I had an appointment at the hospital at 11 anyway, so Tony and I went down, expecting them to say 'false labor. go home.' Instead, they told us to walk around for two hours and come back. We explored South St. Seaport for awhile and got back at 2pm. Lo and behold, I was almost 4 centimeters dialated and 80% effaced! That's good enough for admission, so we got our big, bright birthing room. We settled in for a long stay, but by 3pm, the contractions were coming hard enough that my mantra was getting tattered. All I could do was listen to Tony's commands to relax and comply. Then, the real drama started. My rock-steady blood pressure rocketed through the roof and experts were called in. I had preeclampsia and was headed toward seizures, unless they did something right away. My Fabulous OB Dr. Halpern suggested an epidural, then rupturing the membrane. I was totally on board. The anesthesiologist came in, new to the hospital, but cocky and boasting of doing 'hundreds of these' - the first red flag. He tried twice to insert the large hollow needle into my spine, both times having to inject me with local anesthetics in between vertebrae you really don't want sharp objects piercing. For half an hour, I yelped each time he jabbed me, all the while begging him to wait until each contraction was through. And my blood pressure kept climbing. Fab Dr. H started a magnesium drip to stabalize my pressure, adding pitocin to bring on more contractions, knowing that at any minute the pain-relieving epidural would kick in as she left to suit up for delivery. Sadly, it never did. The anesthesiologist kept shaking his head and muttering excuses, then made the grand pronouncement that he'd have to try again between contractions, which were now slamming in at one minute apart. By now, the room was filled by every nurse on duty, all the residents on the floor and assorted other people drawn to the drama in room 608. It was utter pandemonium until one voice rose above the confusion. "There's no time for that epi. She's ready to deliver. She should push. Now." Through the haze of agony from the grizzly lumberjacks on the rusted two-man saw that were slicing my gut in half, I saw standing on a high cliff a great white wolf, sure-footed and calm as his fur ruffled gently in the wind. He turned his clear blue eyes on me and said powerfully, "Push." I clutched him, my savior, my Tony, my hands sharp as talons and screamed like an eagle. "That's it," he said confidently. Fab Dr. H walked in at that moment and said, "What's going on?" I screamed again and bore down and out shot the baby, our son, like a dolphin on a water slide, so fast that no one was there to catch him and he landed on the bed as every person in the room stared down at him for a second, absolutely shocked. It was 5:49, just 3 and 3/4 hours after getting admitted. And our water-loving Pisces, Lake, was born.

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2.1.07 - Ready or Not...

Dang. Here I am 37 weeks preggo with kid #2 and I'm just not ready. Only three weeks left! There's so much I meant to have done by this point in my life (not the least of which was finishing kid #1's Baby Scrapbook.) Well, if the next five years of my existence are going to be filled with unfinished projects, partial achievements and spirited games of catch interspersed with frantic moments of catch-up, at least I have the effervescent comfort of toddler memories. Like last night when Roo stared at herself in the mirror instead of brushing her teeth. "Come on, Baby. Bedtime," I coaxed. She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to the glass. "Mama, when I'm growed up, I'm going to be a French person."

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1.23.07 - 3 Going On 13

Oh my Girl, I love her so... She'll never know...

Since we're in a band, Ruby travels with us. I call this "Road Schooling" and I think it's really good for her development. Already, she's got her own Frequent Flyer account and is poised and articulate beyond her years. Which sometime comes back to bite me on the rear. After our last trip to DC, she was acting unbelievably brattily. I told her once we got home that she should apologize to me. "Sorry." she shot back immediately. It was unsatisfying. I understood what her brilliant preschool director says when she insists that kids shouldn't be made to apologize. It's just lip service to them. What they should be willing to say is that they won't repeat the behavior. Well, an hour later, when I'd cooled enough to go back to our usual cuddling, I said, "Roo. You know what you did earlier was really uncool." She sat up in my lap with disdain and said, "Mother. I said 'sorry'. Come on." Like all - hey, get over it, dude.

Is it just me or are all toddlers the equivalent of what we were like when we were in 9th grade? The other day she looked at me, shook her head and said, "Mama, you are really complicated." Three years old! I mean, she's right of course, but shouldn't she be more concerned with aminals in the zoo and popping cheerios?

However, when we were driving past Union Square and I pointed out the big "U" of the subway sign and asked her what else started with "u"... and she looked up at me from under those impossibly long lashes and said, slyly, "U Nork", then laughed... I was stunned that this surprising child that has been entrusted to my staunchly non-maternal care is such an anagram-loving, Scrabble-brained, hilarious and radiant being. I remember confessing to my great pal, Lani, when I was pregnant that I don't really like kids.
She said, "That's okay. You don't have to like kids. Just YOUR kid."
Funny, but it really is that simple.

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2.14.06 - Mama vs. The Diaper Genie

Oy vey. Why does everyone treat potty training like it's a walk in the park? Elimination Communication? Kiss my roly poly behind. I'll not get too graphic, but every day swings from the giddy glory of a successful trip to the little blue potty to the disappointment of the "uh oh, Mama!" on the playground. When she let loose on the kitchen floor at her Tia Francesca's party last weekend, I took her to the bathroom to clean her up and - exasperated - said, "Ruby! Can't you tell when you're about to go? Will you just listen to your body! It will tell you if a peepee is coming!" She looked up at me with those big, clear blue eyes, full of hurt. "Mama," she said quietly, "I'm just a baby." WHAM!! The dagger ripped through my heart. Maybe that's why no one I know makes such a big deal about the process of learning this particular circus trick. It's another one of those Zen things that you have to guide gently but simply let go and let happen. I hate those Zen things. This is interminable! But, a dear friend said to me not long ago, "Think of the dumbest person you know... not just forgetful but downright ignorant, stupid even. Now, think. Can they use a toilet?" So. One day at a time.

But I'm sure cutting back on the raisins.

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1.9.06 - Sing Out, Louise

A year ago, I remember mothers telling me, "Treasure every moment - it all goes so fast", to which I'd respond mentally, "Blow me." The clock seemed stuck somewhere between her "I hungry!" at 5am and the one millionth Oatio I ground unsuspectingly into the floorboards. Yet the shocking truth is now that Roo's two, each day her skills and language are barreling ahead faster than I can retain. Already, gone are the days of "mazagine" and "Asylon", of timid refusals to speak on the phone, of contentment over any material being read to her, even a decades-old Parade magazine. All of a sudden, her demands are precise and passionate. Today she said, "Take it easy, man" as we sat eating bagels. Thank Goddess "aminal" is still here for a bit longer, as is ordering "paghetti" at the "osterant". She likes to "be free" as she puts it, roaming the room sans diaper, even without benefit of potty training. She says she's a "big gull" now and - if it weren't for the occassional hair-raising restaurant meltdown if, woe be unto them, they don't serve apple juice - I'd believe her. So I was absolutely thrilled by the Time Out New York Kids mazagine photos as a way to capture our little family before she starts ducking us at The Mall. What's astonishing is how much pride a mama can have. Even a feminist parent who goes through every fairy tale, crossing out spurious uses of the word "beautiful" and changing gender pronouns can have their dormant mother-of-junior-miss-usa gene get triggered when the newstand runs out of copies. I furiously emailed hasty scans of the pix to everyone I've met since Imelda Marcos was daily news. Gypsy's Mama Rose burst from my chest like the Alien alien, screaming "Smile, Sweetheart! Teeth!!". The worst part? I'm not ashamed, just vapidly, droolingly sure of how brilliant the Universe can be.

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10.9.05 - The Quality of Merci

Today was Sunday. When I said to Ruby this morning, "Okay, Honeybun, wanna go to the park?" she said, "No, Mama. Church." I said - and please imagine the shock on my pagan face, since the only time we've ever set foot in a church was for Gramma's funeral when Roo was about seven months old - "WHAT?!?!" But then, I sucked it up so I could be all open and accepting of whatever she wants to explore, "Do you know what church is, Sweetie Puff?" She nodded emphatically. "Ruby go to church."

Roo is two. The closest thing to religion she has been exposed to in my beautiful circle of friends is Wicca. And that, in theory not in practice. Common Christianity is anathema to feminism. I am apalled by how many people have been killed in the name of organized religion. Yet, Ruby had her mind set. So I rummaged through the closet and stuffed us both into something I thought one would wear to church but was close enough to jeans to be comfortable on a rock hard pew. We went up the street to a church that I've always thought was pretty from the outside. I had no clue what time the service started, but I guess Ruby did, coz just as we walked in, the bells pealed. I grabbed us a seat at the very, very back so we could beat a hasty retreat after a few minutes. Nice cushioned pew, though. Lovely walls, too, I noticed. And the service? Kinda awesome. I mean it. There was a woman preacher (hey! right on!) named Jacqui in a bright red robe who was hilarious, charismatic, hip, totally non-judgemental and passionate; the whole thing was wreathed in music, love and focusing on healing the world through peace and good acts; the congregation was multi-ethnic, ran the full range of ages and was at least 50% gay - which always makes me feel more comfortable; the choir was glorious and at the "peace be unto you" when everyone holds hands and beams positive vibes at one another, the man standing next to Roo took her tiny hand and said very seriously to her, "Peace be with you". In her squeaky little toddler voice, she said, "Peace." If you know me at all, of course I burst into tears. After, when we were strollering to get miso soup and edamame for lunch, I said, "Thanks for that, Roo." She didn't even look up from Coco the Pig to say nonchalantly, "Merci."

Isn't that the wackiest? I mean, what wavelength is she on??

My mind is blown trying to figure out not only how she knew about "church", but - if she doesn't even know a letter from a number - how did she know THAT TODAY WAS SUNDAY?!?

The world is a strange and wonderous place.

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9.22.05 - Yoo Hoo

Just came back from dropping Ruby at her pre-school, utterly disgusted with myself because here it is - only her second week of school - and we were running so late I didn't have time to make her usual whole-grain, vegetarian, no-sugar, amino-acid-balanced lunch so, before racing down the block on two wheels to get her there on time, I bought her a cheese sandwich on the corner. American. On white bread. From some guy I've never seen before, dang it.... To console myself, I bought the NY Daily News and a YooHoo, which I promptly dropped when I opened the paper and saw us in the Thersday section! There's a pic of Ru and me jamming with Angela Babbin and her daughter Serena accompanying an article about moms who rock. They took the pix about a year ago (Ruby looks so little!) so I forgot all about it. I'm taking it as a sign. So today's lesson is: The Only Way To Rock In Life Is Do Your Best, Then Move On. So please forgive yourself for whatever you're beating yourself up about and have a great day. Or at the very least, have a YooHoo.

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9.20.05 - Meet The Thousandaire

Even though it was a bit embarassing to watch my Tuesday, September 20 episode of "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire", I was proud I made it as far as I did. All the fabulously supportive emails and calls - each of which began with a solid 20 seconds of laughing - were the best part. When I pointed to myself on the screen with Meredith Viera and said to Ruby proudly, "Look, Baby! There's Mama!" She looked up and said - I kid you not - "Where Ruby is, on the tv?" and, not seeing herself, lost interest and went back to trying to diaper Mongo the cat.

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