The Thin Black Line

In order to keep from falling asleep while nursing Lo in the middle of the night, I will occasionally watch TV. I’ll DVR some mindless shows and kick back for the 3 am feeding, remote in hand. The other night, however, I had knocked the remote out of reach and had to sit through the commercials (the horror!). One of the commercials involved Miss Lauren Conrad, or “LC” of The Hills fame.

Now, I sort of loathe her and everything she (and the rest of her crew) stands for, but as I watched the commercial—which involved her, Brody Jenner, their Awesome New Phones Which Double As Mirrors Through Which Brody Can See the Asses of Hot Chicas, and Lauren’s annoyance related thereto—I had but one thought:

“Man! Lauren’s liquid eyeliner looks AMAZING!”

As noted it was the middle of the night, but her eyes really DID look fantastic. Which explains why I resolved then and there to run out the very next day, purchase some liquid eyeliner, and learn how to use it.

Liquid eyeliner and I have a bit of a history. I’ve tried to use it in the past, but it is my Everest, my Achilles' heel, the ONE cosmetic product that I cannot learn how to use properly.

Needless to say, this frustrates me endlessly. It’s not so much that I NEED to master the skill of applying liquid eyeliner (it’s really unnecessary for the pediatrician’s office, Target, and the supermarket, the places where I spend most of my time lately), but more that I suck at it so completely that it’s embarrassing for a self-proclaimed beauty junkie like myself.

The last time I gave it a shot was a few years ago, so I figured it was time for another go. Perhaps, I reasoned, age had steadied my hand and granted me the wisdom necessary to perfect this skill.

I scoured a few websites for reviews, and settled on a suitable liquid liner. During my morning walk with Lo, we stopped at Rite-Aid to pick it up. Home we went, liner in tow, and I set out to conquer that elusive thin black line.

It did not go well AT ALL.

I did it once with a very cautious, light hand, and it smudged in so completely that it was totally invisible. I tried again, and this time I looked like an ancient Egyptian hooker.

At that point, I got frustrated, and made the next logical choice, which is, of course, to really pile on the eyeliner and see how much I could make myself look like Amy Winehouse.

Ta da!

Wait. Something is missing. But what? Hmmm....

There we go.

I would love to be able to say that after much trial and error, I figured it out, but the only lesson to be learned here is to close your bedroom door while playing Dress Up Like Amy Winehouse, lest your toddler son come home and sneak up on you in all your Winehouse-y glory, at which point you will likely scar him for life with your appearance.

You win again, liquid eyeliner.

C’mon, spill. What's your beauty-related Achilles heel?

Thoughts from the 10:30 pm Showing of THE DARK NIGHT, or: Why I am Not Yet Fit to Re-Enter Society, and Should’ve Just Stayed Home and Had Some Wine*

"WHEEEE! I’m so excited to be going outside without one or both of my darling children! It’s so nice to be wearing something other than yoga pants and flip-flops and have my hair not looking like it was styled by ill-tempered rodents! No one will ever know I’m a mom!”

“Did I really just almost leave with a burpcloth slung across my shoulder AND one side of my nursing bra undone? Fuck.”

“Okay, sartorial crises have been averted! On with the night!”

“Why are there so many teenagers at this Saturday night showing of a superhero mov--oh.”

“Okay, Metalia, these are teenagers. They are TEN TO FIFTEEN YEARS YOUNGER THAN YOU. Do not fear them!”

“Is that 14-year-old boy really wearing that inappropriate t-shirt? [Please do not ask about the search terms used to find this tee online. Please.] Really? Okay, I now give myself permission to hate both him and whichever parent let him leave the house wearing it now.”

“Hmm. Blue Raspberry Slushee or White Cherry Slushee? White Cherry.”

“Wow. Standing in a line with loud teenage boys certainly is enlightening, in the sense that I want to lock up my daughter until she is thirty-four.”

“Ooh, they’re letting us into the theater!”

“I know we’re in Long Island, but Sweet Moses, the people here have some tall-ass hair. Can’t! See! Screeeeen! Lay off the Aqua-Net, ladies…and gentlemen.”

“Ooh, the movie’s starting!”

“There are wayyyy too many evil henchmen in assorted clown masks. Me and my crippling coulrophobia are so not okay with this.”

“Poor Heath Ledger. So incredibly talented. Such an unbelievable actor. So very--ooh, Christian Bale in a tight shirt.”

“Okay, um. Hmmm. I think...Yes, it appears that I have a crush on the Joker. I don’t even know what to do with that, so I’m just going to sit here quietly, eat these gummi worms and pretend like I didn’t just have that disturbing thought.”

“Is my…? YES, my ass is asleep. How long is this movie? Okay, time to furtively check the ol’ phone under the seat for info, and—OH MY GOD. Two-and-a-half hours? After 20 minutes of previews? Really? I'm wasting so much precious New Mom Sleeping Time! What have I done? Good Lord, WHAT HAVE I DONE?”

“When did Maggie Gyllenhaal start talking like Drew Barrymore? That ain’t right.”

“Okay, I shouldn’t have whined. The movie was engaging, the characters were intriguing, and—oh, what’s this? An extraneous subplot that has to be resolved? And it’s going to tack on an extra half hour? Fabulous!”

“Yaaaay! It’s over. I can’t wait to get home and back into my yoga pants.”

Annnnnd.....scene.

______________

* By "some wine," I of course mean only one tiny glass. Nursing=moderation. BOO.

Sticky Fingers

Holy hell.

Allow me to sum up the past few weeks thusly:

I gave birth, went home, whereupon I contracted some sort of mutant virus, rendering me with sundry stomach issues which--fortunately--lasted for exactly 24 hours. I’d been healthy all of two damn minutes when T caught it. In his case, it lasted much longer than 24 hours. (Of course.) Fearing that Ella (hereinafter referred to on this blog as “Lo” for reasons too dumb to get into) would catch it too, I fled to my parents’ house, baby in tow, leaving J to cope with a cranky, barfing toddler. Fun! I felt awful about leaving T so soon after coming home with a new baby, but I didn't want to chance her getting sick. He seems to have gotten over it, though.

Finally, once everyone was better, I returned home, whereupon I started to notice something funny with Lo’s breathing. I mean, she WAS breathing, she just sounded loud, raspy and congested each time she inhaled. To truly “get” the sound, imagine a cross between Woody Woodpecker, a squeaky chew toy, and a seagull. I AM NOT KIDDING EVEN A LITTLE BIT.

I took her to the pediatrician, where she was diagnosed with reflux and something called tracheomalacia. Essentially, the flap at the top of her windpipe is very floppy when it should be rigid, and that’s what’s causing her breathing to sound freaky every time she inhales. She will grow out of it in a year or so, but all the same, our pediatrician had us take her to a gastrointestinal specialist just to make sure that her diagnosis was on point.

While we pretty much had our pediatrician’s assurance that all was well, it’s still pretty scary to have to take your kid to any kind of specialist, especially your two-and-a-half-week-old baby. And you know, people handle stress in different ways. Some might bite their nails, others smoke…

I apparently steal books. AWESOME ones.

Now, before you judge, let me give you a little backstory.

I don’t know if it’s only a New York City thing, but doctors here seem to love to keep you waiting for a looong time. The office was lovely, and the receptionist was very friendly and ushered us into an exam room fairly quickly, but once there, we waited for over an hour and fifteen minutes to see the doctor. We tried to pass the time by talking, but since J had to run out every few minutes to feed the parking meter, it sort of cut into our conversation. I tried to pass the time by learning about the marvels of my digestive system from the colorful (and graphic!) wall posters, but couldn’t concentrate, due to my nervousness.

And then I found it.

THE BEST BOOK EVER WRITTEN. Right there! In my kid’s exam room! What are the odds?

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you…A Bunny’s Tummy Trouble: The Journey of Pete’s Tummy Ache!

Let me tell you, if you’re stressed about something and need to distract yourself, THIS IS THE BOOK TO READ. It’s a charming and heartwarming tale of a young rabbit with gastrointestinal reflux, told through the magic of awful rhymes, including my personal favorite, “We test pee-pee, Pete/For things like infection. Some things aren’t detected/Under normal inspection.”

Do you think I’m kidding? I ASSURE YOU, I AM NOT.

Read on for more of The Awesome:

As you can see, the book is awesome, but puzzling. For instance, I have no idea why the author chose to make the protagonist a rabbit, but the doctor human with a rabbit-y name (Dr. Fuzz). Also, Pete the bunny has bunny slippers, which strikes me as redundant and weird.

I saw that there were six or seven more copies of the same book (which was really more of a large, book-like pamphlet for a pharmaceutical company hawking a prescription antacid), so I decided I could take one for my very own. It’s not really stealing if I truly want to learn more about the silent epidemic of bunny-related reflux, right? RIGHT?

No sooner had I stashed the contraband inside my diaper bag, the doctor made an appearance. And people, he looked EXACTLY like Napoleon, the choreographer from So You Think You Can Dance. Frustratingly, my husband doesn’t watch the show with me, so I had no one with whom to share this exciting observation. Dr. Napoleon conducted a preliminary exam, and then brought in another doctor, both of whom confirmed that our daughter was really going to be just fine.

We celebrated by stopping off at Magnolia Bakery to devour a metric ton of red velvet and vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting (being good parents, we saved some for T)…

...And then headed home with her.

On another note, does anyone have any good short story recommendations (besides David Sedaris, since I've already read everything he's written)? Or some fluffy book that doesn't require too much of my brainpower? I need something light to pass the time while nursing, and I can only watch so many reruns of Frasier and Will & Grace. (My god, they're on ALL DAY LONG.)

The Birth Story

Okay, here goes. T is at the park with the nanny, the baby is sleeping, the apartment is (marginally) clean, and most importantly, I’m kind of awake. I’m therefore going to attempt to write a post that contains more than twelve words.

Now, before I get underway, I know certain people out there are freaked out by childbirth, so I’ll refrain from getting too graphic. If, however, something I say here freaks you out, I AM PREPARED. All you need to do is scroll back up here, and gaze upon…

…this soothing, non-threatening unicorn! I’ve named her Ruffles. She, along with her magical rainbow, and Hair Thursday-worthy Tail of Glory will help you forget all about scary words I may use like “placenta,” “cervix,” and “lady business.”

Without further ado…the birth story!

So, to start off, I am a big, fat liar.

As most of you know, I gave birth on Friday June 20^th. If, however, you were one of the many people who, earlier that week, inquired how things were going/when I was giving birth, and I said to you “oh, I have no idea!” I WAS LYING.

Allow me to explain.

J and I had gone to the doctor for a checkup and ultrasound that Tuesday, June 17. At that checkup, my ObGyn reviewed the ultrasounds, and told me the baby was measuring a bit small. Specifically, while I was 39 weeks along, the baby was measuring 36 weeks. I was due the following Monday anyway (June 23), and showing no signs of imminent labor (other than the one centimeter I’d been dilated for over 2 weeks), so he informed us that he wanted to induce me on Friday, June 20^th.

Whereupon I nearly shat myself.

Not to say that I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of giving birth already, but the concept of induction scared me, and knowing in advance the exact day I was going to give birth freaked me out a bit. Still, the doctor explained to us that when babies are no longer growing bigger in utero at the end of pregnancy, it’s generally better to get them out, so to speak, so they can thrive. Lacking any formal medical training whatsoever besides what I've gleaned from watching Grey's Anatomy, I decided to take his word for it, and we made a plan for me to be induced Friday morning. J and I decided not to share this news with anyone, since I was nervous as all hell, and didn’t want to field phone calls from friends and loved ones for the duration of the week inquiring about the status of my uterus. (Since I am the worst liar in the world and I HATE having to lie, whenever people asked me about the pregnancy that week, I’d just say “I’m seeing my doctor on Friday, and we’ll see what happens.” See? Not really a lie!)

I went to work the following day (Wednesday), and told my boss that I would be starting maternity leave the next day. I spent Thursday doing numerous self-indulgent things I wouldn’t have a chance to do in the near future, and weeping intermittently from equal parts excitement and nervousness. Oh, and also? Googling everything I could about labor induction.

WHICH WAS SO STUPID.

Never, EVER google any sort of medical procedure mere hours before having it performed. I mean, my god. Granted, I shouldn’t place too much credence in the internet message board comments of people who refer to their condition as “preggnent” but STILL. These bitches were scaring me with their horror stories.

Thursday night was rough. I was still all keyed up and weepy, but I tried to relax and somehow managed to fall asleep. J and I were told to get to the hospital at 6:45 am. It’s such a different experience going to the hospital to have a baby when you’re not actually in labor. I was walking down the same hall that I walked down last time, seeing all the same things, only this time I wasn’t, y’know, cursing and sweating.

I got settled in my room about 7 am, and then just sort of…waited. Saved By the Bell was on, so J and I were able to temporarily distract ourselves with the escapades of the gang. Let me tell you, nothing can take your mind off of your impending labor better than Kelly’s moral dilemma about working at “Skeeters” (aka Hooters) instead of the student health center. My doctor arrived, and we started chatting. It turned out he was inducing another girl that morning, as well. I couldn’t help it: I got competitive. I mentally began thinking “Race! Race! Race!” over and over in my head. Around 8 am, my doctor broke my water. I will spare you the details of that, and will just say that it’s…uncomfortable, wet and weird, but mercifully quick. At that point, it all sort of hit me. Like there was no turning back, and this baby was coming TODAY. I tried to play it cool with my best Fonzie impression.

Shortly thereafter, my doctor placed me on a pitocin drip to truly get the labor induction going. Pitocin is a drug of the devil which speeds up labor (good!) by bringing on hard, endless contractions, seemingly with no break (bad!). Because it makes the contractions come so quickly, your body truly has no time to recover, and you LOSE THE WILL TO LIVE. I had an awful experience with pitocin the first time around; I’d been given some to speed up my labor, and I’d asked (BEGGED) for an epidural, but it didn’t come until over an hour after of me crying from the pain of the pitocin-induced contractions. I was therefore a bit skittish about getting it again without having an anesthesiologist literally standing next to me with an epidural, but my labor and delivery nurse-who was incredible- swore up and down that I would get the epidural much faster this time, and that the anesthesiologist would be in to administer it by 10 am.

The pitocin kicked in, and my labor really got started in earnest. J made some calls to our family, and I started breathing through the pain. The contractions were bad, but they weren’t coming one on top of another so I could at least deal with them. My nurse sat with us, and kept checking printouts from the monitors to make sure that the baby’s heart rate was okay. After about an hour, my doctor came back to check on me. I was three centimeters dilated, but still not effaced at all. I began to wonder about the other girl my doctor had induced, and how far along she was.

I didn’t have to wait too long.

My anesthesiologist arrived at 10 ON THE DOT with my sweet, beautiful epidural, and I tried to refrain from making out with him in all his nerdy, middle-aged glory. It’s truly amazing how excited you can get for someone to jam a ginormous needle full of drugs into your spine. The anesthesiologist was a talker, and he jokingly asked me, “This is your second baby! Why aren’t you further along? The other girl is seven centimeters already!” Damn it! I was totally losing at Birth Wars! As it turned out, though, the other girl was having a baby that was estimated to weigh ELEVEN POUNDS (the nurses were chatty, yo), so I decided not to hate her, and instead, pray for her.

The epidural took effect, and I tried to get some rest. Unfortunately, about a half hour later, the damn thing stopped working on my right side. I could feel EVERYTHING there, and in a way, it was sort of worse than no epidural at all. My nurse ran off to find my anesthesiologist, who tried a few things, but none of them worked. I was in agony. He said that he could redo the whole epidural, but first he wanted to try to inject me with Fentanyl, and to lie on my right side, to have gravity literally pull the drug down towards that side. The Fentanyl—which, I just discovered is “a powerful opioid analgesic with a potency approximately 81 times that of morphine”—miraculously did the trick, and then it was just a waiting game.

My doctor returned to check on me around 1:30 pm and I was still three centimeters dilated, but completely effaced by this point, which was somewhat encouraging. It was lunchtime, and although I couldn't eat anything at that point, they brought my meal in case J wanted to have it. People, let me just tell you: There is only one culinary phrase scarier than "hospital food," and that is "kosher hospital food." Sweet merciful crap:

Mmm! Roadkill with a helping of unidentifiable white balls n' gravy? Don't mind if I do!

What's that? You're full already? How about some "Gel-Type dessert"? I love hyphenated treats!

As for me, I enjoyed a delicious lunch of ice chips and then attempted to sleep.

About an hour later, I turned to J and said, “you know, I know it’s only been an hour, but I feel like I have to push. I’m going to page my nurse.” She came in and checked me out. You're done," she said. “The baby’s head is right here. Three pushes, sweetie, and this kid will be out.”

Um, WHAT?

She dashed off to page my doctor, and another nurse came in, rejoined shortly thereafter by my nurse. Big, bright lights were turned on, and the lower half of my bed was pulled off, and a table of supplies was prepped. My legs were sort of dead from the epidural and the Powerful! Opioid! Analgesic! so the nurses and J had to position them for me. I remember giggling inwardly and thinking it was very Weekend at Bernie’s. (What? Leave me alone, I was all doped up.) My doctor came in, took one look at me and said those 12 little words every laboring woman loves to hear:

“Oh, wow! This kid’s HERE! I may need to do this barehanded!”

Fortunately for everyone, he was able to put on his gown, gloves, and space boot-like shoe covers, and I began to push. My nurse was truly fabulous, and expertly coached my pushing, promising me that if I listened to her and pushed how and when she told me to, I’d avoid an episiotomy (which I did...three cheers for the Wonder Nurse!). Within 5 minutes, I was holding Ella...my baby girl.

The end.