Recent Quotables

This week, Luke has come up with some great one-liners. At my expense, of course. But still. If we can't laugh at ourselves...

Here's a taste of our week:

Background to this first one: I painted the inside of our pantry white the other day while Luke was at school. I got some paint in my hair, of course, because that's the kind of painter I am...and I have a lot of hair. Luke, a few hours later, after I had cleaned out the paint:

Luke: Mom, I think you still have some paint in your hair.
Me: No, honey, I'm sure I got it all out.
Luke: Mom, look right here! There's a white hair! And some more white hairs.
Me: Ummm...that's not paint. Those hairs are just white.
Luke: Really? How do you grow them like that? White roots?

No, my dear, in fact, YOU grow them like that.


And a random conversation in the car on the way home from school yesterday:

Luke: I'm going to be a veterinarian when I grow up.
Me: That's great, honey.
Luke: 'Cause I love animals. I just love animals.
Me: That's great, honey. I love animals, too.
Luke: But you didn't become a veterinarian, mom. You just became a taker-care-of-Luker.

Breakfast, anyone?

I'm well aware that this is a blog about mommy stuff and not necessarily wifey stuff. But since all children have fathers somewhere, and many mothers have husbands, I think a good can-you-believe-my-husband story is in order once in a while. And this is also about a mother (that would be me) almost losing her mind, so I think it qualifies.

Not long after our return from Christmas travels, which would also be not long after Eliza died (you'll see why that's important soon), I started noticing a maple syrup smell once in a while when our heat kicked on (Okay, some of you--all of you?--are now saying, I've heard this already!). It was at random times and in random locations, especially near the computer. At first, I thought maybe Luke had somehow gotten some syrup on the computer chair (which is, incidentally, upstairs, far from the kitchen), but I couldn't locate the smell in the chair. In fact, I only smelled it sometimes, and only when the heat kicked on. Sometimes, I thought I smelled it on Sam, when he came to wake me up to say goodbye before he left for work; he never knew what I was talking about. Once, I thought I'd located it in the microwave, of all places, which I cleaned thoroughly to no avail.

And neither Sam nor Luke ever smelled it.

(So here's where the part about Eliza dying becomes important).

I started to think I was losing it. Why not, really? Three years of sleep deprivation plus indescribable grief; I had read plenty about what kinds of weird things sometimes happen to people who lose children. One mother I read about couldn't taste a thing for months. Why couldn't weird smells fall into the same category?

So I decided to keep quiet about the smell. I wouldn't want to reveal my insanity, after all. And then it seemed to go away, or maybe it was the horrible congestion from my cold that masked it. Either way, I started to think I might someday be able to eat a pancake again (Did I mention that I hate maple syrup? So this wasn't helping).

And then, a couple weeks after it started and then waned, the smell was back (coincidentally, at the same time as I recovered from my cold). Stronger. I got worried. I started asking Sam and Luke again if they smelled it, and Luke (mama-pleaser that he is) thought maybe he did. I resorted to asking others who came into my house, "What does it smell like in here?" One said, "Something good! Something sweet...". Another: "Pancakes!"

I was vindicated. My heat was definitely--somehow--emanating a maple syrup odor. My poor husband suffered from many days of, "Can't you smell it?" and "But So-and-So could! How can you not?"

So what did I do? What would you do, my 21st century blog-reading friend? Of course. I googled it.

And the results were even more vindicating: okay, so I didn't exactly find an answer to what it means if your HOUSE heat smells like maple syrup, but apparently, if your car heat smells like maple syrup, you need to get your coolant checked. And my house heat pump has coolant, too, right? I thought I had it all figured out. (Incidentally, there was also a big scare in Manhattan some time ago when lots of people smelled maple syrup; though there was no clear connection, the suggestion by some that it had been a terrorist attack only fueled my certainty that there was most definitely something wrong.)

So I called Sam at work, both ecstatic and in a panic. "I think we have a coolant leak! I've got to call a heat repair guy!" The smell was worse that day than it had been yet. And I had a terrible headache, evidence, I was sure, that I was being slowly poisoned by burning leaking coolant (you'll remember that grief/paranoia connection here, no doubt). He agreed, and I set about the task of finding someone to fix my heat.

I don't like calling repairmen. At all. Now picture me calling several, trying to find someone who could come soon (to put a quick end to the slow poisoning, of course) and not charge an arm and a leg for the service call.

"What's wrong with the heat? Blowing cold, or not blowing at all?"
"Umm, it smells like maple syrup. Have you ever heard of that?"
Inevitable stifled laugh, "No, can't say I have."

And so it went. Those weren't my favorite phone calls. But doggone it, I had a problem, and I was going to be the one to save my family.

Two days later, the chosen repairman finally came. For the record, he was very kind. He admitted he smelled something; in fact, he could taste something because his dental work was sensitive to toxic substances. I kid you not. Toxic substances. I was definitely going to be vindicated.

Two hours and as many hundreds of dollars later (because, of course, there was something else that needed fixing), he had no answer to my maple syrup smell. No coolant leak. No burned out something-or-others. I had instructions to open the windows, run the fans, change the filters, etc. But no answers. It was over.

And the next day, when I got up at 7am, Sam long gone to work as usual, the smell was worse than ever. Frantic, I called him at work: "Did you smell it? You MUST have smelled it before you left! It's so strong this morning!"

Came Sam's absolutely calm, nonchalant answer: "Oh, that? That's just the oatmeal I ate for breakfast."

Insert dramatic pause.

Feigning equal calm, I asked, "Oatmeal? What do you mean, oatmeal?", all the while making my way to the pantry. I never buy oatmeal. None of us likes oatmeal (except Sam, apparently). "You mean, this oatmeal?!? This MAPLE SYRUP AND BROWN SUGAR instant microwavable oatmeal, which is almost gone?!? This oatmeal I've never seen before?" (Which, incidentally, was purchased and delivered by lovely friends--who deny any involvement--along with other groceries shortly after Eliza died). "HAVE YOU BEEN EATING THIS EVERY DAY?" Needless to say, I had lost my feigned nonchalance...and apparently, Sam had taken notice.

"Well, not every day..."

We like to think we can blame all our insane moments on our children. Thank you, my dear husband, for reminding me that it's not ALL their fault.

That's an Interesting Way of Putting It

Friday brought a rural adventure on a friend's farm, complete with egg-collecting, baby-goat-chasing, falling-in-a-creek activities. However, in order for these festivities to take place, it meant that my two-year old would have to forgo her afternoon nap, a risky venture for someone deep in the whiny toddler stage. Also, did I mention she woke up over an hour earlier than normal that morning? Clearly the sleep deprivation of having a 4-week old had affected my abilities to make rational decisions. Nevertheless, we made the trek to the farm with Daniele and Luke and much fun was had by all.
Then it was time to go home.
Luke was in the back seat, chomping on pitas and nut butter, listening to Curious George on CD, when a pitiful cry erupted from my precious offspring. We looked back, and there she was, writhing in her car seat, eyes at half mast, as she sobbed in utter exhaustion, "I don't want my eyes. I don't want my eyes." Oh honey, I know how you feel..believe me, at 2 in the morning, at 5 in the morning...there are many times when I don't want my eyes either!

Samuel's Birth Story

Samuel will be four months old tomorrow. In honor of the occasion, I have finally finished writing this. It was a short labor, but it's a long story!

On Saturday, October 11 Richard and I went to a family dinner to celebrate the nuptials of his Uncle Andy and new wife, Michelle. Our young nephews, Tyson and Dominic, were very interested in my belly and curious about how a baby could be inside. Indeed, the upcoming baby arrival was the subject of much conversation - everyone seemed to agree with me when I mentioned I’d probably have the baby at least a week late (I was due on the 16^th). I was feeling great, enjoying my salmon, and thinking about all the projects I would be doing in the next couple of weeks before the baby arrived to keep myself busy. I hadn’t had any false labor or increase of Braxton-Hicks or anything that would cause me to think I would be going into labor later that night…

Fast forward to 1:57am on October 12. I went to the bathroom (as I usually did about every half hour!) and noticed some blood on the toilet paper. I woke up Richard to show him; we quickly got out our childbirth books and surmised that this must be the “bloody show”. I told Richard, “Ok, let’s not get excited here. I want to take one last walk around Greenlake tomorrow and go apple picking, so let’s just get a good night’s rest.” I thought I’d probably be having a baby on Monday (it was Sunday morning). We both got back in bed and I tried to force myself to fall asleep. But I started getting these cramps that felt just like PMS. After trying to ignore them, I decided I’d just have to get up and do some things to keep myself busy. I cleaned the bathroom, put in a load of laundry, and swept the floor. Halfway through sweeping the floor, the cramps were getting so intense that I had to sit down. At 2:19am I started throwing up salmon! I had wanted to switch the mattress on our bed for the guest room mattress (since ours is so high) and told Richard I could easily help him do it. I couldn’t. I tried to hold up one mattress while he moved the other out of the way, but had to put it on the floor during what I now realized was another contraction. After 2 hours, the pain was getting so great that I thought to myself, “I might just need to go to the hospital and get me some drugs. I don’t know if I can do it. This is supposed to be the ‘latent’ phase and I can’t even handle this pain.” However, my next thought was, “I can DO this. And if I don’t after all this talk about having a natural birth, I am going to be so disappointed with myself. So, let me remember all those coping with pain strategies from my childbirth class…” Around that time Richard told me the contractions were lasting about 1 minute and 30 seconds. I told him (with great annoyance), “No they’re not! You must be timing it wrong. They are not supposed to be that long yet!” I called my mother and said, “I’m in labor. HOW did you do this twelve times!?” I had to get off the phone quickly as another contraction took over my body.

Richard kept saying he wanted to call Sally, our midwife, and I kept telling him no because I didn’t want to wake her up. Finally, around 4am he called. She got the update, talked to me, and then asked him to check back in twenty minutes. In the next phone call, I was unable to talk to her because of the contractions. She told us to ask Esther (my sister-in-law) to come downstairs and she would be there shortly. By the time Esther came down (which was fast) I was on my hands and knees on the bed. My body was now convulsing in a way that felt like throwing up but out the other end. I had no control over these heaves! It didn’t dawn on me that I had reached the pushing stage already. I was making these terrible noises and there was a lot of pressure in my back (later I found out it was probably because the baby was turned sideways). A few minutes later I felt myself “peeing”. I said to Richard, “Sorry, but I’m peeing on this bed right now.” A second later there was a gush of “pee”. I said, “I can’t help it, I’m peeing all over!” (Thank goodness we had put plastic down under the sheets!) I heard Esther tell Richard it might be my water breaking and he should smell it. By his silence and sudden stillness, I knew it must not have been pee. I think Richard was pretty stressed at that point and thinking he might be delivering a baby.

Fortunately, Sally showed up soon after with all her equipment and Audrey, her apprentice, followed. She said, “Well, I’m not even going to bother to check you because I’m positive you’re already 10cm.” For the next two hours I pushed and heaved. For a while I was on my hands and knees and (I’m embarrassed to admit because I didn’t think I’d do it) yelling at the top of my lungs. Finally, Sally said, “Um, Susannah, I know yelling like that might feel good, but you need to bring all that energy down.” I was very annoyed and thought, “I’m having this baby and I can do what I want.” But then thought, “Wait a second, she’s the professional. I better listen to her.” So, I switched to more of the ‘groaning’ and breathing sort of noises and things started to get better right away. Sally then said, “Ok, Susannah, I am going to reach in there and see where the baby is. It will feel just a bit uncomfortable [the understatement of the year].” She said, “Oh, I feel a little ear there!” That reminded me, “Oh yeah, there’s a baby in there!” (What she told me later was that she was actually turning him because he was sideways.) But the other problem was that I just was not pushing efficiently. No one tells you how to push exactly in childbirth class, but once I listened to Sally (“Push like you’re doing a big poop!”), we made some progress. It also helped to foucs on the baby. I started to encourage him/her to come out, saying things like, “Come on baby, we can do it. Come out of there so we can meet you.”

Sally had me move a few different times; at various points I was on the toilet, sideways on the bed holding my leg in the air, and finally, squatting over a stool at the end of our bed. Richard would hold me as I squatted down and pushed during a contraction and then pull me back up onto the stool after. I should add that he was really sore the next day. His chest had scratches and bruises all over it from me grabbing it and he could barely lift his arms. He was an amazing, perfect partner and never left my side (or back, rather). Actually, at one point he did leave to go to the bathroom and I started yelling, “Where’s Richard? RICHARD, I need you!!” And then he came running back. Also, my sister-in-law, Esther, was incredible – bringing me Gatorade, ice packs, and doing just about every little thing that needed to be done. I think she was better than a professional doula. Anyway, so I kept squatting there at the end of the bed and finally Audrey said, “I see the head, you’re doing great!” I responded, “What color is the hair?” She replied, “It looks black.” I was immensely relieved because I really didn’t want a red-headed half-Asian! Richard and I both reached down and felt the baby’s head. Sally had happened to leave the room to take a phone call but came rushing back as Audrey nervously called her in. Esther brought in a crockpot of hot water and washcloths and they were trying to massage me and heat it up down there so I didn’t tear. Sally said, “Ok, try not to push.” I was thinking, “WHAT!? You gotta be kidding me.” I tried but, like I mentioned before, I had no control over those pushes. My body was doing its own thing whether I wanted it to or not. She had been continually checking our vitals the whole time, and I think (this part’s a little blurry) that the baby’s heartbeat had dipped or she had lost it and she was worried because she then said, “Ok, just push.” A couple contractions later, out came a baby – swoosh! It was 8:26am.

I looked down and saw a little creature all covered with goo with a giant cone-head. Richard promptly yelled, “It’s a BOY!!” All I was thinking at that point was, “It’s a BABY!!” Sally urgently said to Audrey, “Cut the cord, cut the cord!” Audrey did so, I guess (I felt pretty out of it) and they rushed our baby boy over to the bed and started massaging him with warm receiving blankets, which Esther had brought in. Someone said, “Oh, he’s peeing! That’s a good sign!” He was making little whiney sounds but no big cries (like you see on TV). I was perched on the stool watching, but also aware that all this blood and gook was pouring out of me. Sally turned to me and said, “Ok, Susannah, he has good color, but he is not breathing like he should be. We’re giving him oxygen [she had had the tank all ready before he came out].” At that point, I said to Richard, “Go talk to him. He knows your voice.” I heard Richard encouraging the baby to breathe and I also heard him call the baby Samuel. Even though we had been debating between Micah and Samuel, I thought, “Yes, he is Samuel. That’s who he is.” Sally told us, “Ok, so when he has the oxygen mask on, he’s fine, but every time I try to take it off, his breathing is shallow again. Susannah, lie down on the floor right there. Esther, put down the camera and CALL 911 RIGHT NOW!” Richard came over to me and we were gripping each other’s hands and praying, praying, praying for Samuel to breathe and be ok.

Really quickly, two fire trucks and an ambulance came. Suddenly there were about 8 guys in our bedroom. Mind you, I’m lying there on the floor naked and when they walk in what do I say? “Thank you so much for coming.” They agreed with Sally that he should be taken to the hospital to be looked at. It wasn't a life-threatening situation, because he was breathing and crying but not like he should have been at 10 minutes old so it was still scary. One man carried Sam out in a blanket, and two other guys carried me (with towels on now) – and a good thing too because I couldn’t imagine walking anywhere at that point. When we got to the ambulance and they started shutting the doors, I panicked because I couldn’t see Richard. “Wait, my husband!” Then I heard him call from the front seat, “I’m here, I’m here!” The guy held Samuel next to me and everyone kept asking how I was doing. “Fine, I’m just worried about him.” Sam had his eyes scrunched shut and an oxygen mask on, but he kept wiggling and trying to turn his head to get it off. I said, “Can I see him? I haven’t seen him yet.” He lowered Sam so I could take a good look. He was beautiful and utterly perfect.

We quickly reached University of Washington hospital. We went up the elevator to Labor & Delivery, they put Samuel on the table to examine him, took off the mask, and he promptly started screaming his head off! It was music to my ears. He was already breathing strongly on his own. The nurses didn’t even dress him before they brought him over to me and said, “Let’s get this baby nursing.” It took a few tries, but he got the hang of it and I had plenty of colostrum (darn stuff had been leaking out of me for months).

No one knows why Samuel didn’t breathe well on his own at first. I guess it just took him a little while longer to adjust to the world. It might have been because it was such a fast birth. Or maybe because he was stuck for a while in my pelvic area during the pushing - which turns out to be pretty narrow. He actually came out with some scratches and bruises on the top of his head from rubbing back and forth on my bone and a cone head that looked like he was extracted with a vacuum. We had to wait around in the hospital room (I was in a bed, so it was fine) from about 8:50am to around 4pm because they needed a pediatrician to come check him over and apparently it was a very busy day in the NICU. Richard’s family came to exclaim over and hold our beautiful baby. My second-degree tear was stitched up by an intern (that was just fine because I knew no pain could compare to the pain I had already had) and I went through the ordeal of urinating for the first time (no one tells you how difficult that part is). Finally, a doctor came and examined Sam. She told us he looked great and that we could go home at anytime. Richard’s family had all gathered at our apartment to welcome Samuel back home.

I felt prouder than I had in all of my life; proud of our gorgeous son, proud of our teamwork, but also proud of myself. It was the same feeling I had had after running the NY Marathon, but just about ten times stronger. I did it! I'm so glad little Samuel was born at home and I'm grateful the midwife reacted so quickly and played it safe. As someone wrote after seeing "The Business of Being Born, "Far from a refutation of home birth, Epstein's complicated delivery serves to demonstrate how a well-orchestrated birth can quickly shift from home to hospital when the situation warrants." I'm so thankful for the kind ambulance drivers and all of the nurses (who were so supportive - the one who worked most with us is a certified nurse midwife herself and had trained under Sally). Most of all, I am thankful to God for blessing us with Samuel! Would I do the whole thing again? Of course.

Anticipating Again

I heard a reading of this poem today, which seemed so appropriate as I anticipate with all of you--eagerly, admit it--my homemade valentines, probably under construction at school or with Daddy even as I write, so soon to be delivered.

"The Lanyard"
By Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I can't wait to see what colors mine is.