Wanderlust

The Crib Saga

Hopefully the recent inundation of baby news hasn't totally bored you, but I've been sitting on this story for a little while and now that the saga has come to a conclusion, I'd like to share it with you. And ah... what a story it is.

Many of you may remember the enormous box that appeared onscreen at the beginning of the baby shower back in early November. That was the new crib, courtesy of my generous parents who thought their grandson outta have SOME place to sleep not completely consumed by dog hair. We didn't intitally assemble the crib for a week or so due to our fear that it would be an overwhelming task. And so, because we are enormously intelligent, we decided to assemble the crib one weeknight right before dinner when we were hungry, tired and cranky. It wasn't pretty.

There were some minor cosmetic knicks and scratches from shipping, but we weren't too concerned about it until we began to try to attach the front rails. Didn't fit. After measuring, we deduced that one of the holes had been drilled incorrectly. Disgusted with the whole thing, we abandoned assembly and the next day I attempted to get ahold of someone at the company to send me a replacement.

I say attempted because it actually took me two days of continous calling to get through. I also tried email but never, even to this day, have gotten a response from any of the five emails I sent through their website. For an entire day, everytime I would dial their number, all I would get was the buzz of a busy line. When I finally broke through to the automated system on the morning of the second day, I was estatic. I waited on hold while the cell phone minutes ticked away for nearly half an hour. I was just jumping into the truck to go to work, cell phone glued to my ear, when I fumbled and dropped. The flip top closed and everything seemed to proceed in slow motion as I screamed with the agony of defeat. I had lost the call and my place in the automated system pecking order. Shit.

I did finally get through to a real person around noon that same day after another half hour of listening to some lousy radio station they have piped through the system. The crib company was out of Vancouver, Canada and apparently, there ain't shit for music up there and the morning shows are severely annoying. The rep was very pleasant and after taking all my invoice and order numbers, promised to ship me out a replacement rail ASAP (which from Canada means at least two weeks). A large box arrived via Fed ex just before Thanksgiving, two weeks from the day I had contacted the company. We came home that night, rolled up our sleeves and attempted to finish what we started two weeks ago.

When we unwrapped the replacement piece, we discovered we had another problem. It was the right piece, but the wrong finish. The wood was even a different thickness. I was puzzled and pissed. The invoice included with the original crib had stated the crib was "Oak." The invoice included with the rail stated the replacement piece was also "Oak." After looking on the website, I realized that the original crib we had received had been the WRONG one all along. It had never been OAK. And come to find out, my Mom hadn't even ordered Oak anyway. She ordered "Natural" originally. I tried to look at samples on the website of the different finishes and thought perhaps we had originally recieved the crib in a finish called "Cognac," whatever the hell that is.

I called the company again, the day after Thanksgiving, and got through the first time thanks to American consumer's distraction with shopping on Black Friday. The rep asked me to send pics via email and gave me her address so we could figure out which finish I had and send out the correct replacement part once and for all. I did that within the hour and waited for her to contact me. When I didn't hear back from her that day, I called the following day and after another brief stint on hold, reached a rep who told me that the woman I had been working with was online with someone else, but that she would speak with her and we would get the issue resolved. I waited on hold and then the rep returned to say they were shipping me out a new part in "Cognac" but that particular crib was made in Indonesia, so it would be THREE weeks before it would reach me. At this point I asked if they could just send me the crib that had originally been ordered and have done with it, but the rep insisted that the process for clearing a whole new crib would have to go through the upper teirs of management, which would take MUCH longer. And in the meantime, Owen has reached college age and no longer wants to sleep in a crib, cognac or not. So I said fuck it, fine, whatever.

Days before Christmas, the new rail arrived. I came home from work and George led me by the hand into Owen's room. "Look what came today, but..." and he uncovered the wrapping. It was a darker wood that still matched NONE of the parts or the original crib we had received. I sat down and sobbed and cried and blubbered for about half an hour. God damn Canadians.

When I came home Christmas Eve, George had the crib assembled. When I inspected it closely, I saw he had used the original rail. Turns out we had a finish called "Honey Pine," which looks quite nice and matches some of the other woods in the room- but it sure isn't Oak OR Cognac. Now we have two brand spanking new front crib rails sitting in the basement for which I am constantly trying to dream up a use for. I asked George if he had drilled a new hole in the rail in order to assemble the crib.

"No," he answered somewhat sheepishly. "When I went to put it together I realized the original piece sort of fit to begin with anyway."

God damn it.

36 weeks: All system are "go" for launch!

We just came back from the 36 week checkup and I'm a "one!" Of course, I could stay a one for a long time, so this is not news of impending delivery. Just another sign that Owen really is going to be joining us sometime in the next couple weeks. I've made it officially to the point of no return. At 36 weeks, once the labor starts, they give the go ahead without reservations. So anytime Owen is ready, we're standing by.

On the other hand though, my midwife has informed me that I'll have to do an IV with antibiotics briefly during delivery, despite my stubborn insistence on au naturale, because I've tested positive for Strep B. It doesn't mean that I'm sick. About one in three women is a carrier for this bacteria and it lives in the intestinal track and is part of the vaginal flora. Isn't a problem unless you're pregnant I guess, and then the baby could accidentally contract it as he struggles through the birth canal, especially if there's a rupture. I guess occasionally babies will die from infection, etc. due to this so they take the necessary precautions to prevent it. I only have to have the IV drip every four hours, and then only for about 20 or 30 minutes. Not so bad, but less than the ideal birth I was looking for. I have a feeling most births never end up being what Mom imagines they might be anyway.

So that's the update on the baby front.

Memoirs on Mommihood: Part VI

END OF DAYS

It's been a sobering experience to hit the 30 day mark. 30 days until Owen makes his appearance, all wrinkled, red and wailing and our lives become permanently impaired. For me, it's almost a relief since I feel like an oceanliner now and I'm not sure where this last five pounds are supposed to go (Dear God, please don't let it be my thighs). When I move through a room, tummy first, I feel like I should have one of those beeping alarms that sound when trucks back up so everyone knows to clear the path of travel. "Gynormous pregnant lady coming through... please step aside sir."

Owen stirs and kicks and froths and generally makes a nuisance of himself from early afternoon into the late evening. Sleep has become an elusive commodity. I lay in bed, tossing, turning, itching and sighing. When I do manage to get some relatively undisturbed shuteye, it's interrupted by the demands of my miniature bladder every half hour.

On the plus side, he's pretty cool to play with these days and we can poke, prod and torture him through my stomach to our heart's content- something I'm not sure child services will allow once he's an independently functioning human. He still gets hiccups often- in fact he's got them right now as I'm typing this and it feels like someone plucking a guitar string repeatedly in your groin muscle. Bet you wanted to know that. The pelvic pain comes and goes. Last night it felt as if he was bound and determined to bust out by grinding his head like a juicer against my closed cervix. We go back to the midwife on Thursday this week and then every week after that.

Owen's room is finished and we'd thought we'd give you a peek. This is a panorama view stitched together. Yes, that's a slinky stretched out above his bed and a hanging ball of twine. We thought we'd give him a head start on geekdom. All the pics on the walls are ones George has taken of trees and the rocking chair is one my parents made for me years ago for Christmas. The cam attached to Owen's bed is so you can watch him sleep online (as fascinating as watching grass grow, I'm sure). We have every intention of continuing to exploit his daily activities for our own amusement as he grows older.

I plan to take a leave of absence from work in mid January, provided I last that long. Until then, it's just a matter of time. 30 more days, to be exact.

An Orgy of Giving: Christmas 2005

I don't know if you really give a shit what we did for Christmas but I'm going to give you the details anyway. Christmas reviews always sound so mundane... "We went to see Uncle Jim and Auntie Kim. It snowed. The cousins were thrilled about their presents. No one was injured in the eggnog incident. Etc, etc..." I'll try to keep it brief and as saracastic as possible, so bear with me.

George and I spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day blissfully alone. This is not to say that we don't love our family and friends, but we apparently like each other's company more since we decided to get married and spend a lifetime trying to get absolutely exasperated and frustrated with each other's idiosyncracies. I had to work until three, but considered it well worth it when I came home and George had assembled the crib as a surprise. He's had a cold and been feeling pretty crappy, so it was a Herculean effort on his part.

So after gorging ourselves on muligatawny stew, we watched some yuletide movies and hung out by the fire Christmas Eve. We rolled out of bed around nine on Christmas and proceeded to tank up on coffee and chai before attempting the untangling of gift wrapping. Stockings come first, and George did an excellent job this year of suprising and delighting me (which is a good thing since he had his name on Santa's naughty list due to my lackluster birthday back in November). My favorite stocking gift was the personalized M&M's in engineering gray and techno yellow printed with messages that said "Kaz is smelly" or "GJ loves Kaz." George was thrilled with the little package stuffed into the bottom of his stocking which contained a top of the line, exasperatingly and unecessarily expensive meat thermometer called a thermopen. (It's what he wanted, folks. Don't blame the giftgiver.)

We had a bit of nourishing, yummy buckwheat for breakfast and moved onto bigger and better gifts under the tree. Once again, George outdid himself and Kitchen Aid would be proud of his efforts. George's gifts were sparse under the tree, but that was because Santa had left a special gift hidden for last. The ever elusive IPOD made its Christmas debute at the Weida house and that was the last I saw of George for the next four hours. We finished up with doggie stockings- Miles is a huge fan of both his new duckie and a flying toy named "Chuck It" (not to be confused with "Chuck-A-Duck,"although it serves the same purpose) and Timber seems to enjoy his chew tire and of course, the big ass bag of Christmas cookie treats.

My Mom, who had planned to haul the whole crew out from Vegas the next day, called to say they were planning on leaving in a few hours instead. I was psyched and George and I spent an hour or two finishing Owen's room up. We had Chicken Satay for dinner and the folks and the sibs arrvied at around nine after getting somewhat lost. We hit the hay rather early. The following day continued Christmas festivities with more family gift unwrapping in the morning, followed by a visit to Babies-R-Us (thanks for the Pack and Play again, Mom and Dad!) and a large dinner that featured Persian Chicken and more rice than most Chinese could eat in a week. George and my brother, Nicholas, spent enormous amounts of time geeking it up over their IPods. The rents and company left in the morning and our Christmas festivities abruptly concluded with the realization that we have alot of shit to do this week. We'll keep you, as always, posted. And yes. This is my version of brevity.

Christmas Eve Essentials

1. Pajamas
2. Eggnog
3. A roaring fire
4. Christmas cookies
5. Stockings swollen with presents
6. It's a Wonderful Life
7. Twinkling lights
8. Freshly fallen snow
9. A dog curled up at your feet
10. George

Okay, so I might be on my own with number 10. That's fine. I don't really want to share anyway.

Liar, Liar pants on fire...

This is what your president said to you in answer to a reporter's question about wiretapping in 2004. While these words were falling from his lips, he had meanwhile signed a secret executive order that overrides the very court he is referencing as a constitutional safeguard to protect your civil liberties.

President George W. Bush, 2004:

"[T]here are such things as roving wiretaps. Now, by the way, any time you hear the United States government talking about wiretap, it requires -- a wiretap requires a court order. Nothing has changed, by the way. When we're talking about chasing down terrorists, we're talking about getting a court order before we do so. It's important for our fellow citizens to understand, when you think Patriot Act, constitutional guarantees are in place when it comes to doing what is necessary to protect our homeland, because we value the Constitution."

This is why I love him...

We were watching an episode of Monster Garage last night where Jesse does a project with the Texas School for the Deaf and Blind shopkids. All but one of the kids was deaf and of course the entire episode there were sign language interpretors so that the kids and the crew could communicate.
George turns to me and says,
"How do they whisper?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's high school. People gossip behind each others backs- that's what kids do. So how do they do it without everyone seeing what they're saying. How do they whisper? Haven't you ever thought of that?"
Nope. But I'm glad you did, honey.

Suburban Christmas

Since not all of you have the joy of living in the homogenized, surreal world of modern suburbia in a staunchly republican and overwhelmingly religious state, we'd thought we'd share some of the joys of the season with you. All of these houses are no more than three blocks from our home and most, if not all of these displays of Christmas extravaganza have been in place since before or the day after Thanksgiving. Is this the Christmas that conservative Christians want to save? Cause I see more Winnie the Pooh and Tigger too than Jesus these days. Are we saving Christmas or Disney?
We were also invited to the neighborhood Christmas party. And since everyone in the neighborhood is apparently Mormon, they don't bother to be secular. I think I have to wash my hair that night.
Also included is a pic of Santa, who stopped by atop a fire engine in what seems to me to a blatant vehicle safety violation.
Happy Holidays, Season's Greetings and pass the ammo... it's a war on Christmas!

Memoirs on Mommihood: Part V

THE BABY ATE MY BRAIN
As we round the final stretch here (pun intended), I have become increasingly cranky. Cranky is probably a kind way to express the torment I have been putting George through. I'm feel like a rabid dog, snarling and snapping and biting the hand that feeds me. But when you every part of your body itches with a mouth watering intensity and gravity seems to have shoved you into a corner of the couch and left you there to suffocate, you feel sure somebody has it out for you.

Besides the everyday severity of physical discomfort, there is the retardation factor. I'm not sure I should be allowed to go out in public. Simple things like driving past your own house or missing the turn to work. Knowing that you must have locked the door like you always do but being absolutely physically unable to remember doing it so that you have to heft your round body out of the car and go check again. Someone will ask for a product and I'll stare at them blankly like an Alzheimer's patient. George has stopped being frustrated with my five second memory and my foggy confusion. I think he's accepted that this is practice for when we're ninety and he'll have to lead me by the hand to our front door. "This is where we live honey. Don't forget next time. Your scaring the neighbor's kids."

Owen is in his thirty-fourth week and a six pounder already. It's hard to imagine where the hell the rest of him is going to fit in there for the next month. My tummy is as tight as a drum and sore from the strain of my muscles attempting to hold together this engorged balloon of a baby. He is still head down, banging away at my cervix and causing intermittent bouts of pain. I am thoroughly annoyed with the frequency with which Owen gets hiccups. He's like the local drunk, sloshed and hiccuping through life. I had hoped he'd be dreaming up a sonata in there, but instead I think he's been sampling the punch. Although the poor kid is floating in his own urine at this point. I'd be drinking too.

Proven Darwian-like theory: Laziness breeds more laziness

So when I was on the phone with my Mom the other day, she remarked that George and I haven't indulged our greed induced fantasies by putting up a Christmas wish list on the website this year. There is one reason and one reason only for this. It's called sheer and utter laziness. When you can't work up the motivation to dream up gift ideas for yourself, you've fallen down the rabbithole, Alice.

In honor of our laziness, I'd like to encourage our loved ones ( and unloved ones- you know who you are) to take the easy way out. You have three options:

1: Get us nothing. You know we deserve it.
2: $
3: Nothing says "I racked my brain and came up with this" like a gift certificate.

Seriously, grownups love gift certificates. It's the intense joy of spending someone else's hard earned cash for once. The following links lead directly to stores that bleed our wallet dry, despite all efforts to stop the hemorrage.
Home Depot
Babies-R-Us
Barnes & Noble
Best Buy
Petco
Target

Happy shopping and Merry Christmas!

Gretchen's Birthday

Today is my sister, Gretchen's, Birthday. Today I've been thinking alot about her birthday because she's my sister, and because I saw her being born. This past weekend Kaz and I went to a child birthing class to learn about birth. During this class we watched a video with some pretty vivid video of babies actually being born. It reminded my in a visceral way of when I watched my sister being born when I was 5 years old. I distinctly remember it, even though it was 26 years ago. I also remember my brother (or I, I'm not sure) saying that Gretchen's head looks like shit. Well on this video they showed that same view, from the end of the bed, looking right at the baby coming out of the vagina. And if you've seen it, it is a very weird thing to see whether you are 5 or 30.

So I feel kind of weird today because I've know Gretchen her whole life. From the time she was popping out of my own mother, till today, her 26th birthday. And now, in a very short time, (check out the counter on the upper right), I am going to have my own child, that I will know from the exact moment of birth. And I will get to watch, and I know this sounds cheesy, the miracle of life again. I've always thought it was cool that I saw and remembered my sister's birth. Now I will have my own son and I'll get to tell him about how I remember when he was born. I just hope my son turns out as cool as my sister has. Happy birthday Gretchen!

Yuletide Baby

When I went for my visit to the midwife yesterday for my 32nd week checkup and told her about some of my adventures earlier this week, she wanted a closer look at things. I told her I had been feeling alot of low pressure and that it intensified when I got up from sitting or laying down or had been on my feet awhile. After inspecting my cervix, she got out the calendar. She said we're going to do whatever we have to do (including bed rest if needed) to make it until December 28th. Owen has been head down for two weeks now and since he already weighs five pounds (she kindly referrred to him as a "chubby" baby), his big old noggin is banging against my cervix and wearing it down bit by bit. My midwife said to pay special attention to contractions these next few weeks and if I felt that pressure, to get off my feet. I'm not dialated, but your cervix isn't supposed to thin until a few weeks before delivery and since we're still eight weeks away, that's not cool.

So we could have a yuletide baby! I kind of had a sneaky suspicion that Owen might be a Christmas boy, but since I also was convinced he was a girl, I wasn't putting that much stock into my speculations. Thank God we'll have our childbirthing class tomorrow. Nothing like waiting until the last minute.

So you're welcome to join us for Christmas- it might be more celebration than you bargained for!

Top 10 things every man should do for his pregnant wife

1: Never mention the word "Fat". Never. For the whole nine months. Other words best to avoid: "waddle" or "whale".

2: Vacuum the stairs.

3: After the seventh month, offer to tie and untie her shoes for her. She will adore you.

4: Never make fun of her pregnant clothes no matter how bad they are. Women don't get pregnant for the fashionable clothes dumbass but you don't need to rub it in.

5: Stop with the designated driver jokes. Or any jokes involving bare feet or the kitchen. It's just not that funny anymore.

6: Jump in and complete any physical tasks without being asked. Because when your enormous pregnant wife is struggling to carry in grocery bags from the car or shovel snow off the front walk, the only person who looks like an asshole is you.

7: Massage her feet at least once a week. Make frequent remarks about how pretty her feet are. It doesn't matter if it's true.

8: Clean off her windshield for her when it snows. Because there is nothing so sad as a pregnant lady trying to reach across a snow heaped truck. She could get stuck up there, you know.

9: Offer her a hand to get up off the couch at the end of the evening. Don't even feel tempted to make crane jokes or grunting noises.

10: Don't tell her she looks more beautiful than the day you met her. She knows you're lying.