready for a new baby. The downside is that sooner rather than later I have to make room in my study, my space, and I guess, in my sense of myself, for a new baby.

______________________________________________

Dissertation Update:

Needless to say, I haven’t done much in the last few days. Consequently, I had a nightmare last night that my advisor was telling me how disappointed he was in me. Subtle, subconscious. Truly subtle. Disappointed in myself, huh? Anyway, I’ve got about 20 more pages to revise/tidy up in this chapter – plus that one comment to grapple with still (my strategy for now had been to ignore it). I need to finish it in the next few days so that I can move on to the next chapter and article that has to come out of that chapter. So, watch this space for further updates.

Found Funnies

2007-07-25T10:16:00.000-04:00

I am in my office today for the last time (before the Gadlet makes its grand entrance) cleaning things out and organizing so that another faculty member can use the space while I'm gone, and I found these great sentences from student papers that I had recorded to share. Something to chuckle over as you all contemplate going back to teaching in the fall...

"Throughout the course of the semester, we have discovered themes in our studies of the history of America."
Yes, indeed.

"The Articles of Confederation is known as the first American government but it was recognized for having little authority."

"Many servants were treated poorly, some were even beat up and denied proper nutrients."
Yes, the beatings were bad but when they took away my Flintstone chewables things got really grim.

"Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the foremost advocates of the women's suffrage movement. Her veracity in the pursuit of women's rights was unparalled"
True, true.

"Conflict, while horrific and grotesque, often was thought of as a progressive action and the source of incredulous change."
Who could believe it?

"If anything can stop the progress of freedom it is having slavery."

"The laceration of innocent people who had no way to defend themselves is just despicable."

"Women were forced to work in the man house and were forced to abide by his painful orders."

"Some slaves would die on the way over. After they got off the ship they would be brought to makret where they would be inspected by future masters."
My personal favorite -- the return of the zombie slaves.

Some Kind of Help

2007-07-24T13:54:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I finished revising the section of the chapter that I have been working on all summer. (well, "working" on "all" "summer"...) I was totally psyched because I thought that pretty much took care of what I had to do for this chapter. And then this morning I picked up the commented/edited version returned by the advisor and realized that I'm only halfway through. Discouraging. Especially because I wanted to finish it before my Mom arrives for a visit on Friday since I suspect that we won't be spending much time working on the diss., but rather gathering crap for the Gadlet. Shopping, and playing with baby clothes and toys sounds like much more fun for a grandmother-to-be than sitting in the coffee shop watching me type, even if it is on an Apple. (FYI - if you ever get pregnant, you'll find that everyone you have ever met will appear on your doorstep wanting to look at you and rub your belly. I don't really find it all that exciting, just inconvenient and increasingly uncomfortable, but apparently the belly exerts some strange power over my fellow humans. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the company, but I'm just finding it amusing that everyone wants to have a peek at the Internal Gadlet when I suspect the External Gadlet will be much, much more interesting, if slightly less easy to tote around.)

Anyway, so I was a little discouraged by the amount of stuff I have left to do on this chapter. But, like a good little Stewgad, I started plugging away at it anyway while I sat in the waiting room of the tire store as they patched up our flat tire instead of reading the temptingly trashy magazines they had sitting there. (Aren’t I virtuous?) Mostly, the advisor has a concern that the passive voice is overly used in the chapter, and the second half certainly has this as a problem. :) (Who, me? Deflect authorial responsibility by passivising my language?) Anyway, that is a pretty easy fix. I just need to take agency and assert that actors are doing things. That, I can do.

So, I'm moving along, removing passivity, tidying up stuff, tightening things, and then I come across a supposedly harmless marginal question that pretty much undermines my confidence in the whole chapter and in myself and my whole dissertation.

Here's the situation: I'm trying to make the case that something happened in the past for which I have no direct and explicit evidence. None of my historical actors EVER come out and say "Hey, we're doing this thing." However, they do do it (this fact is very well-documented), and there are many, many indicators that they know why they are doing it and that they are perfectly aware of the consequences of doing it. The whole chapter is, essentially, building up this circumstantial evidence into a strong case for the why they did it and their awareness of the consequences involved. Given this, what on earth do I do with the fact that on p. 26 of a 50-something page chapter, the advisor wrote "the goal here would be to show [these actors] saying Aha! We need to [do this thing]."

Yeah. No shit. That WOULD be the goal. I spent a year researching private papers at the Library of Congress looking for this precise thing. I spent more years than I care to recount sorting through microfilmed letters, attempting to read the handwriting of insane, blind, ancient historical figures who apparently wrote their letters in heiroglyphics with their feet, looking for this thing. I've read acres and acres of public political documents looking for this thing. I simply did not find it. Period. And, the thing that pisses me off, is that he knows good and well I did not find this kind of Aha! statement. He knows it. And he knows that what I do have -- the preponderance of evidence for the action --is actually pretty effective and persuasive. In fact, he says so in his ultimate comments on this chapter.

So, what do I do with this marginal comment? Do I attempt to pursue it? Do I throw in a footnote detailing the years of work I undertook only to NOT find something, which then emphasizes the weakness of my case rather than focusing on the positive strengths of what I do have (a technique he tacitly advocated three pages later when he cut a section where I was hemming and hawing about the lack of some other info and told me to focus on what I do have) or do I just ignore this particular comment and continue with my de-passification project and move on, trying to plow through as much material as I can before Friday?

All in all, it reminds me of that great song on Free to Be, You and Me derived from a Shel Silverstein poem whose punchline is: "some kind of help is the kind of help that helping's all about. And some kind of help is the kind of help ... we all can do without."

I strongly suspect that that comment was the Kind of Help I Could Do Without.

Monday Morning Meme #2

2007-07-23T13:35:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking for a while that I wanted to grouse about a few, stupid random things that annoy me in the world, and what better time to do it than on a Monday Morning when just about everything annoys me?

So, here goes -- the 5 Random Stupid Annoying Things Meme (Feel free to adopt/adapt for your own Monday Grousing!)

1. Those automatic chemical smell sprayers installed on the wall in public restrooms. I can't tell you how much I hate those things. I feel like I'm getting irradiated, napalmed, and mustard gassed all in one. There is absolutely no way inhaling all of those chemicals is good for you, I don’t care how many rabbits and mice they saturated with that shit before they started selling it to public venues. Plus, so many places install those industrial sized fucking things in small restrooms so that there is absolutely no air in there but the insanely faux-tropical-chemical one. Clearly, the giant stadium sized smell sprayers are not meant for a single stall room that is 3'x4'. Honestly, I'd rather smell the poop than feel like every time I go into one of those damned bathrooms I'm going to come out with Multiple Chemical Sensitivity to top of my pre-existing asthma. (Bit of a back story: quite a few years ago I had an office in a very old state-owned building where I was doing research. About halfway through my tenure there, they installed one of those things in the tiny freaking bathroom on my floor. After a couple of weeks of torture, I figured out how to turn it off, which I did. It usually took them about 3 weeks to figure out that it was off and switch it back on again. In the meantime, did the bathroom smell awful? Heck no. That's what modern, indoor plumbing is for, for Pete's sake.) Anyway, those Evil Chemical Bombers are absolutely the single most important thing that pisses me off these days.

2. Continuing on the bathroom theme (can you tell I've been hanging out in public cafes lately?) People (women, obviously) who pee all over the toilet seat and then just walk away. If everybody sat their asses down on the freaking toilet seat, no one would sit in pee. That's right, folks, it would be MORE hygienic if we all sat down. Now, granted, there is the gross gas-station exception where no one in their right mind would touch their skin to those things, but come on, the small local cafe where we all know each other and see each other day after day? Sit the fuck down or clean up after yourselves, ladies. I've often thought of starting a sticker/graffiti campaign in women's restrooms with the slogan: "If everybody sat, nobody would sit in pee," but I think it is probably a hopeless cause.

3. Again, with the bathroom (God, what is with me? It's like I'm obsessed. It’s probably egged on by the fact that the Gadlet has taken up residence on my bladder so I'm visiting bathrooms a lot more frequently these days.) I absolutely hate faucets that are so short that you wind up bashing your knuckles on the back of the sink. I don't understand this one at all. Sinks are like, what, 1.5'x1.5', right? Ample room for washing, but with those short faucets, you only use the back 1/4 inch of the sink, and it is hard to feel like you're getting your hands clean when you're rubbing them all over the back of the sink. Granted, this is a minor annoyance, but it impacts MY quality of life when places are too cheap to spring for a faucet that is size-appropriate for their sinks.

4. Finally, something that pisses me off that doesn't involve a public restroom – but closely resembles #1: excessive perfume. Even before I got pregnant, I had a bionic sense of smell. Since then, it is off the charts insane. So much so that it feels like an intrusive violation when someone else’s perfume invades my olfactory space, especially at restaurants where I’m trying to eat. Here’s a message for you, old ladies. Smelling like the whole perfume counter at Macy’s does not change the fact that you are old. Suck it up. It happens to all of us, and I’m sure we none of us smell good when we get to that stage. Attempting to disguise your age with a whole bottle of perfume is a futile, hopeless task and it makes me hate you for trying. (Bit of history here: My great-grandmother used to smoke like a chimney, but she was convinced that nobody knew it. At all family gatherings she’d sneak into the bathroom, have a smoke, and then spray her cheap old-lady perfume to cover it up. In retrospect this was kind-of a charming and amusing exercise in self-delusion, probably compounded in my memory by the fact that she maintained a vivid red 4-foot-high bouffant hairdo a la Marge Simpson until the day she kicked it at 90-something, but in general, old lady perfume is just not a good idea.)

5. This is kind of stupid and I suspect no one else can relate, but I hate the little plastic doohickeys on our windows that pop out to keep the window from being opened all the way so that we can leave our windows open but burglars can’t get in when we aren’t at home. Those things always pop out when I don’t notice and don’t expect them, so when I open the window it slams against it, jars my arms, and scares me silly. Which then makes me shriek with rage. Every time. Spousal Unit thinks I’m insane when this occurs. But, since the crime rate here is not worth mentioning and we never use these things for their original purpose, they are never actively opened by either of us. Therefore, they engage themselves of their own free will specifically and deliberately just to freak me out and piss me off.

Yes, there you have it -- the completely trivial absolutely selfish and completely ridiculous things that piss me off. And now I don't feel any less grumpy for articulating them. That completely failed. OK, so here are the Top 5 Stupid Things that Make Me Happy For No Good Reason, maybe this will help improve the mood.

1. Public establishments that have flowers growing on the outside. I love it when a place has a sense of aesthetics and when they care as much about the outside as they do the inside. There’s a really posh restaurant in town here that lets their yard go to weeds – while the inside is exquisitely decorated and you pay 40$ for entrees. I don’t get this. Even the humblest greasy-spoon diner looks great with flowers outside of it. And, if I’m paying that much to eat, I shouldn’t be itching to get down on my hands and knees in my $200 dress and heels in order to weed their landscaping on my way in. (Oh, oops that turned into a grouse. What I REALLY meant was I love the flowers outside most other places!)

2. Sidewalk chalk. Direct evidence that kids are still kids, at least at some times in some places. Or of someone else’s advertising initiative on a budget. Either one, I like it.

3. Target. Yep. I love the Target. So much stuff! So affordable! So stylish! So overwhelming! While I succumb to visual overload usually within 10 minutes of arriving, I still love the Target. I always feel like there are so many possibilities, it’s the magic of consumerism. If ONLY I bought that handbag or shiny necklace or Rubbermaid container or DVD then my life would dramatically improve: i.e. my dissertation would complete itself, my childbirth would be simple, easy, painless, and short, and Spousal Unit would start picking his clothes up off of the bathroom floor. Yes, if only I had the right product, then all would be well.

4. Public affection. So many people are mean to each other in public I just love it when people are loving on each other. It is just nice when there’s so much love it can’t be contained. It always makes me smile, even when it is a bit gross.

5. And, since I spent so much energy grousing about smells – here are the great ones that make me happy. The smell of: coffee, baking things, freshly dug dirt, sidewalks after a rain, air conditioning in the car, lakes, oceans, coca-cola, laundry (when I don’t forget and leave it to rot in the machine). All clichéd, yes, but happy-making nonetheless.

____________________

Memes aside, I’ve been doing good work this morning at the café. For lunch, I walked to my new favorite Japanese restaurant and had a bento box. It was delish (although I’m still stumped about how to cut meat with chopsticks when the bite is too big.) Now, I’ve gone to the second café of the day to set up shop for the afternoon. At home, there’s too much temptation to couch and read and nap. (Although I’m NOT reading HP7 – Spousal Unit is currently cruising through it. He pretty much did nothing else all day. I’m saving it for the week before my due date – when I’ll be too pregnant to move and will be in most need of distraction. So, no spoilers please.) Back to the chapter!

The Last "Easy" Car Trip

2007-07-18T10:02:00.000-04:00

So, I'm hanging around on Sunday lazing my way through this new knitting project

that I took up because decided I needed to actually MAKE something for this baby in order to feel more connected and welcoming towards the little parasite, (And, no, I'm not knitting a hammock. It's a blanket, silly, and it has totally transformed my knitting life. It is SO easy. I'm completely in love with this Log Cabin style of knitting now. Whether or not it will make me completely in love with the Gadlet is yet to be seen) when Spousal Unit calls me from work (he's been on a 2-week 24 hour a day science experiment involving lots of fancy equipment) and asks if I want to take an 8 hour road trip (round trip) to help return the priceless equipment he's been using with his scientific equipment. (How's that for vague and oddly naughty?) It turns out, 2 people at least have to be with the stuff at all times, and one of the two people who brought it couldn't return with it. So, it needed a second babysitter to make it home safely. Four hours in a car. Each way. I can hardly go 20 minutes without needing to pee. I'm grumbling about this a bit and balking about taking such a long trip so late in the pregnancy when he drops the magic words: "We could go to Ikea and buy our new kitchen."

Ikea. Ah, Ikea. The home of all things Swedish and disassembled. That paradise of practical consumerism, that mecca of MDF... I could go on, but for your sakes, I won't. Needless to say, I was sold. We live far enough into the sticks that it takes a bit of a production to go to any Ikea (closest is 4 hours in any direction). So, we booked a UHaul, returned the equipment, hung out with some friends for the night, and headed out for Ikea the next day.

Little bit of remodeling background: Our kitchen is great in many ways. But, it was clearly built by somebody's grandfather in the 1940s. The cabinets are this strange plywood homemade configuration of non-standardness that we really like. When we bought the house they were painted grey and white -- like the previous owner was trying to make them look like a "modern" kitchen. We said screw that and painted them a vivid electric blue. I love them. Here's a photo.

But, the downside is that there is only about 2 feet of useable countertop space in the whole place. As you can see on the left, we had to put our dish drainer on some stools because we ran out of counter space. Storage is also a bit of an issue. Plus, there's no dishwasher. Now, I know, dishwashers are a luxury, not necessary, wasteful yadda yadda yadda, but we can barely keep up with the dishes as it is and we don't have a screaming infant to contend with. Add to all of this the fact that our sink, circa 1920, is only 6" deep with severely decaying porcelain. Time to replace.

In all our wisdom, we decided that right now would be the perfect time to remodel the kitchen, because, you know, we don't have anything else going on so we might as well tear our a couple of walls, replace a few windows, move a radiator, and install some cabinets.

Toward that end, we spent most of the day yesterday at the Ikea figuring out which cabinets to buy. Now, first of all, let me say, don't panic. We are totally keeping almost all of the blue cabinets that you can see in this photo. We're just adding some others to the back wall you can't see and to the wall with the sink. We're gaining a pull-out pantry, cabinet above the fridge, countertops, so many glorious countertops, and much, much more storage space. We went with light birch cabinets, a few stainless units thrown in for good measure, and wood countertops. Thank goodness for Shahira, the wonderful woman who helped us get everything we need. Thank goodness also for Spousal Unit who loaded up the Uhaul in the 90-degree heat while I sat on the cart and watched. (I actually refrained from teling him how to load the truck, which I thought was pretty big of me.)

The funny thing is that I knew Ikea stuff came disassembled, but the cabinetry? REALLY disassembled. There were like 50 million boxes, not to mention the bags of little thingeys and dohickeys. Apparently, every single little piece of everything has to be put together. And, this is so complicated that they sent us home with a bulging folder full of instructions and a CD about how to build your Nexus Numerar Perfekt Rationaal Ektorp cabinetry. So, that will be a fun project to undertake in the next 6 (?) weeks while I dissertate and gestate.

By the time we were done with the Ikea it was about 4:00, and we started driving. Me in our car, SU in the Uhaul. An hour into the trip, we stopped and got some food at a service plaza, and happily sat in the air conditioning of the car together listening to NPR. We were almost home when we stopped again at the Krispy Kreme (hey, I'm pregnant. I can have a doughnut occasionally if I want to...) and I realized that the key I had in my hand to the car was Spousal Unit's, not mine and most definitively not the set of keys I had started the trip with. Then I had a horrible realization...I knew where those keys were -- 200 miles away at the service plaza. In order to keep my keys from falling out of my pockets as I went to the bathroom (because, dammit, I'm only wearing overalls these days -- I look like Humpty Dumpty, but they don't compress my belly), I hung them on the hook on the back of the bathroom stall door. Turns out, SU had gotten into the car and started it with his keys, so I didn't notice that I left my keys in the bathroom. Nor did I notice this when I started to drive. Grr. Pregnancy brain sure is fun! Fortunately, I called this morning and they had been found and will be mailed to me shortly, but still, dumb, dumb, dumb.

When we got home, I realized, though, that as tough as this trip was, and as tired as I was at the end of it all, it was probably the last easy car trip we'll have for years and years. Hopefully on the next one, I won't leave the Gadlet strapped into the seat that hangs from the back of the bathroom stall door at some random service plaza.

Reason # 257 For Why You Should Not Spend a Decade Writing Your Dissertation

2007-07-12T14:02:00.000-04:00

I just spent a whole hour trying to track down some information for the chapter that I'm working on only to get so frustrated that on a whim I searched for a keyword of what I was looking for within the ACTUAL chapter I'm writing. And, guess what? I already have two whole pages carefully detailing the exact information that I was looking for.

The moral of this story? Don't take too long writing your dissertation, because you'll completely forget what you have, what you need, and even what you have already written.

{FYI, I did actually read this chapter carefully only a couple of weeks ago, but apparently without actually NEEDING this information it didn't stick. Sigh.)

More General Dissertation Update:

I am almost done with the section that has been plaguing me for quite a while. This is good. I've spent three great working days this week (6+ hours) on the dissertation. So, I'm making progress. Always good.

Right now, I'm having a bit of a chicken-and-egg conundrum, but I think with this "new" information, I might be able to resolve it this afternoon.
-------------------------

For those who care, the Pregnancy Update:

Yesterday I felt kinda shitty, and so let myself just lay around. Bad, bad, bad. But, the Gadlet spent the whole day working out its aggressions on my innards (I imagine the Gadlet thinking: "I'm cramped! KICK I'm Hiccuping! KICK I'm covered in a slick fatty substance as well as body hair! KICK), so it got enough exercise for the both of us.

Speaking of exercise, today I'm going to my first prenatal yoga class. It turns out that this is about as close as I can get in this insane town to a childbirth preparation class. They just aren't offered, apparently. The one person I knew did teach them replied to my email that she isn't offering another class until the fall. She gave me someone else's number, but when I called it it was no longer the person I thought it was. Grr. What, no babies are born in the summer?? Or summer mamas just don't need to be prepared?? Not that I was all that jonesed about watching gory videos of other people's births and lying around on the floor of some room huffing and puffing for practice or anything, but I'm a good little academic, and I thought that in addition to the dozens of books I'm reading on this subject that a Class taught by an Expert would be important. Well, instead, I guess I'll learn downward facing baby and yogic breathing. It'll do, I suppose. And, as a women's historian, I remind myself that women have given birth long before Dr. Bradley or Mr. Lamaze came up with their "methods." And, hell, if they can do it, so can I.

In the last 2 days the baby has gone from a minorly inconvenient bump in my front to a heavy, uncomfortable bulk that needs active work on the part of my beleaguered and overworked stomach muscles to move about. Lying down is what feels best. But, that doesn't result in getting much of ANYTHING done. And, I've finally lost my toes. Yep. I look down, all I can see is belly. No toes in sight. Spousal Unit assures me that they are down there still, and I'm taking his word for it. I sure am glad that I'm doing this in the summer so that I don't much have to bend over to put on shoes and socks. Between my Crocs and my Birks, I'm all good.

Well, back to figuring out what I have already written about what I was searching for!!

Monday Morning Meme

2007-07-09T11:55:00.000-04:00

I saw this over at New Kid's blog and liked the idea of articulating things that bring wonderment or puzzlement to you, particularly on a Monday morning which is always a particularly puzzling and wonder-ful time of the week.

8 Things I Wonder About:

1. Where is all the trash going? I worry/wonder about this ALL of the time. What will happen to all of the trash? What happens when we have more trash than space? Why do we create such vast amounts of garbage? There's a great history of the notion of disposability, "Waste and Want" by Susan Strasser and how it is that American culture transformed itself from one that reused everything from rags to fat into one that throws everything away. I'm not so fanatical that I don't make trash myself, but damn, do I feel guilty every time I throw anything away as I watch the vignette in my head of how it goes from my house to the truck to the processing center to the landfill to the bottom of a pit to thousands of years later when maybe, just maybe, it might disintegrate into the earthy stuff that it should disintegrate into. But, only if it is very lucky. And non-toxic. Otherwise, it will just sit there. Forever. As Ani Difranco so wonderfully put it, "What a waste of thumbs that are opposable, to make machines that are disposable."

2. Bird migrations. What an amazing, wonderful thing that these tiny critters fly halfway around the world on those little wings, every damned year. Seriously, think about hummingbirds, for example. Some of those little suckers fly to Panama for the winter. From North America. I can't even walk down the block without moaning and groaning about how tired I am. The Arctic Tern migrates every year from the Arctic to the Antarctic. You can't go much farther than that. And, how do they know where to go? I get lost in my own neighborhood. Wonderful.

3. (Along the lines of #1) What are we going to do with the nuclear waste? I once saw an amazing talk by Patricia Nelson Limerick, a historian of the American West, about the proposed Yucca Mountain waste storage site in which she talked about the problem of developing signs and symbols to warn people thousands of years into the future to stay away from the site, given the high probability of profound cultural transformation that would take place in that time frame. I wonder about this from time to time. How do we create a symbol that has meaning (danger, for example) for people thousands and thousands of years in the future? And, why do we keep creating shit that won't decay for thousands and thousands of years into the future, but that would kill us if we came into contact with it before then?

(I stopped blogging just now to go downstairs to the kitchen of the Cafe and order my tofu-peanut wrap for lunch and on the wall they had an Einstein quote that spoke nicely to the question of wonderment (in its most positive sense): "There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as if everything is a miracle."

4. The infinity of the universe. I mean, that thing is enormous. So enormous it is beyond the imagination of anything that I can grasp. If I thought the trip from the Arctic to the Antarctic was huge, imagine the trip through the whole universe? The enormity of that is just mind-blowingly miraculous. I can't wrap my brain around it, or do anything except just wonder at it.

5. Why do people STILL kill each other over religion? I mean, I understand having a faith and believing passionately in something that is bigger than and more powerful than one's self, and generally, I think this can be a good thing. Especially when it inspires people to be kinder to each other. But, I just don't understand why it is that people need to impose their beliefs on others, and that that need so often devolves into violence, mayhem, chaos, and death and that people think that that violence and death is justified by the more powerful being that is believed in. I can't imagine any kind of God that would condone or approve of the killing of another person. Well, ok, maybe in self defense or if you were in a position to take out Hitler, but that isn't the same thing to me as killing someone because they have different beliefs about the infinite than you do. I just don't get this at all.

6. Why is a gallon of gas cheaper than a gallon of milk? (Until recently, that is.) Gas is non-renewable. Cows are. This just seems so stupid. I know the policy reasons and government subsidies etc. that are behind this pricing thing, but it just goes against basic common sense, as I suppose does much of the nation's economic policies. (See #1, #5). Go figure.

7. As a pregnant person, I just gotta wonder at the miracle that is procreation itself. I mean, these little tiny cells that make up parts of our bodies, hook up one night and then cook themselves into a whole other person. A complete human being. And that whole other person is made INSIDE the body of someone else. I mean, it seems so improbable! A little kissing here, some heavy petting there, leading to a little bit of sex, and then boom -- another human is the result. Wow. Crazy. Wonderful.

8. And, finally, on a more selfish note, I wonder why it is that I just can't seem to finish my dissertation. Fear? Boredom? Self-Doubt? Insecurity? Anger? Pain? Exhaustion? I'm sure there's some toxic cocktail in here that is a nice, ugly mix of all of these things. But, haven't I done enough naval-gazing about this? Haven't I identified all of the shit that is holding me back? So, why don't I just do it? I don't know. It's a mystery. Perhaps it isn't helped by the fact that I keep thinking about it as an enormous WHOLE instead of bird by bird, bit by bit, chunk of manageable work by chunk of manageable work.

And, on that happy note, I'm going to leave behind all of these things that make me wonder, encourage all of you to think today about what makes you wonder, and start in on a small, manageable chunk of my dissertation.

Near Miss and Gifts

2007-07-03T10:40:00.000-04:00

In a frenzy of virtue, yesterday I got up, left the house and went to the coffee shop for a smoothie and an extended period of dissertation work. It was going really, really well. I had a yummy very berry smoothie, and was actually trucking along with the writing when a terrible song came on the radio, so I thought I'd get out my headphones and listen to my own music instead. I leaned over to my backpack, pulled out my headphones, and knocked over my open bottle of water right into the keyboard of my PowerBook.

In a frenzy of action -- you've never seen a pregnant woman move so quickly -- I flipped the computer over so the water could drip out, unplugged it, and started drying it with my handkerchief. (Thanks to No Impact Man I've started carrying one around instead of using 3-4 disposables a day.) Then, I started looking around at my fellow coffeeshop folk, looking for advice about what to do next as I loudly shouted "Fuck!" The guy behind me suggested that I shut it down -- which I could still do -- and I even got to save my work. Then, I took out the battery and left it upside down for a while to let the water drain. A few hours later, I thought maybe the water was probably gone, and I was DYING to know whether it was ok. (especially since I hadn't backed up in, oh .... a WHILE.) It was fine. I couldn't believe it. The only thing that was off was that they space-key sounded a little squeaky. That has since gone away. SO, horay Apple! Horay quick thinking! Horay for water -- the least damaging substance you can dump on a laptop, apparently.

A couple of good things came of this near miss, though. First, I finally got the serial number of my exploding battery so that Apple can send me a new one (something I've procrastinated on for months). Second, I was so so terrified that I had lost all of the work I had done in the past few weeks (ahem, months?) that I wrote out by hand the next 2-3 pages of the chapter that I had been really struggling with. So, some good came of this dramatic and potentially terrifying incident.

Had the computer actually died, it would have been truly a tragedy because yesterday was my birthday. Wouldn't it have been awful to lose my computer on my birthday?

The funny thing about birthdays is that as you get older, there are lower and lower expectations on the present front. I mean, when you're a kid, you get lots of stuff for your birthday. As a grownup, usually I ask for a nice dinner with Spousal Unit. Since I knew he was crazy busy and because we had plans to go watch fireworks last night (our city is too small to do them on the 4th, so they have them for my birthday instead. Isn't that nice of them?), I knew I wasn't getting a nice birthday dinner so I figured there wasn't much coming my way. So, before the laptop/water incident, I bought myself 2 dissertation books, pre-ordered the Harry Potter (yes, I'm probably the last person on in North American to have not ordered her copy) and the second season of Angel. (I've got all of the others, but for some reason don't have that one.) I sent Spousal Unit an email telling him of my great shopping success for myself. He was only a little pissed that I had bought for myself the Harry Potter pre-order he had gotten for me as one of my birthday gifts! So I canceled it. Then, later last night my best friends came over with a gift for me.... yes, Angel season 2. DOH! Never again will I buy myself things on my birthday! And, here I was thinking I wasn't going to get any gifts!

But, by far the best gift Spousal Unit gave me was this:

Which is particularly cool over the pregnant belly.

You can get one of your very own here.

If you don't understand the reference and want to, go here.

Anyway, so today, I'm wearing my new shirt and letting my inner geek flag fly. Hope you all have a day full of gifts and happy accidents. And don't be afraid to let YOUR inner geek fly!

Making Parent Sausage

2007-06-28T17:01:00.000-04:00

All of the pregnancy books say that having nightmares about the baby is normal. I haven’t been having them about the baby. But, I’ve been having recurrent nightmares about Spousal Unit. They mostly involve him being emotionally distant or unresponsive while I sob and scream and attempt to get him to “snap out of it.” (FYI – SU is one of the MOST emotionally available men I’ve ever met. He’s anything but distant and unresponsive, but rather snuggly and deeply affectionate. Plus, he tells me like a million times a day how beautiful I am. Yes, all my friends are jealous and there is an extensive waiting list for him just in case I kick it prematurely.) Last night, though, this one took the cake. I dreamed that he and I were, ahem, being intimate, when another woman came into our bedroom, got on the bed with us and told him that he should start beating me. (!!) I thought that the best response to this madness would be just to be submissive, so that he would see how much I loved him. (YUK!) So, I just bowed my head and waited for him to decide what to do. He took a LONG time to decide not to actually beat me. I was relieved, and the woman left the room. But, then in my dream, I started thinking about this – and suddenly got empowered. I mean, why did it take him so long to decide?? So, I left the bed, left the room, and went into the next room where there was a family gathering. I angrily declared to all assembled that I couldn’t believe it took him 15 minutes to decide!!! That that shit should have been absolutely immediate! Then, the woman showed up. I beat her up with a beer bottle and then pushed her down some stairs. I’m glad I got all Buffy on her ass, although perhaps I should have also kicked the dream-Spousal Unit’s ass, too. Regardless of the ultimately powerful outcome, needless to say, I woke up very, very disturbed. (And alone, because SU had to be at the Big Science Thingey at 4 a.m. today).

For the record, there has never, ever been anything even remotely akin to violence in our relationship. It is not an active fear of mine and I am not in danger. And if I were, I wouldn’t be in this relationship. Period. Domestic violence is no joke. If you are in a violent relationship – get out now. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline if you need help: 1800-799-SAFE or go to their website.

So, given all of that, why am I having these dreams? Why is it that this is my fear and not, like most pregnant folk report, that I’ll do some stupid shit like leave the baby on the top of the car and drive away or forget it in the grocery cart and get home before I realize it? I don’t seem to have many fears about the baby (except, of course, its exit strategy). Or at least I’m not worried that I’ll drop it over a cliff or something. Of course, I have had a LOT of experience babysitting for little ones. I mean A LOT. So maybe that accounts for my confidence there. But, then, again, I’ve been with S.U. since 1989, so I’ve got a lot of experience there too. So, why the terror about Spousal Unit turning into something he is not?

When we talked about it this morning, it occurred to us both that what I’m really afraid of is how our lives are going to change after the Gadlet makes its grand entry. Yesterday I picked up and browsed through the “Girlfriend’s Guide to the First Year.” Her previous book on pregnancy had made me laugh out loud in the midst of the nausea, so I thought this one would be good too. Nope. It just scared the bejeezus out of me. It was pretty much all about how life, as you know it, is just simply over when you have a kid. Now, doesn’t that just tap into giant fear #3. If life is over, then, that must mean, oh, I don’t know, DEATH?

So, I guess I’m facing not a literal death (although that has actually occurred to me, too. I know too much women’s history…), but the figurative death of everything that I’m comfortable with – the quiet mornings by myself with a novel and a bowl of cereal, the quiet evenings with us both tapping away on the PowerBooks, the quiet evenings where we eat dinner on the couches while watching a DVD, the quiet mornings where we snuggle our way into wakefulness. (I’m sensing a theme here – I’m afraid of losing the quiet…) I’m worried that I’ll never be blissfully and relaxedly alone again or that S.U. and I will never be alone again. Now, I suppose that in exchange for a Gadlet, I’ll happily give up the quiet cereal/novel breakfasts. But, I’ll regret the DVD diners a bit more.

No, seriously, maybe the way I’ve put it here trivializes the enormity of what I’m thinking about – and that is an identity shift. I’m afraid I will cease to be Stewgad, the married, smart, professor DINK who drives a Subaru and remodels her old house who has 3 novels going at any one time and who cooks and paints and loves to write and swim and see movies. Instead, I’ll be come a Mother. Mom. And, boy, do I not want to do that. Mothers are those insane women screaming in the Target “SIT DOWN NOW” as their multiple children shriek at the top of their lungs. Mothers are those terrifying creatures that drive mini-vans and give a shit about the outcome of children’s soccer games and who give up their own identities in order to serve their children’s needs. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in this new role – and consequently, just lose myself period. (Wow, I got all weepy just writing this. Maybe I’m onto something. Either that, or its those damn hormones.)

The flip side of this is that I seem to be worried that Spousal Unit is going to become a Father, a Dad. The dude who has to ask every time we get into the car “has everybody gone to the bathroom?” I’m worried that he’s going to become the one who has to kill the bugs and curses as he assembles the Christmas toys and who gets pissed if his newspaper reading is interrupted and if dinner isn’t ready when he gets home from work or if his martini, and pipe, and slippers aren’t at the front door.

OK, maybe I got a little lost in that hybrid 1950-1980 pop cultural image of parents – a strange cross between “Father knows Best” and the mythic “Soccer Mom.” Truth is, I kill a lot of bugs already myself (or, actually, gently escort them into an outdoor environment while shrieking) and that Spousal Unit never reads the newspaper unless it is on-line. We both absolutely refuse to buy a minivan, I don’t care how convenient they are, they’re fucking ugly. (Sorry, guys, but they really are.) And I sure as hell will do everything in my power to not subsume my identity into that of my child’s. (Or even to cultivate a closeness that requires:4+ cell phone calls to Mom a day.)

It is even stranger that I have these fears because this simply wasn’t the model I was raised on. As soon as my brother and I were in school, my mom went back to school to get her B.A., M.A., and then J.D. She was the mom who lobbied for the ERA and had an office in the state capital building (our state was one that passed it. Kick ass, mom!), and then got a job enforcing anti-discrimination laws and policies -- not exactly losing her identity in her role as “mother.” Likewise, my dad sewed and quilted and baked bread and took painting classes with me and never, as far as I know, drank martinis or wore slippers. So, why these fears?

Maybe it is that most of our close friends don’t have kids. The close friends that do have kids don’t live near us so we don’t see them parenting on a regular basis. We’re kind of the first (even though we’re ancient in reproductive years). Almost everyone else we know locally with kids is of a different generation. So, I’m kind of feeling like I don’t have many role models. How about it, is it possible to become a parent and still be yourself? To have a baby and to still care a lot about the things that matter to you independent of what may be best for that offspring? Is there hope here?

All I know is that no matter how much some stuff changes, I’m going to just keep believing that some things – like my own sense of myself and Spousal Unit’s emotional availability – won’t. If you know otherwise, please don’t disillusion me. Like that old adage about sausage, I don’t think I really need to know how parents are made. I’ll find out soon enough.

_________

Dissertation Update:

I am a bit behind schedule -- I didn't get much written the past 2 days, but I did do some good thinking work and feel pretty good about it. I'm going to go to the (gasp!) library tomorrow and hope and pray that I don't have an Advisor Attack!

Two to Go

2007-06-27T09:48:00.000-04:00

When I was sixteen, I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Before this procedure, I can remember walking down the hallway in my high school with a friend and declaring with great vehemence that there were only 3 things that I was afraid of in this life (ah, youth…) the wisdom teeth extraction, childbirth, and death. My logic, as I explained to this now faceless and nameless friend, was that they were the three main serious physical processes that I was pretty sure I was going to have to experience (ah, youth…).

A few weeks later, I survived the first of my three great fears, mainly with the help of Valium. (Some of you may recall that I’m a fainter) So on the doctor’s orders, I got drugged up before we went to the office. I was so high that as we were waiting for the surgery, I spent the time picking each individual dog hair off of my sweatpants and handing them one-by-one to my mother. I remember that this felt Very Important to do, but have no clue what I thought she would do with them. After that, I remember going into the little room, crying through a video about wisdom teeth, seeing the doctor coming in and telling me to pump my arm to make the veins good for the IV, refusing, and having him grab my spaghetti arm and put it through the motions. Then, the next thing I know I’m telling them to take the rubber mask off of my face and learning that it is, in fact, my face that is the rubber mask. An afternoon in bed, a few days of eating pureed stuff, and it was all done. Pretty trauma free, really. One down, two to go, I thought.

I love the naiveté of myself at that point – sure that I would get pregnant, sure that I’d be free from other physical problems or issues, and sure that death, childbirth, and a minor oral surgery were roughly equivalent in the standard human fear, trauma, and pain scale.

So now, here I am, staring down the barrel of my second major fear.

I always knew I wanted a baby – but I was never really pumped about the method of getting one. Although the first part seemed pretty great, it was the endgame that always deterred me. This was before I knew that the middle part would really suck a lot too. So, I put it off. I couldn’t have a baby because I was dissertating. I couldn’t have a baby because I was unemployed. I couldn’t have a baby because we didn’t have any money, or a safe car, or a house. I was too young. I had too much to do. It was the wrong time. I wanted to travel, see the world, eat raw cheeses, drink Manhattans. But then suddenly, I was in my mid-30s and reading all that scary shit about how TICK TOCK my fertility was decaying as rapidly as milk left out on the counter on a hot day and we had a safe car, two very good jobs, and a house. Add to this the fact that Spousal Unit was really, really, really, really excited about having a family. I mean, he really, really, really wanted kids. Once again, my half-hearted arguments lost out to his well-reasoned one. My point that I liked my life as it was paled beside his: “Yeah, it’s great to be 30 and childless, but do you really want to be 80 and childless?” This one got me. So we embarked on this little reproductive adventure. After one false start and one poor misplaced little embryo, I now find myself very pregnant, with, apparently a future football kicker with preference for lying on its back.

I always figured that when I got to this point of things, I’d just be resigned. I mean, there are only 2 ways out of this situation that I’ve gotten myself into and I’m going to have to do one or the other, although neither seem like a picnic. More like medieval torture. But, here I am and, really, I’m not resigned. I’m fucking freaked out. Completely. I mean, what do you wish for here? That you spend roughly 24-48 hours in terrible pain so that your innards can turn themselves inside out? Many funnier people than I have described this process -- Carol Burnett springs to mind readily. She said once that childbirth was like taking your bottom lip and pulling it up over the top of your head. I liked that one. But, essentially, something really pretty big has to come out of a space that is really pretty small. Intelligent design, my ass. This seems like very, very bad planning to me. The other option? Getting your guts sliced open, rearranged, and then put back. A process that my friend described as “the single most disgusting thing I have ever witnessed” akin to “a crime scene” Yeah, that’s appealing.

So I’m freaked out. This is how freaked out I am: Spousal Unit and I, as good little obedient small-hippy town liberals are seeking the help of a Doula for the birth. We got some recommendations, and met someone that was well-liked by some folk. Plus, she’s a specialist in hypno-birthing. Why not, I thought? Follow the swinging watch, you are getting sleepy, and after I count backwards from 10, snap my fingers and then you’ll have a baby. That sounded good.

We met her last week, liked her a lot, and hired her. So, she left me with a book on hypno-birthing and a CD. Basically, it is all about learning relaxation techniques. Less swinging watch and more “relax your toes. Breathe. Relax every muscle in your face. Breathe.” More yoga, less Freud. But, I swear, every time I pick up the book, I have a full-on panic attack. Pounding heart, breathlessness, sweating, the whole nine yards. I cannot read about hypno-birthing without freaking out.

Let me emphasize the irony of this situation. I have had repeated panic attacks simply reading about how to relax. How fucked up is that? (working on earning my NC-17 rating here.)

I know, I know, all you parents out there are saying shit like “in the end, it will be worth it,” and “once you see the baby you won’t care about how it got there,” or my other favorite “you forget the pain.” Well, I sure as hell hope so. Who’d want to remember? And I know that maintaining this high-tension state of things is a sure-fire guaranteed way to ensure that I have a difficult birth. So, I’m listening to the CD at night trying (without my Gen-X ironic filter) to practice breathing through my eyelids and walking through rainbow light and shit like that so that when the time comes I won’t panic, I won’t freak out, I’ll just ride it and let my body do what it needs to. (Which has NEVER been one of my strongest characteristics, really.)

And besides, maybe when it is all over, I’ll feel like I did after the wisdom teeth – that it was all pretty trauma-free. And then I’ll be able to say, two down, one to go!

______________________

Oh, and FYI -- Dissertation update:

I’m right on schedule for a Saturday chapter completion. (fingers crossed, knock on wood, throw salt over the shoulder, don't step on any sidewalk cracks...) I revised the intro of the chapter yesterday, cutting it from 8 to 5 pages and eliminating the repetitive fat. Today, on to the next section. I’ve got an 11 page revision goal to meet and once again will trek to the giant air-conditioned evil bookstore empire to soak up their cool in the 90 degree heat and humidity. But first, I’m going to go swim!

I always knew I had a potty-mouth...

2007-06-26T10:57:00.000-04:00

Mingle² - Online Dating

but, I didn't think I was this naughty! Apparently the following words garnered Pretty Hard, Dammit this rating:

hell (6x) Hell, yes, I curse.
drugs (5x) All prescription, I swear.
gay (3x) How does this rank as naughty language or as something that should be restricted? Grr. Disturbing.
shitty (2x) And, again, yes, I curse.
bitch (1x) Is it a bad word if used as a verb?

Well, there it is. So, if you're under 17, stop reading this blog right now and go watch Hannah Montanta or something.

What a Difference a Day Can Make

2007-06-23T10:45:00.000-04:00

I didn't report in yesterday because I had so much going on. Man, you give up the pajama-house-bound-novel-reading thing and suddenly, you've got things to do and places to go and people to see. Sheesh.

Thursday night, I finished the thing I had to do for my senior colleague and sent it to him. (Horay! But, I haven't heard back, so now I'm a little worried...) Spousal Unit, love of my life, did all of the dishes (it was starting to look and smell like we lived in a frat house.) I folded and put away all of the laundry and tidied the rest of the house. So, we started Friday off right.

I got up early (with SU) and left the house for breakfast -- which I've found is the only way to go. If I sit down to eat, I want something to read -- and because I'm eating I'm too distracted to read work if I'm at home. I know, its a weird little tic because when I'm at the coffee shop or the cafe or the restaurant eating breakfast, I'm perfectly capable of thinking about work as I eat. Maybe it is the utter and overwhelming silence that fills the house. Who knows. But, I'm going to go with it.

Anyway, I left the house, had a raspberry and cheese croissant and a milk at the cafe, then went to the quiet, out of the way library that absolutely nobody on campus knows about. (The librarian introduced herself since we were the only 2 people there, and then asked me to mind the shop while she went to the bathroom. It is that tiny and that deserted.) I worked there until they kicked me out for lunch, then I had a bento box at the local hibachi grill restaurant. (A bit of a disappointment.) But, I returned after lunch (having left a substantial chunk of my possessions there so I couldn't bail) and worked solid until they closed the library. At which point I ran 3 errands that I'd been needing to do, (including mailing 2 different things that required 2 different systems of mailing. Mailing stuff is VERY hard for me since it means voluntarily relinquishing control of things and trusting to these huge bureaucratic systems to take care of them. Yeah, right. They'll "send it to where it is going." Sure, they will...) Then, I went to the grocery to buy stuff for dinner and hit the video store. Oh, yeah, and in between I bought myself a milkshake. (I figure since I've only gained 10-ish lbs in 6 months of pregnancy due to the nausea and vomiting, I'm entitled.) When I got home, I called this person who had listed a mini co-sleeper on Craiglist and then went and bought it. Now, thank goodness, we have a place for the baby to sleep. When I got back, we cooked scallops and wild salmon with friends and watched "The 40-Year Old Virgin." (Which neither of us had seen, but which is hysterical and surprisingly honest and real about relationships. I was surprised. Oh, and Romany Malco is in it who I am totally crushed out on right now because of Weeds.)

SO -- it was a very full day. Particularly in comparison to my previous few days.

But, dissertation-wise, here is what I did:

1. Made a master list of what needs to be done, chapter by chapter.
2. Plotted out how much time each chapter needs.
3. Calculated how many weeks are left that I can reasonably devote to this. (10)
4. Arranged that time per chapter.
5. Set a deadline for the chapter I am currently working on. (July 1)
6. Detailed day-by-day what I will do for that chapter until then.

The first task is to bulk up some of my sources. Unfortunately, this involves reading the handwriting of a certain historic figure whose handwriting was compared by a contemporary to hieroglyphics. So, I sorted through these as best as I could, and figured out roughly which ones I need to actually struggle through and which ones won't yield as much. It was good -- it reduced my pile of overwhelming translations (sans Rosetta Stone) to a more reasonable stack. Today and tomorrow, I'm going to work through that stack and do some newspaper searching. (Google News Archives ROCKS my world!)

All in all, I'm in a pretty different place than I was on Thursday. And, I wasn't even tempted by a novel. I was just too tired by the end of the day.
----------------------------

Pregnancy Complaint of the Day: Kicking

The Gadlet does not like to sleep on its side. Every time I tried to roll over last night, it would kick the everliving shit out of whatever side was down, left, right, whatever. It kept me up a lot and made me pretty darn uncomfortable. Why, oh, why doesn't it like sleeping on its side? That whole Back to Sleep thing is only supposed to be important AFTER they come out! Plus, I have this fabulous new body pillow to support my whole self while I sleep that only took up valuable mattress realty while I laid on my back staring at the dark ceiling and cursing the little parasite.

A Slight Fiction Addiction

2007-06-21T15:39:00.000-04:00

This is one of the times that I really, really wish I hadn't told my mother about my blog. So, Mom, if you're reading, please stop. Go and read another pregnant dissertator's blog. I'm sure there are more out there. I'll tell you about this someday, but right now, I'd like to keep this little bit of shame to myself. And besides, it will only make you freak out and worry and call me immediately to make sure I'm still breathing. I'm fine, I'm doing fine, I just need to vent.

If you're not my mother, pray, continue.

So, here's the thing. I'm stuck. Really stuck and frustrated and scared and for some reason I can't stop reading cheap fiction. I think I've read 5 or 6 200-ish page novels in the last three days. (All Dick Francis mysteries that I've read before. Yep. It's THAT bad.) And this fiction addiction seems to be requiring the exclusion of doing ANYTHING else. I mean ANYTHING. The dishes are piling up, I'm a day behind on my part of this bit of writing t I told my senior colleague I'd have done yesterday, there is laundry (clean and unfolded) everywhere, and worse, I think I've only left the house for a few minutes when Spousal Unit insisted I take a walk with him last night and when I had to go and pee in a cup for the pregnancy doctor on Wednesday morning. Most of these days, also, I've spent in pajamas or only in a teeshirt. I'd like to tell myself it is because my maternity pants are chafing me (PhD Blog Quiz: anybody recognize the reference? I'll post your name Overread style if you guess correctly...) but it is probably more likely a sign of the oh-so-slight depression and panic that I think I may be working on here. And, yes, of course, it is probably about the dissertation. Unless it is about birth. (New post on that forthcoming.)

I always had this fantasy in the decade+ that I've been working on this damned thing. (Well, aside from the I-get-put-in-prison-and-Gramsciesque-produce-a-brilliant-dissertation-because-I've-nothing-else-better-to-do fantasy.) Here is how it went: I would get pregnant, know that I only had 9 (actually, 10) months to finish the dissertation, and so would just kick into high gear, working constantly that whole time period to finish. I would finish and defend before having a perfectly easy labor and never have to worry about kowtowing to the dissertation committee again. From that point on, as my darling, perfect and angelic infant slept beside me, I could write for my own pleasure, for my own edification, and to simply please myself. Yeah, like I said, it was a fantasy. I didn't plan on shifting advisors, getting a t-t job, writing a whole dissertation that had to be chucked and started over. Nor did I really think through the complete implications of the whole pregnancy thing -- and I certainly didn't count on being sick every day for 6 months, on total exhaustion at most points, on the absolutely bizarre and completely distracting feeling of being inhabited by a MOVING alien, on a strange cocktail of hormones that seem to render me incapable of worrying about anything for more than 30 seconds, or on the strange cocktail of hormones that seem to render me incapable of THINKING about anything for more than 30 seconds.

So, perhaps getting pregnant wasn't the cure-all I thought it would be. (And mabye that prison thing wouldn't have worked out so well either, I mean, look at Paris...not much intellectual work going on there, I gather.) But, now I'm also beginning to suspect that in the 6 months where I did feel shitty, I learned to use feeling awful as a crutch for NOT working on the dissertation. I mean, who can think about Congressional debates when they're huddled over the toilet? Or, heck, who wants to think about suffrage petitions when you're lying on the couch trying not to move so the nausea can't find you? Pretty good excuses for not getting my ass in gear on the thing, really. But, with the help of modern medicine, I no longer have these excuses. I'm not nauseous most of the time now. I'm getting uncomfortable, sure, and my belly button has lost all structural integrity, but really, these are things that I can live with. And, If I have to stick my elbows out at odd angles around my belly to reach my keyboard, it is a minor nuisance and no reason not to be working.

Plus, Spousal Unit played soccer with my advisor on Tuesday night and he emphatically told SU to tell me to call him. Gulp. If I had anything to show him, I would call. But, telling him that I've read 6 novels in three days, I suspect, will not impress.

So, this fiction thing. I don't really know what is going on, I mean, I don't even really like horses. But my best guess is that I'm hiding out from these things that are scary:

1. Dissertation. Very Scary.
2. Department Responsibilities. Less Scary, but challenging and new.
3. Childbirth. The Holy Mother of All Things Scary.

Now, to my reason for posting. I'm quitting. I'm going cold turkey. I'm going to stop the novel reading. As of right now. And, since I've confessed it to the world, or to the 3 or 4 folk who read this little corner of the world, I can't back out. (Yeah, Hi, Mom. I knew you'd keep reading.) For the rest of the day, I'll finish the position thingey for my senior colleague. Then, tomorrow, I will leave the house and work on the dissertation. I will report back in tomorrow evening. After all, this blog is supposed to be about accountability. So, guys, I'm going to account. 'Till tomorrow, then Wish me luck. Those little paperbacks sure are tempting!

The Gendering of American Infancy

2007-06-13T09:24:00.000-04:00

Spousal Unit and I have very deliberately decided not to know the sex of our unborn offspring (to be known from here on out by the cleverish pseudonym Gadlet - as in Piglet. Hm. Can there be a pseudonym if there isn't even a nym yet? Well, anyway, I digress...)

Initially Spousal Unit had a number of high falutin' reasons for this decision. Primarily, he thought it was both "unnatural" to have such information from the sonograms (this from a man of science) and an invasion of little Gadlet's privacy (this from a liberal with few libertarian leanings, let alone any kind of belief about the sanctity of the fetus in utero). Since he seemed pretty vehement about this position, I capitulated to his wishes. And besides, they were slightly better articulated than my best argument which was: "I just wanna know."

At first this decision had few consequences except maybe to annoy our friends and relatives who wanted to start buying things for the Gadlet. But lately, it's started to have consequences for us too. In the past few weeks I've started to realize that maybe I am going to have a new human come into my life and that that new human might actually need some specialized small human stuff of their own and so I might have to start buying things for the Gadlet too. And now, I'm annoyed. I'm appalled and I'm more than a little pissed off.

Before I launch into my tale of righteous indignation, let me readily admit that as a historian of gender my years of training in reading gendered meaning into historical and contemporary texts may be influencing how I shop for baby products. But, insane overeducation aside, I think there is something strange and, frankly, awful going on in American life. That something is that we seem hell bent and determined to excessively gender our infants.

Now, let me tell you where I stand on infants. I love them. The newborn to 3-month stage is probably my favorite, and I've got decades of babysitting other people's newborns under my belt to back up this position. They are tiny and helpless and sweet and hysterical and terrifying and frustrating and adorable. But, and let me be clear here, they do not have gender identities. At the risk of angering all the Angelina haters out there, I agree with her. Infants are blobs. They're developing personalities and personness and identities, but they aren't there yet. And they sure as hell don't have a sense of themselves as "boy" or "girl." They eat. They scream. They poop. They scream. They sleep. They eat. They scream. Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually, these blobs do start to develop identities and become little persons and probably sometime in that process they get a sense of themselves and what the particular arrangement of their physical parts mean, influenced of course by what people around them tell them those parts mean. But, if I believe anything it is that a 3-week old human does not have a gender identity in their own right.

(I guess I'm assuming here that you all are savvy about the distinctions between "sex" and "gender." While far, far smarter people than I have grappled with this, my basic definition is that "sex" is the way that biological parts are organized on our bodies and that "gender" is the social meaning given to those parts by ourselves and by others. Hence my conviction that there is no inherent meaning in an infant's body aside from the meaning that we give to it.)

Given those biases and beliefs, let me describe my first experience shopping for infant clothing for the Gadlet.

About 6 weeks or so ago, I was feeling sick and completely disconnected from the parasite that was taking over my body and ruining my digestion, health, life... and, yes, I was feeling a little melodramatic. So, I thought it might help if I went to Target to look at baby clothes and to buy something sweet and tiny to remind me that there was a reason I had gotten myself into this situation, aside from the fact that sex is much better without barrier birth control.

I drove my sick ass to Target, walked into the newborn section and stood there completely kerflummoxed. The wall of clothing was divided neatly in half. On one half of the wall there were "boy" clothes. On the other half "girl" clothes. The "boy" clothes were in bold colors like blues and reds and the "girl" clothes were exclusively pink and pale purple. This seemed bad enough to someone who so vehemently hated pink as a kid that her grandmother worried that this meant she was a lesbian and so decided to pink her up in any way she could every Christmas including buying a hot pink sweater the year she asked for something from the men's department and a pink Walkman the year she thought she had the system beat by asking for a Walkman.

Bad as this was, then I looked at what the little onesies all said. (All of these clothes had texts of some kind printed on them -- apparently it is as important to put words into our infants' mouths as it is to gender them. But, again, I digress...) The "boy" clothes all had trucks and cars on them and said in clear print across the little tiny chests "Watch Me Go." The "girl" clothes had flowers or butterflies on them and said in curly script "Aren't I cute?"

As I stood there reading these things I couldn't believe it. At birth we are already sending the message to our children that boys are actors and that girls are objects. Boys act -- They GO. Girls are objects of admiration. They don't act. They exist to be decorative, CUTE.

Needless to say, this disturbed me. I walked out of the store without having made a purchase. But, still feeling consumerish and unwilling to leave the mall without having some little damned thing that would make me feel better about how sick I was, I ventured into the Old Navy. Again, the section was divided in half into "boy" and "girl" clothes. And they too had newborn onesies with print (pink and blue, of course). The girl ones? "Future Prom Queen" or "Future Cheerleader" or (and I'll give them credit for this one) "Future Valedictorian." Hm, I thought, what about the boys? "Future Quaterback," (and I'll give them credit for this one) "Future Prom King," and "Future Class President." While the football/cheerleader dichotomy is too obvious to dignify with a close reading, I found the President/Valedictorian one to be particularly interesting. The message here? Boys are Leaders. Girls are Smart. What, boys can't be Smart? Girls can't be President?

Now even more disturbed, I gave up on this experiment in baby clothing, grabbed a tiny stuffed zebra rattle and left. But since then, this experience has repeated itself over and over. Every time I've tried to buy something for the Gadlet, I've come up against this issue. Even with furniture and other baby equipment, excessively gendered items are the rule, not the exception.

Take a look at this bouncy seat:

The text on the website about this seat says "Everything about this says 'It's a girl!'"

Or at this carseat. Infant protection device or gender learning tool? You decide:

Even the solid standard Pack-n-Play now comes with a truly girly option:

Why in the hell do we need an infant's chair or its carseat or bed to declare its gender identity? And don't even get me started on "nursery decor" which also must clearly reinforce the pinkness of your girl or your boy's future as a fireman.

Things can be just as bad for boys:

Here's one from Old Navy that not only affirms the gender identity of your infant, but of your infant's father as well:

(Shirt says: "Macho" in camo letters, underneath "just like Dad.") I don't know about you, but somehow I seriously doubt that a newborn can be "macho," no matter how hairy they are at birth.

Insanity of my perhaps hormone influenced rage aside, of course, the obvious solution is to put the Gadlet into whatever damned clothes I want, pink, purple, red, trucks, footballs, flowers, etc. no matter what arrangement of body parts it happens to have. And OF COURSE, I will try to buy as neutral products and clothing that I can. (like this one:)

I mean, I'm not dumb, I know how to get around this excessively gendered shit. I was raised on Free to Be You and Me by a feminist and I am a clever consumer in a world of unlimited choices. But, beyond my personal choices I think there is a bigger social issue here that is new and strange and I've been trying to figure out why it is that it seems so urgent to Gender American Infants.

I've got a couple of theories:

1. The Patriarchy Theory: Because of ultrasound techonology, almost everyone knows the sex of the baby before birth, so there is less incentive to attempt a gender-neutral infant environment. Knowledge is power, right? And we now have the power to shape infants' gender identities even while in utero. So, we make assumptions about what gender means and we use those assumptions to imagine our kid's identities. Here is where I think it gets insidious. Not to overplay the old feminist patriarchy saw, but your future Prom Queen can know from the first instant of her life that her job is to be decorative and objectified and your future Class President can know immediately that he commands attention as an active subject. The messages that I've seen absolutely lean toward giving boys power and making girls objects, which seems to be a nice and easy way to recreate and perpetuate patriarchy and to make sure that little new Americans learn this as soon as they can.

2. The Homophobia Theory : American culture writ large is homophobic to a fault and so people (like my Grandmother) think that if they put their boy in "Future Linebacker" camo onesies or girls in Pink Puffy Infant seats that declare "It's a Girl!!!" then they can stave off that whole "gay" thing in advance by making sure that there is no gender ambiguity in their kids' lives from instant one. If there is such a clear gendered dichotomy, a dichotomy that reinforces an exclusively dual hyper-masculine and hyper-feminine model (football and cheerleader?) then there is no room for "messy" and complicated identity positions like feminine boys and masculine girls, let alone transgender folk, and so America is safe from the "gay menace." I mean, really, are we so terrified that our boys and our girls might be gender ambiguous (which of course must mean gay) that we can't buy infant blue jeans without stupid little flowers or footballs embroidered on the ass?

3. The Corporate Theory (credit for this one goes to my mother) Corporate America knows that people need to buy shit for their kids. If they convince people that everything they buy has to be "gender appropriate," then they have to buy a whole new set of stuff when they get another kid of a different sex. Americans spend their hard earned money on unnecessary shit. Big corporations make more money. The economy thrives.

For a little perspective on children and gender in America, here is one of my favorite images from the Daguerreotype collection at the Library of Congress:

This is a photo of Eliza and John McCallister taken July 23, 1849. They both have curled hair. They both have dresses and mary janes on. Which one is John? Which one is Eliza? Hard to tell. I'm not advocating a return to dressing all children in dresses until their 5th birthday. But, I do think that this shows the distance our culture has come on this issue. (Perhaps ironically, and perhaps not incidentally, in a world where women ostensibly have more options than they did in 1849 it seems more critical to draw distinctions between boys and girls at an early age.)

So, what do I do with all of this? For now, it reinforces SU's idea about not knowing the particular arrangement of the Gadlet's body parts until it arrives in the world and gives me my own high fallutin' reasons for agreeing:

I don't want to make assumptions about this new human's identity based on what I think gender means. I don't want others to make assumptions about this new human's identity based on what they think gender means. I don't want to unconsciously or consciously impose an identity onto this infant even before I meet it for the first time. Yes, I know these are impossible goals. And, yes, I know, no one is immune from the influences of their culture. And, no, I'm not going to become a hermit. But, I do want to be thoughtful and deliberate and cautious about how I am thinking about the Gadlet and who it is going to become.

Down the road, if she wants an all pink and purple wardrobe or if he insists on only wearing clothing with footballs on them, so be it. Even better if he insists on the pink wardrobe and she wants some camo pants that say "Macho" on them. But, I want to give the Gadlet a little room to make these choices when it is done being a blob. Does this mean until then that I will only dress the Gadlet in embroidery-free denim overalls and white tee-shirts? Probably not. And if the Gadlet turns out to be a girl, will I buy a girlie little dress for her? Hell, yes I will. It will just be blue and say "Future Leader of the Free World" on it.

Sergeant Slacker, Reporting In

2007-06-05T15:44:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I did some good work -- reading through about half of the chapter I had to look at before I picked up SU from the airport. Overall the chapter looked thin on evidence and a bit repetitive, but otherwise not the total disaster it could have been. Mildly encouraging.

Today, I've been a total couch potato. I haven't done anything constructive except determine that the Medical Center in town doesn't have birthing classes listed on their website which means I'm going to have to make a phone call to ask for Information from a Stranger which I am both too lazy and too stubborn to make. Yes, I'm 6 months along in my pregnancy and I haven't taken any of those supposedly critical childbirth classes that teach you how to lovingly accept the fact that you will pass a live critter the size of a watermelon through your most sensitive body parts and to brainwash you into thinking that this process will be a) the most meaningful experience of your life b) easy as pie if you come equipped with nothing more than the Right Breathing Method c) a total disaster if you "give in" to the devil better known as modern medicine and ask for drugs. Yes, I'm a shitty parent already. Totally unprepared. Oh, I guess I have also indulged in some obsessive blog reading and interent celebrity gossip searching. Can't get enough of those fucked up celebrities, let me tell you. Although 23 days in jail might just be enough to get me somewhere on my dissertation. So, I'm sitting at my desk -- accomplishment in and of itself, really, and have been for a few hours, but haven't picked the second half of the chapter back up.

For the next 45 minutes (I'm setting a timer) I'm going to read this chapter. Then, I'm going to go to the store and pick up something for dinner. (FYI it is really hard to come up with things to cook when nausea is your default state of being.) I may stop by the public library and check out a DVD for the evening as a reward if I can FINISH the chapter read-through. But, only if I finish.

-----------------------------
Pregnancy Complaint of the Day:

Constipation.

Enough said.

Let's Hear it for the Drugs

2007-06-04T11:26:00.000-04:00

Gadlet/Pregnancy Update:

Going into this whole pregnancy thing, like many a good liberal, well-meaning parent-to-be with aspirations of crunchy greenness, I thought I'd eat perfectly, eschew anything that would be potentially harmful to my growing kidlet, and OF COURSE avoid all drugs during the pregnancy and during labor.

Fast forward six months and I've only gained 7 lbs and am vomiting at least once a week. The only thing I could stomach for a few months was day-glo orange Easy Mac. And prentatal vitamins? Forget it. Not a chance. Plus, I haven't felt good enough to sit up for any real period of time, let alone do anything resembling productive work.

Two weeks ago I went in to see my doctor and wound up with the second guy in the practice -- the one I haven't seen before. He asked me how I was doing and I told him that I had puked three times in the last week. He looked at me and said, "Only 1% of people are still sick at this point in their pregnancy." I said, "Yeah, well, you're looking at that 1%." Then he changed my life with one little word: Zofran. Stewgad's offpring will now be named Zofran Stewgad-Spousal Unit. I swear. One pill a day and I can eat, I can sleep, I can think! It even got rid of that awful taste in my mouth. Joy! Joy! I am now carefully and rapidly revising my opinion of drugs during childbirth. Hell, if this one tiny little white pill is so great, who knows what a giant needle in my spine could do!

So, given my newfound state of non-nausea, I'm getting back to the dissertation stuff today. And, about time, too. The clock isn't just ticking, it's freaking pounding, so I better get moving pretty quickly!

The good news is that I got an extension on the article I insanely agreed to write for this collection, so I can focus on revisions for a couple of weeks exculsively.

I'm starting in today on revisions for the fourth chapter. In case you forgot, the third is ready, the intro is ready, the first doesn't exist, the second needs 1/3 composed, and the fourth and fifth just need revision. So, I think if I start working with something I've already gotten down on paper, I can get back into the thinking swing of things, and also know what it is that I need to do in the first couple of chapters to get me to where I am at the end. Anyway, that's my hope and plan.

I'm going to start in slowly -- on the 15 Minute a Day model. I'm going to try to work for 45 minutes now, pausing only to bring food to the desk, and then I'll reward myself by doing some dishes and picking up Spousal Unit from the airport. (He was away for the weekend.)

I'll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck!

(I'm also working on a much more intersting and profound post about the Gendering of American Infants that I'll try to post sometime soon.)

Lying in Wait

2007-05-17T15:44:00.000-04:00

My mother has this 6 year-old enormous blue-gray cat she named Shiloh (after her favorite Neil Diamond song, not the bloody Civil War battle ground or Angelina Jolie's supposedly perfect offspring). When she first got this cat, she got him a harness so she could take him out for walks. (I think she secretly really wanted a dog, but lived in an apartment. Since then, she has gotten the dog). When she first put it on him, he would lay absolutely still for five or so minutes and then burst into a frenzy of movement and writhing in an attempt to get the thing off. Then he'd return to absolute stillness -- apparently trying to trick the thing into thinking that he wasn't paying attention to it so that he could sneak up and surprise it. Or perhaps hoping that if he didn't move at all, it would forget about him and just go away. I wasn't around for these gymnastics, but the image has really stuck with me.

It feels very apt today, especially. I've been in bed all day lying in utter stillness hoping that the nausea won't find me. After a good couple of days, it hit yesterday afternoon with a vengeance. Of course, after running errands all morning, having lunch with Spousal Unit and talking to an old friend in the early afternoon, I had PLANNED on working yesterday afternoon and evening. So much for that. Instead, I went to bed. And stayed there.

I think I could deal with this whole thing much better if I knew that at 3:48 p.m. every Tuesday I would get sick. Nice and predictable, like. And, yes, I know that this is a good lesson for parenting -- nothing that your kid does is predictable, my life is never going to be predictable from now on -- I know -- I can hear all the well-meaning and all-knowing advice in my head.

But right now, I just want to not move and hope that that nausea harness won't see me and will go away. Without a frantic, frenzied gymnastic fight.

---------------------------

Overheard Tidbit from the Mall:

Woman on Cell Phone: "I don't know. I guess I just live my life like a French Film."

Don't we all, sister. Don't we all.

Well, Maybe I'm Closer to that Saddle

2007-05-15T15:46:00.000-04:00

After yet another pukefest weekend, (at the rate at which I'm having them -- about 1 every 3 weeks, Spousal Unit has calculated that I will have 6 more "episodes" before the end of the pregnancy. It's damned depressing...) I am taking the tentative, first steps toward getting back into the dissertation. I feel like I'm at the edge of a very cold lake and I know it's going to be freezing, but I also know I have to get into it and swim across the whole damned thing but right now I'm just touching my big toe in and complaining about how cold it is and about how I have to get in.

One of the mistakes I always make with the diss. after I've been away from it for a while reading nothing but undergraduate papers is to try to start writing right away and then to wonder why I'm a) making no progress at all and b) unable to construct coherent sentences that do not resemble the undergrads' most laughworthy compositions. (Why, oh why do they insist on declaring that everything is "huge," in calling anything that is a book a "novel," and in using the to be+gerund construction rather than active verbs????) Usually, after about a week or so of pounding my head on my computer and feeling thoroughly discouraged, I realize that I should READ something before I try to start writing again. Something historical is always good, preferably well-written and possibly even having something to do with my subject.

This time, I thought I'd avoid that whole cycle, and just start by reading something. Good plan. So, I spent the day yesterday reading "Team of Rivals" about Lincoln and politics. Not quite in my area, but it is a good read and it is historical and I'm actually enjoying it. So, that is good.

Today, I actually got as far as to print out the next thing I need to be working on. I figured this was a pretty big step. So, to reward myself I took myself to my favorite cafe for second breakfast (a fried egg sandwich with cheese and ham on sourdough with scallions) where they got my food to me in 2 minutes flat. I guess pregnant does have its slight advantages on the customer service front. Then, I decided that since I actually WALKED my bulging belly all the way to the cafe, I could reward myself with a trip to the public library and get a novel for bedtime and a DVD for with dinner. Since then, I've been stuck in the novel (a sci-fi about human exploration of one of Saturn's moons. Yeah, not so much to do with my topic or with history.) So, to complete my procrastination (and to confess it I suppose) I thought I'd blog.

By tomorrow, I really want to be doing some ACTUAL work on my project. So, I think what I'll do for the rest of the day is unearth my desk -- which will take an archaeological expeditionary force since I haven't used it for anything since January other than as a nice out of the way recepticle for stuff I don't know what to do with. Then, I'll read more of the HISTORY book I was so proud of myself for reading yesterday before I cook something for dinner.

Despite the roundaboutness of what I'm doing, and the couple of days is is taking me to get near that Loch Ness of a dissertation, heck, at least I'm getting my toes wet.
----------------------------------------------------

NEW Pretty Hard, Dammit FEATURE: Pregnancy Complaint of the Day

Maybe if I complain on the blog once a day about the stupid pregnant shit, then Spousal Unit won't have to hear so much of it. Needless to say, I am not a sweet, cheerful and joyous pregnant person and I think it is starting to bug SU more than a little. He asked me yesterday after a particularly vituperative round of complaining if wasn't I even a little bit happy about the baby? The BABY is such a foreign concept to me -- even though it kicks me regularly and emphatically to let me know that I am being colonized -- that it was kind of a weird question. Baby? Huh? What Baby? I'm PREGNANT. That is pretty much all there is. The BABY is strictly hypothetical. The Pregnancy is 100% all consuming and Very Real. So, I replied by saying that I'm about 50% nauseous, 49% terrified, and 1% happy. I don't quite think that was the answer he was looking for. His response? "Well, I'M very happy." Good for him, and hopefully it will be enough for the both of us for a while.

But, it did make me think that perhaps I should share the burden of dealing with my complaints so that I can let him go ahead and be happy about this strange hypothetical thing while I revel in that which is most immediate for me. So, that means you, happy blog readers who thought you were here to read about a dissertation (Mwa ha ha...evil laugh) get to share in my grousing.

OK, so here it is -- complaint of the day: The weird taste I've had in my mouth for 23 weeks. Yep. For 23 weeks my mouth in default state tastes like I'm preserving pickles in there. Not in a bad breath way, in a I've just eaten something that tastes like cleaning vinegar or that nasty liquid on the top of the yogurt that you pour down the sink before you stir it and eat it. The thing that makes it worse? Milk. The same wonderful milk that makes my bones strong as the parasite leaches calcium from me and the same elixir that seems to keep my heartburn under control makes my mouth taste like a vinegar barrel. Which, incidentally, doesn't help with the nausea. Oddly enough, this is actually a common symptom of pregnancy. Not one they tell you about in the popular cultural mythology magazines where celebrity moms declare with regularity "Pregnancy is great! I could be pregnant for 10 years!" But, it is a symptom nonetheless. What joy is mine.

My doctor told me a few weeks ago that there are like 45 different pregnancy symptoms and you're gonna get 23 of them. But, you just can't predict (or, hell, as I would prefer, CHOOSE) them. So, for the next while I'll chronicle a few of mine (in a g-rated way laced with r-rated curses) for your reading enjoyment and for Spousal Unit's relief. Think of it as community service that you're doing for him. And then maybe if I only get to grouse about 1 thing a day, that will also curb the lack of enthusiasm I've got going on for this process and push me into the 2-3% happy category.

Cheers -
SG

Thinking about Getting Back in the Saddle Again

2007-05-08T13:27:00.000-04:00

Dissertation Alert! All that is standing between me and my dissertation (and, hence daily blog entries) are:

31 papers and final grades to taly!

Then, I'm on leave until January, 2008 and have from now until September 8, give or take a few days (weeks? God forbid) before I add another human to the world and thereby effectively cut off any hope I would ever have of finishing the dissertation as I drown in a sea of dirty diapers (cloth, thank you very much) and baby vomit.

So, this time, I'm really on the clock.

What's the state of the state with the D, you may ask?

1. Introduction -- Ready to be read by whole committee.
2. Chapter 1 -- unwritten, but synthetic chapter not requiring much research.
3. Chatper 2 -- 2/3rds written, needs revising, 1/3 needs composing, integrating into the chapter, some bit of research left.
4. Chapter 3 -- Ready to be read by the whole committee.
5. Chapter 4 -- Complete, needs revising (the de-po-mo-ification project: more on this later.)
6. Chatper 5 -- Same as chapter 4.

So, there it is. Here I am.

Uninterested baby readers, skip this:

What's the state of the state with the B, you may ask?

The daily unremitting nausea has mostly lifted (it only took 5 months -- first trimester my ass!), but about 1 day out of every 10 I am debilitated by nausea. (which I have correlated to the times that I guilt myself into taking the fucking prenatal vitamin. Before you freak out and send me hate mail for how I am abusing my unborn fetus, new vitamins that are supposed to be better are on the way.) I STILL have to eat every 2 hours no matter what or I'll get nauseated. I am rapidly gaining girth, although not much weight which I guess is OK. Plus, bonus points for how I thoroughly freaked out Spousal Unit the other night when I said, "hey, look at my belly -- you can actually see the kicks now--" as a particularly vigorous kick made my belly look as it it had been inhabited by an alien. That was pretty funny, but overall I'm not really enjoying being pregnant, and I swear on a daily basis to SU that this will absolutely be an only child. (yeah, yeah, I know everybody says this, but I MEAN it.)

So, there it is. Here I am.

And, here I go - back to the grading. I'll see you all (if anybody is still out there other than my mom) in a couple of days!

SG

P.S. Remind me to go on a rant sometime soon about The Gendering of American Infants.

The Baby Hates Curry

2007-03-15T12:24:00.000-04:00

The last meal I had before the barf-o-rama that sent me to the ER with dehydration last month was Indian take-out.

Yesterday, after a whole day of no nausea, I felt good enough to cook! (something I haven't done in three months...) So I made dinner for friends of a nice lentil dal, raita, brown rice, and chutneys. At 1:40 I found myself once again hugging the porcelain god turning myself inside out wondering why again I agreed to do this "baby" thing.

What is it with this kid and curry? Very discouraging.

Spousal Unit is taking me to the opera this weekend in New York as a Valentine's present. I'm fervently praying that I don't throw up onto my new very expensive shoes in the middle of the Barber of Seville. I suspect very strongly that the Met frowns upon such behavior.

Although, given my track record, if I avoid curry at dinner, I should be OK!

Pitfalls and Perquisites

2007-03-09T12:28:00.000-05:00

In the past week, I’ve really experienced the best and the worst of pregnancy, I think.

The Pitfall? Puking into the kitchen sink because I couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time.

The Perquisite? Having a restaurant cook me something not on their menu because I was “having a craving.”

But, since this is an “academic” blog, I suppose I should fill you in on the meeting with my advisor before I launch into pregnancy stories, that way those of you who don’t give a shit about my reproductive life (and, I mean, why would you, really?) can just read the first part and skip the pregnancy stuff at the bottom.

I had a very good meeting with my advisor. He was very kind about the “situation,” congratulated me, was understanding. But more importantly, he seemed to have liked the chapter. He did think it a BIT long. (What was 69 pages on my computer in hoefler text font was 107 on his computer in courier. Yep. A BIT long!!!!) So, he wants me to cut it, which I think might be wise. Overall, he thinks the chapter did a good job of addressing what I set it out to do. All of this is good. And, so far, I hadn’t puked on his shoes.

Then, he dropped this huge bomb on a chapter (and project) that is about political rhetoric. “What do they really mean when they say these things?” Well, shit, I don’t know. This project has never been about digging into the deep psyches of people in the 1860s. And, frankly, I am perfectly happy taking their statements at (mostly) face value without having to ask those damned messy questions that seek to get at things like “REAL meaning” that I’m not entirely convinced are accessible to historians anyway, no matter how much digging we do. Does anyone ever reveal what they really mean? Aren’t we, in some ways, limited to what they SAY they mean? Particularly in the historical record? So, needless to say the question was a bit of a stumper – even though I do think it was important.

As I blundered around trying to give some kind of an answer to this question, I got really brave and then just told him point blank that I didn’t think that it was a question I could adequately address in the dissertation in the next 6 months. To my great surprise, he agreed and oh so subtly suggested that it might be a question that would come up at my defense and that I should address for the book. Such a nice man.

All in all, the meeting went well and he sent me off to keep plugging away at the project. Which, I have not even come close to working on because of the constant unremitting nausea.

--- (pregnancy uninterested readers, squeamish folk, or people currently experiencing nausea can skip this part….)----------

Which, until Monday, had been rather passive, if you will. Aside from the gastroenteritis induced pukefest, I hadn’t actually ever thrown up from the morning sickness. I’d come awfully damn close, but no cigar.

Monday, I stupidly waited too long to have my second breakfast. I eat something before I get out of bed, then about an hour or so later I have breakfast. A few hours later, I have some elevenses, and then I have lunch. Around 3 I have a nice little snack, and then dinner at 6. Then I sleep for three hours, wake up, have an apple and cheese and crackers in bed and then sleep until 4 when I wake up for more apple slices to fight the nausea and then the whole thing starts again at 6:30 when I wake up. So, it was probably about 9:30 or so before I had my second breakfast. I’d just made a waffle, some bacon (I’m trying to have protein with my carbs – and fuck those What to Expect Nazis and their “ask yourself if every little bite you put in your mouth is best for the baby” policy. I want bacon.) I felt a little iffy about food, so I ate a ubiquitous apple slice, sat there looking at the waffle, and decided it was time to leave the table. I got halfway to the hallway by the stairs when I realized I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom upstairs. So, I turned and ran for the kitchen and tossed that apple, and some of its friends right into the sink. It was gross.

All I can say, though, is that as of the night before there were 5 days worth of dishes stacked in the sink. But, Spousal Unit went into a frenzy of cleanliness the night before and stayed up late to wash all the dishes. So, while I did puke, and in the kitchen sink, thankfully, I didn’t puke into last week’s lasagna pan.

But, I’m almost willing to take the bad in order to get the good.

Wednesday, we went to the doctor. First, we waited an hour and 10 minutes to see the guy and so Spousal Unit went a little postal when the doctor came in and didn’t apologize for the delay. Last appointment we went in at 1:30 and left at 3:30, having only spent 3:00-3:30 with the doctor, so there was precedent for his disgruntlement. They had a little “discussion” about scheduling and delays and emergencies and manners while my Midwestern conflict-avoiding soul huddled on the paper covered table hiding behind my novel and trying not to take part.

After they alpha-male-ed that whole thing out, and we all arrived at a happier place with each other, the doctor whipped out this funny little microphone, squirted some cold KY on my belly, and produced a heartbeat. It was insane. There is a critter inside of me with a heartbeat. Which means, in fact, that I’m currently carrying around 2 hearts. It is just so strange. But, good, I guess, ultimately.

After the appointment, I dropped Spousal Unit off at work and went to this local café that used to be an abandoned horse/car garage but has since been remodeled and spiffied up. I have eaten here before, but today I was on a mission. A friend had mentioned a few weeks ago that they had a great burger and I was totally having a fierce craving for a burger. (Yes, once again, Fuck those What to Expect Nazis.) I parked right in front (major parking magic in a crowded area), went in and looked at the lunch menu. No burger. I looked unhappy, and the assistant chef who was standing there asked me what was wrong. I told her that I was looking for their burger but I didn’t see it on the menu. She told me that they don’t have it at lunch and aren’t set up to do it. So, too bad. I said, “Oh. Bummer. I was having a craving.” Those were the magic fucking words.

(And, even as I type this, I’m not so sure I should share this magic with the general public. If everyone starts using this, it could fail to work in dire emergency situations like mine today… So, with all the sternness I can muster I beg you all not to abuse the power I am about to share with you.)

She said, “Well, let me ask the chef and I’ll see what I can do.” She went into the kitchen, came back out and said that the chef would do it. I lit up with joy and she said, “We want to do what we can for people. And you said it was a craving, so I’m thinking you’re pregnant and we like to help pregnant people!” I about passed out! I told her, that, yes, I am pregnant and was having a craving. She said she thought so. I had imagined that my slowly emerging little belly was not quite visible through the bulky wool sweater I’m wearing today, but perhaps not. Maybe I’m giving off the “I’m pregnant” vibe in some other way. Whatever, it worked like a charm.

When the burger was ready, the chef came out and gave it to me personally. She hugged me, congratulated me, and told me about her 5 grandchildren, and the one on the way. Asked if it was my first baby, and then told me to enjoy my burger. I almost cried it was so sweet!

Foodies – take notice: homemade ciabatta bread, perfectly grilled burger, with lovely melty cheddar, sautéed red onions, sundried-tomato relish, and a side of chili-aioli. It was without a doubt the best fucking hamburger I have ever had in my whole life.

Only now, did it occur to me that everyone involved in this transaction, including the waitstaff who were loitering around, were all women. Those What to Expect Nazis did say that as a pregnant person you’d feel all in touch and shit with all women. I was perfectly willing to chuck that platitude out with the “every bite” insanity. But, maybe I should rethink that position if it produces such amazing burgerish results. Let’s hear it for sisterhood!!

--------------------(ok, now it is safe to return to the “academics.” ---------------

As for the Big D… my spring break begins on today, and so I’m really hoping that in the next week or so my nausea will magically disappear -- at least enough to let me do some work on the next chapter.

The next chapter is one that I have about 2/3 written. I decided to chuck the first 1/3 because it didn’t work with the new direction of the chapter, so I’ve got some ideas for this next direction. I’m looking into the origins of the term “founding father” as a prelude to discussing male familial metaphors for political relationships during Reconstruction. It involves some research, but I think I can do most of it at home on on-line old newspapers. I’d really love to be done with that research and starting to write by the time break is over. I don’t know how realistic that goal is, given the grading I’ll have to do over break, but I’m hopeful and optimistic. That is if the nausea will release its iron grip.

One of my friends has started a pool on when my nausea will end. He’s predicting this today at 5:00 pm. If anyone else wants in on the pool, if you’re right you’ll win … absolutely nothing except the satisfaction of being right. Which, for academics, is relatively priceless, right? So, predict the day Stewgad will stop having the badly misnamed “morning” sickness and win the fabulous sense of knowing that you were right! (By the way, I’ll send a truckfull of cash if you can do some voodoo juju actually MAKE it go away for good in the next 24 hours!!)

But, until that eventuality pans out, I guess for now, I’ll have to just keep taking the bad and being thankful for the good. Not a bad place to be, really, so long as Spousal Unit keeps the sink clear of dishes just in case!

Knocked Up, Knocked Out

2007-02-23T09:11:00.000-05:00

So, some of you may have noticed a conspicuous absence of posts in the last, say, oh, three months.

Usually, such a delayed absence would indicate that I have not been working on my dissertation and was too ashamed to admit it.

Well, OK, so it is that too, but the REAL reason is that I haven't been posting is that I'm pregnant (knocked up, got a bun in the oven, bumped, childing, parturient, preggers... stop me before I call myself "sperminated," please).

And, by the way, whatever genius came up with the term "morning sickness" should be drawn, quartered, dipped in rubbing alcohol, tarred, and feathered. Morning my ass. I'm sick all day and all night. I have to wake up every two hours all night to eat something or else I'll yak. If I so much as think about food, I want to yak. I gag every time I cough, brush my teeth, clear my throat, breathe deeply, blink. Nothing tastes good and I'm so fucking sick of eating crackers (I've gone through saltines, Carr's water crackers, Dr. Krackers, and am now onto Wheat Thins), jello, apples (which seem to offer the most immediate cure) and only drinking Gatorade and 7-Up.

Plus, to top it all off, two weeks ago Spousal Unit brought home a lovely little flu bug from work (we've traced it to a Scientist in Illinois. Fucking Land of Lincoln...). He had the trots a couple of times, puked three times, and went to bed. Me, I puked every 15 minutes for 6-7 hours, every 30 minutes for the next 6 hours, and had to spend 12 hours in the ER getting oxygen, IV fluids and anti-nausea drugs. (They gave me 3 liters of fluid before I started peeing again -- I was a total raisin. It was gross.) Then, I had to spend the next week in bed, I felt so awful.

So, now, there is, apparently, an ALIVE separate individual colonizing me somewhere about my midsection. It is showing enough of its presence that I've had to buy pregnant pants because my gut won't fit into any of my regular clothes (is there anything uglier than elastic waistbands and giant fabric stomach panels?) And, while, yes, I did want this, and yes, I'm overjoyed, yadda yadda yadda, I'm also more than a little freaked out that there is this thing moving around and wiggling and kicking INSIDE OF ME. When does that ever happen in popular culture and turn out well? (Alien, Aliens, Alien Resurrection, Predator vs. Alien, anyone?) And, even worse, I think is that sometime, this thing is going to want to get out. The options for how that is accomplished are all less than appealing. Spousal Unit keeps looking at me with this shit-eating-grin as I'm lying around moaning and trying not to barf, and all I can do is glare and declare that I'll never do this again. He says "yes, dear" and continues to grin, that bastard.

Why am I telling you all of this now? Well, it all comes back, of course, to the raison d'etre of this here blog. The bloody awful dissertation (or BAD for short). Today, in two hours, I'm meeting with my advisor to report on my "progress" of the last few months and to receive comments on the chapter that I had revised and turned in before Christmas. I will, of course, tell him that I've been too busy cooking up another human being to have done any dissertation work. When one comes home from teaching, eats dinner and falls asleep on the couch at 6:30, there isn't much room for the dissertation. I'm hoping to reassure him that the fabled "second trimester" will be incredibly productive as the nausea leaves me alone (please, dear god, let the nausea leave me alone!!) and I can really get down to business then. All of the preexisting deadlines still remain (I have to finish before the fall or my job is in jeopardy) and have now taken on an added intensity given the fact that come September there will be a squalling infant demanding all of my time and attention. But, still, I'm terrified that he's going to tell me that my previous revisions are crap, that the whole dissertation is crap, and that I should just throw in the towel, apply for unemployment, and look forward to a future of quilted housecoats, fuzzy pink curlers, and filthy diapers.

In the next two hours, I'm going to read over the comments he made on my introduction that he sent a few weeks ago that I have been too sick (and too scared) to look at. Then, I'm going to re-read the chapter I gave to him so that I have at least some idea of what he might be talking about when he shares his comments with me. This might be an important step since as of right now I could no more tell you what that chapter was about than I could keep down a triple cheese burger.

So, wish me luck as I face the terrifying and keep your fingers crossed that at the very least, I manage not to barf on his shoes.

Happy Holidays

2006-12-23T13:06:00.000-05:00

Well, finally, the semester has come to an end. I'm wiped out. How about you all?

Top 3 Greatest Quotes from the Post-Semester Grade-a-Palooza:

"The American Revolution was an important cause of conflict between the Americans and the British." (Um, huh.)

"This issue was at the centerfold of the battle." (They were clearly surfing porn while they wrote their final paper.)

"During this semester there have been many themes in American history." (Yes. I'm so glad you paid attention.)

Reading things like this makes one realize how limited my impact is on the students. Alas. But, I did get a very flattering evaluation on ratemyprof in which I was deemed a "smoking" version of Velma from Scooby Doo who Fred would have dumped Daphne for. I don't quite know how to take it, but I suppose it is all for the good. I do wear a lot of turtlenecks with skirts, so maybe that is it. I'd rather they said that I inspired them for profound thoughts and improved their written work. But, as the above quotes reveal, perhaps that simply isn't the case. I'll just have to satisfy myself with unmasking the dastardly villians of American History.

So, now I'm off to see Spousal Unit's family and my Dad in the Big City for a few days. After that, it's back to the dissertation grind. I'm just now finishing the chapter revisions that I was working on eons ago. But, I am pounding out the new conclusion as we speak and will send it off in the next hour. I'll return to daily updates on chapter progress when I return (starting Friday).

Cheers to you all -- I hope you have a holiday season filled with love and laughter and joy with your families and friends.

SG

Oh, Deer.

2006-11-19T13:50:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago on Wednesday I stayed late on campus to show a movie to my seminar on the Civil War in American Culture and Memory. We were on the Counterfactual History week, so we were studying various re-thinkings of the outcome of the war that posit the South as victors. They're reading Harry Turtledove's "Guns of the South," and some theory about the value of counterfactual history to historians, so I thought I'd show them C.S.A, a really interesting indie film that is essentially a mocumentary in the style of Ken Burns about the history of America since the Confederate victory. It is punctuated by advertisements for racist products, most of which turn out to be real. It's a great, uncomfortable film that seems to say ultimately, that the South did actually win the Civil War after all, an idea that more than one historian has advocated -- probably most ably by David Blight. So, I ordered a few pizzas, made a salad, bought some soda at the grocery (where a kid proceeded to vomit in front of me in the dairy section with a resounding splat), and showed the film to the students. They loved it, I loved it, so it was a good time even though it was about 10:00 by the time I left campus for my hour drive home.

I got into the car and start driving on the small, dark, two-lane remote state highways that constitute the major route from my hometown to the campus. Right away I felt kind of weird -- it was raining pretty hard, and visibility was really low. Plus, the car kept hydroplaning because there was so much water in the road. About 10 minutes into the drive, I thought, Man, wouldn't it be great to just sleep in my office -- hole up there and truck through some of the 186 papers and quizzes I've got backlogged? But it seemed so lame to backtrack just because it was raining. I've driven through plenty of rain before, so, I talked myself into continuing. Boy, was that dumb.

I was about 20 minutes from home in a particularly remote section of the route and going at a respectable pace (50?) when I rounded a curve and saw a huge deer in the left lane crossing into my lane on the right, and taking her time about it, too. I slammed on the brakes, but had time enough to know without a doubt that I was going to hit that deer as my wheels slid on the wet road. The car slid, screeched, and then -- whump. The deer went flying. If it wasn't so horrific, it would have been kind of funny -- it flew in that way that the fake cow does in Monty Python's Holy Grail cow catapult -- with a rigidity that looks plastic. Another layer of unreality was added to this awful scene by the fact that Patrick Tull continued to narrate Desolation Island through the iPod, saying something like "Avast there, belay the yardarm you scurvy dogs!" or "Clew up, clew up, halliards there, maintopsail!" Nothing like priatespeak to help you through the adrenalin rush and terror of a car accident.

I pulled over, and was shaking so hard I couldn't get the damned iPod to stop. I finally managed to turn it off, and then sat there for a moment just freaking out, before I got out my cell phone. Generally, I have no cell signal between home and campus -- it really is the back end of nowhere, so cell phone towers aren't a high priority. Frankly, it's pretty amazing that electricity has made it that far, really. But, miraculously, I had signal. A friend later suggested that the fear and adrenalin I was giving off must have boosted the receiver on the phone. I don't know, but I was so thankful that I could reach Spousal Unit. While we talked, I got out of the car to assess the damage -- it wasn't too bad: front bumper, grill, hood, and right front panel. But, the car was drivable, so I made it home. The estimate was about $2000 smakers worth of damage. Not to mention yet another strike against Stewgad's killing karma. This makes the 5th critter I've hit in a year. I swear, I'm not a bad driver and I don't deliberately seek out small (or large) furry things to take out of this mortal plane. But somehow, I've hit a bird, two suicidal chipmunks who literally waited on the side of the road until my front tire was perpendicular to their path and then ran as fast as they could to make it under my tire at the precise right moment, and a strange rat-like creature that may have been a small possum. So, now I can add a deer of the list of things that I have personally dispatched from this particular life cycle.

I was talking to a senior faculty member a few weeks ago and telling him about my tally and he couldn't believe it. "Stewgad," he said, "In 25 years of commuting on that road I have never hit an animal. Twenty-five years. What is wrong with you?" I suggested that that question has formed the core of my identity for the past decade or so. OK, not really, but still, what is wrong with me? Why do I have such a deadly driving record? Maybe I've been a small furry thing in many previous lives and I'd been repeatedly hit by a car and that these critters I've hit thus far were the incarnations of the folk who hit me and this is some kind of payback. Or maybe, I didn't really hit that deer and that, as a colleague suggested, baby Jesus and the Easter Bunny swooped down in their UFO and transported it off to the North Pole where Santa will fix it and add it to his contingency of flying deer. (That sucker did really fly!) Maybe this year while we're sitting around waiting for the Christmas loot, we'll hear sprightly footsteps on the roof and the rousing cry of "On Dasher, on Dancer, on Donner, and Gimpy!"

Hey, a guilty critter-murdering girl with a major car repair in her future can dream, can't she?

Revelation

2006-11-08T15:06:00.000-05:00

As I was packing up my bag for class this morning, I had this huge revelation.

Here it is:

I've been acting, believing, feeling, and living as if I had already failed at this dissertation.

As if I had already failed.

...

Which is, of course, completely mental. I haven't finished it or submitted it or even really gotten much feedback, so how could it be a failure? It was so strange, I was just putting my stuff in my bag and it just hit me -- that I need to stop believing that the time it has taken me or the revisions that are required of me or the work I have yet to do is a sign of failure. No wonder I've been feeling beaten down and discouraged. No wonder I've struggled to get myself to work on it. I've been seeing the whole thing as a fait accompli. (Which I just looked up for the spelling: "a thing that has been decided so that those affected by it have no option but to accept." I SO was not giving myself other options than failure.) I wonder if I did it because I thought subconsciously that by assuming I was already a failure, then I was emotionally and mentally protected if it turns out I do indeed fail at it. Regardless, it seems pretty damned dumb to shoot myself in the foot like that before I've even had a chance to join the race. Sheesh.

A good thing to realize, I think, though.

---------------------------

p.s. Joyful day for us blue state feminists!!

p.s.s. Speaking of which, I love it when my assumptions are overthrown by my students. One of my meathead football-type dudes came to class last week in a bright pink tee-shirt that said on the front "This is what a feminist looks like." Brilliant.

By Request: Textbook Trivia

2006-11-07T13:49:00.000-05:00

As a history professor, I'm about as un-old school as you can get. For one thing, I am an utter disaster with names and dates and other historical "facts." When my students ask me, "Hey, Professor Stewgad, when did this happen?" I look at them blankly and say, "What do I look like, Google?" Or vaguely reply, "Um, the 19th century?" (Ok, not really, but almost.)

I figure that since I can't remember names and dates, I shouldn't be asking anyone else to do so. Consequently, I don't give exams. I have developed a nice-sounding pedagogical justification to accompany this personal failing. I have come to believe that all exams do is teach people how to take exams. And I wonder, why are my students going to need to know how to do that in 10 years? They won't. But, will they need to know how to write coherently? One can only hope. So instead of taking tests, my students write papers. Lots of them -- of varying lengths. This sucks royally for me because I'm constantly behind in my grading, but I'm pretty passionate about my reasons behind it. (That isn't to say I don't think that other profs shouldn't have exams. They absolutely should. But I'd feel like such a hypocrite.)

One of the consequences of this that I readily accept is that the students don't always read the textbook as carefully as they should because the know they won't be tested on the material contained within. This tends to get pretty ugly around the middle of the semester when the students are bogged down with other stuff and I'm trying to conduct a discussion on material that absolutely no one has ever glanced at. At that point, I pull out Textbook Trivia. It is strategically timed to occur in the week that a paper is due. (for reasons that shall become clear below.)

I tell the students on Monday that "it would be in their best interests if they read the assignment very carefully" for Wednesday. They all gulp and nod, expecting a pop-quiz. When Wednesday rolls around, they all come into class and sit there pouring over the textbook as if there was no tomorrow. They all look terrified. (I must confess that this too is part of the fun for me.)

Then, when class starts I tell them to put everything away except their textbook. They start looking a little confused. I then tell them that there is no quiz. (To oos and ahs and an occasional cheer.) I then tell them, however, that they will be competing in four groups for a 48-hour extension on the next paper assignment. They tend to get very excited at that point.

Then I ask for a volunteer -- someone who may be uncomfortable speaking in public. They usually hesitate at that point, but then someone always volunteers. That student's job is to keep score and to determine which team has their hand up first. Then, I tell that volunteer that congratulations, they get the extension automatically. (This usually elicits groans, and some protests at which point it is good to remind the group that this game is not a democracy, but a dictatorship run by me.)

I then divide the class into groups, and hand out the rules. Here are they are:

-------------------
4 teams of 6-7 people. Everyone gets 5 minutes to review the chapter.

There are 4 kinds of questions ranging in points from 1-4. 1 & 2 point questions must be answered individually. 3 & 4 point questions can be considered by the whole group, which will have 1 minute to consult. (I hand my trusty battered Timex Ironman to the volunteer student as a timer.)

Each person must answer at least one question for the whole team to get credit.

The whole question must be read before you raise your hand. If you raise your hand before the whole question is read, your team is disqualified from answering.

There are no points deducted for wrong answers, however, any challenges made to the rulings of the volunteer or the game host (me) will result in point deductions. (I implemented this one recently after a 10 minute argument about who had their hand up first threatened to derail the whole project.)

The host reserves the right to award partial points for any incomplete answers.
---------------------

Ahead of time, I've prepped about 75-ish 4x6 cards with questions and answers on them taken from the chapter (for a 55 minute class). I assign point values based on the difficulty of the question. Harder questions are usually specific details (i.e. "What was Zachary Taylor's nickname? is a 4 pointer. (FYI - Old Rough -and-Ready) "Name 2 Plains Indian Tribes" is a 2 pointer. 3 and 4 point questions are often analytical: "Critique Manifest Destiny.") For 3 and 4 point questions, I give a lot of partial credit and let the other teams answer if/when the first team gets the answer wrong or incomplete.

When there is about 10 minutes left in the game, if the teams are pretty evenly matched in score (which they always have been) I raise the stakes. I tell them that if EVERY team can reach as certain score or gain 20 points in the next 10 minutes, that I'll give the extension to everyone. This tends to eliminate the competitive anger that has usually emerged at this point and shifts the energy to cooperation. They start helping the teams that are behind, and stop trying to kill each other, which is always good.

The game is fun, the students love it, and it is a day when everyone gets really active in their participation. But, the really great thing about this is that it usually elicits a pretty interesting discussion -- as the students talk about the answers, they argue with each other about which details are important, which ideas are correct, and how to understand and interpret the material. It may seem juvenile for 19-22 year olds, but I swear, they love it. They even forget that they're learning. And, I suspect that when they miss an answer, and hear from a competing team that John Tyler's nickname was "his accidency," they don't soon forget it.

Thanks for asking for details, Scriv and Flavia! Let me know how it works if you try it out in your classroom!