reader requests: tales of a sixth grade nothing, part the second

(Part of a continuing series of requested stories)

Last we left our bespectacled, stirrup-pants-owning protagonist, she was sitting in her lederhosen dress waiting for Franklin to pick her up for the prom, in what might be considered the first real "date" of her young life. This was (now switching back from the second person) kind of a big deal, and despite playing it too cool for school, I had made much of it to myself and in my diary. What would Franklin be wearing? Would be bring me flowers? Would he tell Biff "Hey you, get your damn hands off her" and then punch him in the face to defend my honor? These were all possible scenarios.

The one scenario I didn't envision, however, is that Franklin would show up to my door with another girl on his arm.

A word about this girl Mieko. She was this tiny little Japanese girl in our class who, if there were cheerleaders in elementary school, probably would have been captain of the squad. She was perky, popular, impeccably dressed by her mother (who bought many of her clothes abroad), and had this long, thick black hair with--it pains me to note--no bangs. She was also indescribably mean. We were actually good friends for a brief time; when I transferred into this elementary school following my six years of sheltered public school education, I kind of latched onto her, mostly because she was one of the first people to take a friendly interest in me. This, I think, was largely because we were the only two Asian students in the class, so there was some sort of kinship there. Whatever the reasons, we were friends. Then, sometime around sixth grade, she started to turn on me for some inexplicable reason. But why do 11 year-old girls do anything, really? She would taunt me, make fun of me, pointedly talk to and share things with everyone but me, your standard girl-on-girl slow-torture techniques. Luckily, I was together enough to recognize that she was just being petty and manipulative, and fuck it, in a few months I would be done with this school and I would never have to see Mieko again--but until then, group situations in which we both participated were somewhat uncomfortable.

And now here she was on my first date.

So it turned out that Mieko's date had bailed on her. Seems she had applied so much pressure on Alfred to ask her to the prom that he decided he didn't really want to go at all. So he called her last minute and told her he'd much rather stay at home and watch "The Cosby Show" instead. This left Mieko dateless, which, while a perfectly acceptable and tolerable situation under normal circumstances, could in no way fly given that I, her randomly designated arch-nemesis, was going to the prom with a boy. So what did she do?

She called my date and demanded that he pick her up--on the way to my house, mind you--and take her to the prom.

Now, some of you may be wondering, "What the hell, man? Why did he say yes?" And those of you may not understand 11 year-old boys. They are pushovers. Yes, they may be stubborn with their parents and have bad skin and smell funny, but have a pretty little 11 year-old girl call them up and start demanding things, and they are putty. Plus, did I mention her hair? And her clothes? And her meanness? Her wretched, eye-clawing, cackling on a broomstick meanness? Yes, well, she was hard to stand up to, is all I can say.

Hard for me to stand up to as well, apparently. I unquestionably accepted the situation, didn't complain when Mieko monopolized my "date" (I have to put it in quotes, because really, you should have seen the two of us, it was like a Space Camp reunion) all the way to the prom, pointedly excluding me. The prom itself was exactly what you would expect. Cupcakes, punch, 80's music echoing to the point of unrecognizability in the high-ceilinged gym. A few brave girls dared to dance (in a large circle of course, shifting from one foot to the other and clapping, as was the style at the time), but Franklin and I just stood around awkwardly, made stilted conversation about how weird and lame everything was. And then kind of ignored each other for the rest of the night. Ah, l'amour.

So the prom ended without casualty, we graduated from elementary school, and that would have have been the end of it. Would have been the end of it, except that at some point between the prom and the end of the summer, I decided that Franklin and I were IN LOVE and that just because elementary school had ended didn't mean that our torrid interracial affair had to. So I wrote him a letter. That's how we did it in those days without e-mail, but when the thought of an actual conversation was just too much to handle--we wrote letters, with paper and everything. I composed what was probably my first love letter (though "awkward crush letter" would have been a more appropriate label) in my bedroom one afternoon, while Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting" played on the radio. Did I mention that it was 1989? So all is forgiven here, right?

I expected some sort of response to my letter--a letter in response, maybe a phone call--but after weeks, nothing. NOTHING. Oceans apart, day after day, and I slowly go insane. Finally, close to the end of the summer, I got an invitation to a pre-starting-junior-high-school summer party at Franklin's house. It wasn't a special invitation just for me, and there was barely anything personal on it aside from my name on the card, but I was happy all the same. Reunited, at a party at his house! Surely we would be married before the year was through.

The party was your standard preteen affair. Chips and soda, TV and Keds as far as the eye could see. (I actually think I had the Chinatown knockoff Keds, with the fake small blue plastic tag at the heel fooling no one.) Several of my classmates were there, including Mieko, but everyone seemed to be getting along and having a good time, with very little awkwardness.

UNTIL.

Near the end of the party, Franklin and Mieko disappeared into his room, and returned to the party with a small envelope in hand. It was the letter I had written him a couple of weeks ago. Mieko looked at Franklin meaningfully, smirking a little bit, and in front of the entire party, Franklin handed the letter back to me, coyly drawling, "Does this look familiar?" He was giving me back my love letter. In front of EVERYONE. Oh, the horror, the mortification. I don't think anyone else there knew what was actually in that envelope, but I could tell from the look on her face that Mieko clearly did. I stuffed that sad little letter in my pocket and shortly after stuffed my sad little self into my parents' car to go home. I never saw Franklin again.

I did, however, see Mieko on the street many years later, when we both were in high school. She didn't recognize me I don't think, but I recognized her, mostly because she didn't seem to have grown an inch since we were in sixth grade together. At least not vertical growth, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. And that's all I'm going to say about that, expect to add that I had a mean little twinge of satisfaction about that.

The incident at the party, which at the time I thought would surely be the most humiliating experience of my life, has of course faded and colored over time to the point where I think it's kind of funny and can slap it up on the internet for all to enjoy. Everyone has their "Welcome to the Dollhouse" moments, and that was one of mine. In the end, I lived. I got me some contacts, ditched the leggings, and survived to be a respectable member of society who when on to have moments of humiliation on a much, much grander scale.

I still can't listen to that Richard Marx song without cringing, though.

Currently reading: "Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules," a new short story anthology edited, though not written by, David Sedaris. I like short story anthologies the same way that I like movie soundtracks. It's kind of like getting the sampler platter at TGI Friday's, with a little bit of everything.

reader requests: tales of a sixth grade nothing, part the first

(Second in a series of requested stories)

You all know how nerdy I am now (answer: very), but like most people, I was much, much nerdier in sixth grade. Like, way nerdier. With the glasses and the hair and the late-eighties exploding all over my wardrobe and...well, let's let the picture speak a thousand words:





So you understand the extent of the nerditude now. It's scary. Hold me.

I was tolerated, though. I had a little bit of a tough transition from private school to my local neighborhood public school in the fourth grade (for the first few weeks, I couldn't believe how rowdy the public school kids were--they even said the S-word! And the F-word! Loudly!) but after that, I was mostly looked at as the short sarcastic one who liked to draw comics and whose math homework you should copy. I had my place in the sixth grade universe, and while not glamorous, it wasn't a terrible place to be.

(You really shouldn't copy my math homework anymore, though. Sometime between sixth grade and seventh grade my math skillz went down the crapper, and now I have to wear a calculator around my neck--literally--because I don't quite trust my arithmetic. Well, that, and because a long division error nowadays could kill someone. BUT ANYWAY.)

It was the spring of sixth grade, and we were all feeling VERY mature, what with our newfound use of deodorant and impending graduation and the transition to junior high school, where (it was rumored) boys and girls would hold hands in the hallway, all out in the open. Shocking! Also, the class was all abuzz because it was just announced that prior to graduation, the school would be sponsoring a dance for the three sixth grade classes, with dressing up and a DJ and everything. And yes, it would be held in the gym, but it would be AWESOME. This dance was immediately dubbed "the prom." The sixth grade prom. How cute and yet how sad.

There were some stirrings of the pre-teen hormone pot under the surface, but in those days the sixth grade was largely sexless, and no one assumed (despite the fact that it was "THE PROM") that we would be pairing up or going with opposite-sex dates. In fact, I don't even think anyone had thought far enough ahead to the prospect of actually dancing in the gym in front of everyone, because PUBLIC DANCING? Lo, the mortification. We were just excited about the idea of THE PROM. We liked to say it. THE PROM. What are you wearing to THE PROM? Are you excited about THE PROM? Etcetera. Also, did I mention that it was only March?

The real hubbub began, however, when Franklin C. came up to me in the cafeteria during lunch one day and asked me to the prom. All calmly. In front of everybody. You have to understand that at that time, no one was asking anyone to the prom, and now the first person to get asked was Michelle Au? Not exactly your class standout for Prom Queen. Might I remind you:




Franklin C. was sort of the male version of me, though. Sure, he was this husky little Dominican kid, but he was similarly sarcastic and nerdy. Still, the fact that he would ask me, A GIRL, to go with him to the prom when no one else had even started thinking about dates--it caused quite the stir. Franklin was immediately accosted by our classmates, male and female alike, and interrogated as to WHY he asked me to the prom, what did this MEAN, was he IN LOVE with me, etcetera etcetera. Franklin (who I have to admit kept fairly cool through all of this) would only answer that he thought I was funny and cute, and that he liked the way I dressed. I guess he never saw this outfit, then:




Anyway, I said yes. We were on for the prom.

Once it was in the water that Franklin had asked Michelle to the prom, other girls in the class started applying all manners of subtle and not-so-subtle pressure onto the guys in our class to ask them to the prom as well. Alfred, under great duress, asked Mieko. Jonathan asked Julia. Josh asked...well, I can't remember who Josh asked, but he was a cute one, that Josh. The class was pairing off. The problem was, no one quite knew how to act after they were coupled. Did it mean that they were dating? Engaged to be wed? No one was clear. So after all the asking was done, boys and girls largely resumed ignoring each other.

Franklin would call me on the phone sometimes, though. These phone conversations were rambling and pointless, especially since we had just seen each other at school 45 minutes ago, but at least we were talking. This, in the sixth grade dating scene, was HUGE. As the date of the prom drew closer, he got his suit ready. I chose a dress--an unfortunate leiderhosen-skirt-type number, with suspenders over a white blouse and everything. (Damn, I wish I had a picture of that dress. Unfortunately, I think said snapshots have since been lost in the sands of time. Either that, or I may have destroyed the evidence.)

And then, finally, it was prom night. Well, prom afternoon, anyway. I took a shower and put on my new dress. I cleaned my glasses. (They were very very large glasses, so this took about half an hour.) And I sat in my apartment in all my frilly, Ricola-esque glory, waiting for Franklin to come pick me up so that we could go dance the night away under the baskeball hoops.

To be continued...

(Special P.S. To Diana W., who e-mailed me a few weeks ago and who I--OF COURSE--never e-mailed back because I am a terrible person: I think we did go to elementary school together. P.S. 116, baby! Good to hear from you, and glad you're doing well!)

Currently reading: Still chipping away at the fluid and blood therapy chapter in Baby Miller.

Now that it's done, I'm happy with the decision. Even after upgrading to 1GB of RAM and getting a Mighty Mouse (a two-button mouse with a scroll-button, to make the transition a little easier) and buying more memory and an AirPort card to upgrade Joe's computer, the whole order still cost us less than the 15" PowerBook would have. And, since I'm using the education discount, I get a free iPod Mini out of the deal! Sweet! I mean, I never really lusted after an iPod before (I don't even have any MP3s on my computer, if you can believe such a thing--kinda goes hand in hand with not having any speakers or an MP3 player), I'm not going to turn down FREE STUFF. Especially not in this luscious apple green color.



I'll let you know how it all goes with the transition when the thing finally gets here. Hopefully I'll enjoy myself but not become a rabid, proselytizing convert.


* * *


Catherine sent me a picture from Panda Cam on the Discovery Channel in response to one of the pictures I posted yesterday. You and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.

Oh man, that is really funny. Thanks, Catherine!

* * *


This is my last week of maternity leave. I've been mentally preparing myself for work returning to work for weeks now so I'm not too torn up about it, but I am going to miss having my mornings and afternoons with The Boy. I'm especially going to miss our afternoon naps, because aside from the cuteness of snuggling with the baby--mmm, midday sleep. So delicious. Well, I suppose that's what weekends are for. And I'm especially grateful for the logistics of the Anesthesia residency in that I have basically three full weekends off a month (that is, one weekend day call a month), as opposed to my Peds residency, where I would have had only one full weekend off a month (meaning I was on call at least one day for each of the other three weekends). It will be nice to actually see my kid for two whole days at the end of the week, you know?

The other five days, however, are somewhat more dodgy.

Starting to gain some more neck control, crowing proudly to himself all the while

Currently reading: The chapter in Baby Miller about fluid and blood therapy.

my life as a scullery maid

What I don't understand is how Joe can act so exhausted when I ask him to watch the baby in the morning if I haven't asked him to do any of the overnight diaper changes or feeds. It's 7:30am, for chrissake! That's late! I think this kid has wrecked my ability to sleep in.




So while the sleeping beauties were sleeping, I decided to tackle the bottle mound. Never in my life have I longed for a dishwasher, but dealing with Cal's five thousand bottles and plugs and caps and nipples and pump parts have had me reconsidering my stand on being a hand-wash-only kind of household.


before

after

Keep in mind that all this waste is only from yesterday afternoon. Imagine the horror of a 24 hour pile-up and maybe you understand why I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night screaming.


* * *


And now, some miscellaneous baby pictures:


getting ready for our outing yesterday

He doesn't look thrilled, but generally, he enjoys his bath

Night vision post-bath
























Waiting for his next meal, clutching at himself
in the fear that it may not come on time


* * *


Thanks for all the computer opinions, everyone. Right now in terms of laptops, I'm leaning slightly towards the 15" Powerbook despite the price in the interest of making us a single-operating system household, and just because I feel like I should just see what all these Mac enthusiasts are talking about. I wonder if I should get a laptop at all, though--seems like I could get a lot more for the money, even within Mac, if I were in the market for a desktop. Honestly, I'd be using the laptop mostly as a desktop replacement--there are very few instances in which I've thought, gee, I wish my computer was portable so that I could take it to Starbucks and get all territorial with the outlets. And as for being portable for presentations, I do have a portable Flash drive already, so having an actual portable computer seems less important. Maybe it would be fun to have a portable computer for trips and stuff, but honestly, it's not like I go on trips that often. Anyway, we're going to be carting around so much baby gear anytime we go anywhere now, I feel like the first thing we'd jettison would be the computer. And we have a portable DVD player already, so even that's redundant. I don't know...I like the idea of having one of the computers in this house as a laptop, but in terms of bang for our buck, I'm having a hard time reconciling the difference.

Does anyone have the iMac G5? Any opinions? Thanks again, computer peoples!

Currently reading: Reviews of the iMac G5 on MacWorld. Who would have ever thought I'd be reading MacWorld?

help me spend my hard-earned money

So you know I'm in the market to get a new computer. My current computer is actually a hand-me-down from Joe, a desktop Compaq Presario that he got during our second year of med school. Which was, you know, a long time ago. This computer keeps freezing and crashing and doing the Bad Things. It's time for a change. Out with the old, in with the nucleus.

However, I am all torn up inside with what laptop I should get. I don't even know what operating system I should go with. Ever since switching from PC to Mac a year and a half ago, Joe has become one of those crazed Mac fanatics, and is pushing me like some kind of heroin dealer to make the switch. So I've been researching either getting the 14" iBook or the 15" PowerBook. They're expensive, but I get an educational discount since I'm on Housestaff at [University Hospital], which defrays the cost a tad.

The problem is that I'm just a little bit scared of Macs. Even though they were the standard at Wellesley for much of the time I was there, I never quite learned how to feel comfortable around them and spent a lot of time cursing out the Macs in the computer lab that made weird little blipping noises and wouldn't do as I commanded. Joe is convinced (CONVINCED) that once I commit to the world of Mac-ness that I will LOVE THEM and be a total Mac-freaky convert, but it's kind of hard rationalizing spending anywhere between $1,500 and $2,000 on a computer that I don't feel quite comfortable using. People love their Macs, though. I guess there must be a good reason.

On the PC side, it does seem (superficially, at least) that you get a lot more stuff for less money, even though PCs seem to be more buggy and crashy and all that, as my current computer situation will attest. I'm looking at this monster at present (part of the HP ZD8000 series) which would certainly be a robust desktop replacement (I have very little day-to-day need for a truly portable computer, I'm just in the market for a laptop because I like the idea of having that option of toting my computer around for presentations and such) and comes tricked out with a lot of fun things. I have to admit that mainly, I'm fascinated with this TV tuner function that allows me to do TiVo-type things, even though I really don't watch all that much TV so who knows if that'll be money well spent. But the computer, it has a very large, pretty screen! And it has a lot of features! And TiVo! Also, it's cheaper than the 15" PowerBook.

I mean, we all know that Macs are more expensive than PCs, so maybe I should just come to terms with that and embrace why it is that people switch to Mac in the first place despite it all. But are they only for ultra computer-y designer types? What about us computer dunces who don't even know what Linux is? Linux? What's a Linux? Isn't he the kid in "Peanuts" with the blanket? If I get a Mac, is it not going to be compatible with anything? And what's with this one mouse button thing? Oh, Macintosh, I fear you.

What should I do?

Currently reading: Many many laptop product reviews on CNET.

reader requests: how i met joe

(First in a series of requested stories)

The short answer to how I met Joe is, "In med school." You know, we were in the same class and all. But I guess you all want the longer version.

(By the way, I often find these stories of how people met their spouses sort of insufferably boring, so if you feel the same way, I totally understand. "Oh, so you met each other through a mutual friend? Wow, what a great story! Tell it again!" But so many people asked and wanted to know that I say hey, just give the peoples what they want.)

The first time I met Joe was during a rooftop barbecue the first day of med school, right after we moved into the dorms. I suspect that most med schools have a similar first-night activity, probably involving the grilling of meats and quaffing of cheap beer. Well, unless you go to one of those vegetarian Mormon med schools. It was the first time that our whole class was assembled all together, and everyone was trying to meet everyone else as quickly and memorably as possible, hoping to stake out our reputations as fun, easygoing people before the masks inevitably came off before the first exams and it was revealed that 75% of the class were actually insufferable, Type A stress-case gunners. When I finally met this kind of stocky jockish-looking guy who introduced himself as "Joe," I actually thought, thank god, because I had just finished meeting an Amit, a Mehul, a Vatche, a Tao, and an Amresh, and I was thankful that I had finally met one person whose name I didn't need a mnemonic to commit to memory. Joe. A nice, easy name.

Then we didn't speak again for about three months. I moved off campus after about a week of realizing how insufferable dorm life can be after college, he became entrenched in his friend network of 5th floor denizens and other jockish-types who frequented the basement gym. I wrote him off as a probable Ortho gunner (you med types can probably infer why I assumed that) and continued living my life.

Then, right before Thanksgiving, Joe approached me before Anatomy lab (I think we were up to the pelvis at that point, the most insufferable block of the Anatomy curriculum to my mind) and asked me if I knew where there was a Toys 'R' Us in the city. He knew I had grown up in New York and that I lived off campus, and he was looking for a recommendation of where he could buy some toys.

After getting over the mild surprise that this meathead jock-type was talking to me, I told him that his best bet was probably the Toys 'R' Us in Herald Square. But why did he need toys?

Well, he explained, he was flying to San Francisco for Thanksgiving, and was going to visit his friends who had two kids. He used to live there prior to starting med school, and he had these neighbors, a lesbian couple, who had adopted two children that he had gotten pretty close to. So he wanted to bring them each a present when he came.

In my mind, I thought: open-minded, check. Likes kids, check. Not ugly, check. Then, before I knew what I was doing, I said, "You know, I need to stop by Toys 'R' Us too to get a present for my sister. If you want, we could go together this weekend, and I could show you where the store is." This was partially true--I had been planning on getting the Millennium Edition of Trivial Pursuit as a Christmas present for one of my sisters. Not necessarily that weekend, but sometime, anyway. Joe, thankfully, didn't point out that he was a 25 year-old man and could probably find a Toys 'R' Us in the middle of Herald Square without needing to be bodily led to it, but he gamely agreed and we made plans to meet up that Saturday.

(Then we both changed into our nasty-smelling scrubs for Anatomy lab and spent the next three hours hacking away at our respective cadavers' urethras. Thank god I never have to be a first-year med student again. Isn't that one of Dante's ten circles of hell?)

So anyway, Saturday rolled around and we walked over to Toys 'R' Us. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and a pair of green army pants, which I can now recognize as his "dress to impress" variant on casual wear. (Otherwise, he would just wear a white T-shirt/undershirt and jeans, not unlike Hank Hill.) I, in my best imitation of a beatnik poet, was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and jeans. At least I didn't wear a beret and a tiny little goatee. It turns out that the store didn't have the Millennium Edition of Trivial Pursuit in stock (which I realize must have looked suspicious), but Joe found some presents for the kiddies--I believe one item was a giant bucket of toy bugs--so at least that mission was accomplished.

Afterwards, we were pretty much finished with the agreed-upon parameters of our outing, but I think we were each looking for reasons to prolong our time together. Should we eat lunch? Sure! Do you want to come over and listen to that CD I was telling you about? Sure! Do you want to...walk around? Sure! Finally, I did have to leave (my old high school friend was having a housewarming party in Brooklyn), and somehow, against my better judgment, I asked Joe if he wanted to come along. But what was I, crazy? Why would someone I just met want to spend a perfectly good Saturday evening hanging out with me and a group of my old high school friends at some apartment all the way the hell out there in Brookl--

"Sure! Thanks! I'd love to come!" Joe said.

So we took the F train out and spent the entire time at this party talking with each other and pretty much ignoring everyone else. We started dating as soon as he got back from his trip to San Francisco the following week, and got married three and a half years after that.

And now you know...the rest of the story.

Currently reading: The Consumer Reports 2005 Buying Guide. I'm looking to get a new laptop, because my current computer is something like 4 years old and kind of suicidal. I thought this Buying Guide deal would be more helpful, but I think it's written for old people who don't know anything about computers. It's like, "Laptop computers come with a keyboard and a hard drive on which you can store files!" Wow, thanks, useless book.

And also: Remember how yesterday I was talking about setting up a forum or a bulletin board type thing on which we could all post and discuss topics? Well, that's just what I did. So if you want, head on over and take a look. I don't have starter threads posted for most of the categories yet, but I'm sure you guys can think of better topics than me anyway. Just promise to be nice to each other and not write dirty things in there like shit ass piss whore motherfucker, because I don't have time to extensively moderate the boards, and if I hear that people start are getting all fractious in there I'll just close it up. (Not that you guys are the type to be like that anyway.)

audience participation

Thanks to all for the input and reassurances regarding the last post. I'm still a neophyte at all this, just trying to feel my way around and figure out what works, what doesn't. One piece of advice that I got in particular is that I'm just plain foolish to dump perfectly good milkstuffs just because it's been in the fridge more than 3 days--that I should either freeze said milkstuffs or keep it in the fridge until it damn near has maggots crawling out of it, because YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT UNFORESEEN THINGS MIGHT HAPPEN. Suggestions noted. I'm going to start storing freezer milk in these bags, though, because if I keep freezing the bottles straight, soon I'm not going to have any bottles left to pump into, and THEN where would we be? Chaos! Madness! Dogs and cats living together!

Yes well, anyway...thanks.


* * *


I realize that obviously, in the past month or so, I've been talking a lot about baby stuff, because that's what I've been doing with my time. This is interesting to some, less interesting to others, or at least I assume. I also know that I am terrible--TERRIBLE--at answering e-mails from readers. If you have e-mailed me and not received a reply, you know this. It's not that I'm being mean, or that I think you're a scary stalker, or that I just don't care, because believe me, it means a lot to me that you not only read this page but take the time to actually write to me and tell me that you enjoy it--it's just that I'm really a terrible, lazy e-mail person. I let e-mails pile up on me until they avalanche down and bury each other, and then I start the pile anew. You know this. TERRIBLE e-mailer.

I apologize especially to those of you (and there are many) that e-mail me looking for career advice. I feel for you because I know what it's like to be a young person in medicine struggling under duress to find That One Thing that you want to do with the rest of your life. I have a hard time sometimes responding to your e-mails too, not only because of my problem (see above) but because it's so hard to give career advice when you're just one person with one set of very specific experiences, and you're giving advice to someone that you don't really know. To you career-askers, if I haven't returned your e-mails, I'm really sorry. You know I have the love for you! Maybe what I'll do sometime is set up some kind of a forum or bulletin board (all old skool) so that we can have categories for posting specific questions or issues, and the whole community here can pitch in panel-discussion style, and we can harness all our collective experiences in medicine, parenthood, urban living, what have you. I'm sure there are older (well, not necessarily older, I guess) more experienced doctors/parents/urbanites than me that we could all learn from.

One piece of general advice that I can give to the career-angsters now is this: don't stress too too much, because medicine is more fluid than you think. Sure, it would be ideal to know exactly what you're going into right from the get-go so you don't waste any precious time (and so, let's face it, you can finish residency and fellowship as expeditiously as possible and actually start making some money and having a life), but many many MANY people change their minds midstream. And I'm just talking about myself, even though I count myself as one of the people who not quite changed her mind in the middle of her training, rather refined what it was that she wanted to do within that training. So don't feel like you're under so much pressure to lock yourself into a field forever and ever. If you find that you don't like what you're doing, don't worry--it's not jail. Well...maybe sometimes it's kind of like jail, but a really liberal jail that lets you go on furlough often and switch penitentiaries if you don't like the one you're currently in.


* * *


So anyway, what I was trying to say before I got all sidetracked was--sock it to me. I'm sure that after this Month of Babyness, there are plenty of topics that you would rather I talk about, or stories that you wish I would tell, so I'm opening myself up to suggestions. What do you want me to tell you? Lore from my days in high school or college? The tale of how Joe and I met? The story of my disastrous sixth grade prepubescent affaire d'amour (which one reader noted that I still haven't shared yet, though I promised to almost five years ago)? The Legend of Bagger Vance? Post in the comments section--I'll pick a few and we'll get some fresh, non-baby air up in here. Just remember the rules: nothing too specific about patients or the hospital or anything like that. Mommy still needs to be gainfully employed so that she can bring home the bacon. Or at least the Baco Bits, since I don't make that much money, and paying 50% of this household's take-home pay for the nanny is KILLING US.

Yes, well...fire away.

Currently reading: "My Life." I am unashamed to admit that I have kind of a crush on Bill Clinton, so charismatic and intelligent is he. Sounds like he was kind of a dork as a kid, though. He actually went to band camp!

like a weed

Just got an e-mail from Joe's mom yesterday night:

Good Evening everyone!

RE: 40 Year Old Virgin

Just a quick note to say that this was - BY
FAR - the stupidest movie I have ever
seen..... Save your time!!!!

We are SO going to see this movie.


* * *


Cal seems to be outgrowing his first set of pajamas. I'm kind of sad about this because I really liked those pajamas, despite the fact that the had five million bajillion snaps that required a little more spatial reasoning than I was sometimes able to muster at 4am. I mean, look at the cuteness, with the stripes and all.





Check out his ankles poking out the bottom, though, he's like Pee Wee Herman or something. The question is, how does a one month-old manage to outgrow clothing that is sized for 0-3 months? Either he is freakishly tall or the clothing sizing lies. I tend to think the latter--I mean, Cal is kinda tall (maybe "long" would be more accurate) but according to the label, the 0-3 month clothes hold in only up to 11 pounds of kid, and I feel like most kids are probably more than 11 pounds by the time the get to 3 months.

I decided to cram him into the cute pajamas last night while I still could. Anyway, it's really just the legs, the rest of the outfit fits fine. And maybe that's just the style. Capri pajamas.



* * *


(Warning: more posting about boob pumpage ahead, again, feel free to skip if this is SO NOT YOUR THING, but as someone who extensively researched the specifics of returning to work after having a baby and the specifics of providing expressed breast milk, I was personally desperate for details and practical tips. So here's my contribution to the internet compendium, for what it's worth.)





The strategic freezer reserves


I've been struggling in trying to figure out exactly how to manage the milk line for Cal once I return to work--specifically, how much do I need to pump per day, how much will he drink, how many bottles should I have on hand in the fridge versus the freezer, etcetera etcetera. In a perfect little dream world, Cal would only have the freshest of milk on hand for his daily chow, but practicality dictates that we need to have a little buffer zone of milk for him on the days that I'm home late, or on overnight call, or if his demand is simply outstripping my immediate supply. So over the past few weeks, I've been very slowly, slowly building up the strategic milk stores for The Boy so that he can have all sorts of immunoglobulin-rich goodness while I play doctor during the day. I could have built up the stores much faster, but Cal's still nursing for part of the day and I didn't want to pump bottles that we just going to sit in the fridge and expire on me.




The stash in the fridge, next to the Soy Vey marinade


So here are the facts that have dictated our strategy (OK, my strategy--Joe is only peripherally involved in this planning, to the extent of him saying "uh huh" to my brainstorming and occasionally doing some of the bottle feeds):

As per La Leche League, breast milk stays good in the fridge for up to 8 days, and up to 3-4 months in the freezer. However, as much as possible, I would like for Cal to get the freshest milk that we can manage--no more than 3 days old in the fridge if we can swing it. We have strategic freezer stores of milk, but ideally I would always be able to pump enough and we would never have to touch the freezer stuff. Frozen's still better than formula from what I've read, but the freezing process denatures the proteins and it just doesn't have the benefits of the fresh stuff.





From his bottlefeeds, Cal takes about 3-4 ounces every 2-3 hours while awake. However, he's supposed to be getting somewhere between 2 to 2.5 ounces per pound per day (or about 5 ounces per kilo per day) so it seems from my record keeping (we have this little binder of all his ins and outs so that we can round on the baby every day--only partially kidding) he's getting closer to 3 ounces per pound per day. Of course, some of this is only extrapolation since I'm still nursing him part of the time and my boob has no calibration on it (at least not that I can locate), but it has me thinking: are we feeding him too much? See, this is EXACTLY the type of question that, when I was a Peds resident, would have me ROLLING MY EYES at the CRAZY FIRST TIME PARENT because dude, your kid is FINE, he's not getting super-fat or puking up his feeds or looking distended and uncomfortable, so just CHILL already, Nervous Nellie, GOD. But now, see, here now is my punishment for being so "there there now, silly parent" about those concerns--now I know EXACTLY where those parents were coming from. Are we feeding our kid too much? How much is he really eating, anyway?




It's like we live in a lab, with all the bottles and racks and brushes


So anyway, let's say for the sake of sanity that on my average non-call day, Cal will take something like 6 (or mayyyyybe 7 if I'm running late) bottles while I'm out of the house. Can I manage to keep up? When will I have time to pump during the day? I have it all mapped out.




The pump, complete with anti-theft lock and chain (it's actually a dog collar) and digital stopwatch to make sure that I'm not overstaying my break


4:45am - Wake up, pump anywhere from 2-3 bottles, leaving one out for Cal when he wakes up, stashing the rest in the fridge
~9-10am - Midmorning 15-minute break, run to locker room, pump 2 bottles
~1pm - Half-hour lunch break, run to locker room, cram sandwich in gaping maw while pumping 2 bottles (thanking the lord that I bought this thing)
4-5pm (hopefully) - Relieved from OR, run to locker room, pump 2 bottles before doing my pre- and post-ops and going home for the day
7pm (again, hopefully) - Get home so that the kid can eat on tap




So hungry, must eat hand to satiate my craving for HUMAN FLESH


I've been trying to replicate the schedule while at home and so far I've been keeping up, and have even been able to pumping more than he can drink in one day. In fact, in the past few days, I've been dumping out one or two of the oldest bottles of milk in the fridge reserves just to keep the milk line current and to have it such that Cal is drinking milk no more than 3 days old. We've been lucky with the supply, but things could always change what with him growing and me shrinking, which is why the 2-3 day buffer zone of milk (as well as the strategic freezer reserves) exist.

I know now that it seems like I'm crazy obsessing about this, but come on now, it's my thing. I don't just kinda do things casually--when I decide to do something, I REALLY do it. Doesn't it make you feel good to look at me, all OCD, and think to yourself, "Damn, when I'm a parent, I'm never going to be that compulsive."

SO YOU THINK.

Currently watching: Well, not watching it yet, but wondering if I should take advantage of the fact that Georgia is here for the morning and take a little adult-time break in the form of going to catch an early show of "Broken Flowers." Since when did Bill Murray become the new Steve Martin, what with the indie cred and whatnot? Still, he did do the voice of Garfield in that stupid movie with Jennifer LOVE Hewitt and has even agreed to voice the sequel, so he's not above working for money. Bill Murray actually does a lot of fundraising for the Children's Hospital--I saw him in the hospital lobby just last year, hobnobbing with bigwigs. I think he may be donating money for a new pulmonary center or something, at least that's the word on the street.

[???]

So I now have less than two weeks before I have to return to work, or "work outside of the home," as some might (stridently) insist that I call it, though I don't quite feel the same need for that level of specificity; when I say "work," one pretty clearly understands that I mean "my job, for which I get paid money to do things not at home," right? So anyway, yes, my outside-of-the-home job for scandalously low pay, which I must resume after Labor Day. And while I'm excited to go back (aside from fears that I've lost all my skillz and forgotten all the medicine I've ever learned), there is some adjusting that needs to take place.

We've been phasing in our nanny, Georgia, for the past few weeks, having her come more and more half-days a week (I'm just having her work in the mornings for now, so I still get to play Dr. Mom in the afternoons) and practice her morning commute. The problem with her morning commute is that we really do need her to come in ridiculously early, and given the pre-5:30am morning train schedules and the fact that she lives in Brooklyn on the not-so-reliable-before-6am Q line, we've had a little trouble nailing down a punctual arrival time. (She has to switch from the Q to the also-not-so-fast N train at Union Square.) I have to get to work uptown by 6:30am, and from our dress rehearsals, Georgia has been able to arrive to our house anywhere between 5:50am and 6:00am. Which is fairly reasonable, given that we asked her to come at 5:45am, but my worry is that it if it really is closer to 6:00am that she's getting here, it doesn't really leave a large margin of error for things like traffic or weather or the random unexpected event that I like to think of as [???]. For example, [???] = the car doesn't start. Or [???] = there's a mysterious van parked on the side of the FDR and the bomb squad fences off a ten block radius, trapping us between exits. Or [???] = The Boy is sick and our whole morning routine is thrown off.

I don't like [???].

Of course, you have to keep in mind that for most people, 30 minutes is the perfect amount of time to allot for our commute, because usually, that's exactly the amount of time the drive uptown would take. But you're talking about me and Joe here, two walking anuses with legs and clogs. We got to the airport four hours early for our flight to Italy. During my Peds residency, depending on the month, I would routinely get in for work half an hour before everyone else because of the threat of the dreaded [???]. As an intern on the wards during the winter, there were many, many mornings that I got in at 5:30am when rounds didn't start until 7:00am, because I really hate the feeling of being rushed through my pre-rounds. (Also because I hated fighting the med students for computers, and if I got there after they arrived, I'd be gridlocked in line behind them while they printed out articles from Up-To-Date or checked their patients labs in a particularly slow and tortuous way.)

So I guess what I need to learn now is that I need to stop being such a walking anus. I mean, I don't think it's possible to be in medicine and not be a tiny bit compulsive about how you do things, but now that we have a kid, we're going to have to accept that [???] is going to come up a lot more frequently, and while it's not always convenient, it's to be expected. I can't always count on having my extra half hour in the morning to leisurely sip my tea and pre-round. I can't always count on my pre-work routine to go off without a hitch. I'm not going to always have that 45 minutes in the evening to read my articles for work--oh wait, who am I kidding, I never used to do that anyway. But my point is that the era of ruthlessly scheduling my days and expecting to be able to keep to that schedule 99% of the time are over. I have to learn to embrace the [???].

But I still don't have to like it.

Currently reading: "Pillars of the Earth," and also for a dash of non-fiction, the deceptively succinctly titled Bill Clinton memoir "My Life". I really wanted to read it when it first came out, but did you see the size of that book in hardcover? It was like a cement block! Also, of course, reading up on peripheral nerve blocks so I won't be a stupidhead.

accidental tourists

There's no way to say this without sounding either ungrateful or evil, so I'm just going to come out and say it: being home with a newborn all day is kind of boring.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm not enjoying it. Cal is a great baby and we've been having good times, eating and cooing and pooping and making funny faces. It's just that he doesn't do much else. Because of him being a baby and all. But see, I'm an adult. And while looking up at the shadows on the ceiling or turning his head towards a noise pretty much requires the sum of his concentration...for me, not so much.

Sometimes, I get kind of bored.

It's not that I want to cut my maternity leave short and return to work early or anything, even though work is the one thing that's almost certain to leave my brain extremely worked out and tired by the end of the day. Nor is the solution to have our nanny come for longer hours during the day to "relieve" me--I like taking care of the baby, and I feel like I have the rest of my life to fob him off on various substitute caretakers for the day. This is my turn to spend time with him, and I want to be here for it, goddammit. I wouldn't want to do it every single day forever and ever, but it's nice being able to be home, me and The Boy, just the two of us (we can make it if we try). There's no real solution, and I hesitate to say that there's even a problem. It's just a plain fact that I'm putting out there: newborns can be kind of dull.

Dull or not, it's amazing how attached you get to them all the same. If you had asked me prior to having Cal what someone who practiced "Attachment Parenting" was like, I probably would have conjured up some hippy-dippy type who carried her baby around with her in a hemp sling woven by South American artisans and who made her own fresh organic baby food not with a grinder (evil technology, that plastic), but with a mortar and pestle. I didn't even know what "Attachment Parenting" was, really, except that it was somehow granola, perhaps involving hackey sack. I knew nothing about the different schools of parenting and all these different philosophies and such about discipline and sleep and whatnot, except that, if at all possible, one should avoid beating their kids, and not address them as "Hey, stupid." At least not to their face.




What I now realize, looking back on the past four weeks, is that we have become accidental Attachment Parents ourselves. Most of the strategies promoted by these proponents of Attachment Parenting are sort of obvious or intuitive, like "talk to the baby, respond to the baby, figure out what he needs when he cries." Um, duh. But there are some things that we're doing that I wouldn't have necessarily predicted prior to Cal being born.

For example, Cal sleeps with us in our bed at night. We had originally positioned a Pack 'n' Play in our room next to the bed, thinking it he could sleep there for the immediate newborn period before later being transitioned to the crib. But we noticed that in the Pack 'n' Play, he was waking up and fussing every two hours, whereas when we brought him to bed with us, he seemed calmer and was able to sleep for four to five hours at a stretch. We like sleep too, so we kept doing it, after making some provisions and rearrangements such that our bed would not become an infant smother-nest death trap. Now I realize that he's been quite happily sleeping with us for the past three and a half weeks, and I'm thinking that it might not be bad to keep him there with us at least for the immediate future. The last thing I want to do after being away from him at work all day is play with him for 30 minutes, and then send him off to spend another 7 hours away from us in another room on the other side of the apartment. We like having him close to us, and it makes all of our nights a little snugglier and calmer.

And then there are some mornings I wake up with all of us together in the bed and think, oh my god, we're hippies. Time to erect our yurt, starshine.

Oh well, best not to think too much about it. We're just flying by the seat of our pants here, doing what feels intuitive and what works for us and not putting too many labels on this and that. Either way, it seems to be working, everyone's happy, and no one has been reported to Child Protective Services or decided to get dredlocks. Anyway being "attached" to your kid doesn't sound too too terrible, unless it gets to the point that I'm following him to college and renting out an apartment just across the street from campus.

I'll tell you one thing, though--today, our nanny took Cal out briefly for a stroll in the park while I took the dog out to run some errands. Coop and I got home before they did, and I felt decidedly weird being home while the baby wasn't. As per Dr. Sears, I felt unsettled and "incomplete." And when they finally got home maybe 20 minutes later, I heaved a huge sigh of relief and ran over to give The Boy one million (1,000,000) smooches, because I had missed him in the time that he had been away.




Don't worry, I'm sure I'll have less trouble letting go by the time Cal's ready to get married.

Currently reading: "The Pillars of the Earth." This book is actually kind of educational, even though usually I don't like reading books about Medieval Times, unless you're talking about the restaurant. And even then...

exiled

Today I forced myself out of the house for most of the morning to give Georgia and Cal a chance to get their groove on without me being Hover-Mommy in the background, constantly poking my head in and asking, "Is everything OK? Do you guys need anything?" They did fine, of course. I just needed to not be in the house for my own and everyone else's sanity, because I have a hard time being in the apartment watching someone else taking care of my kid. It's the same way I often have to leave the house when we have someone come by and clean for us--I feel guilty just sitting there like some imperialist overlord, watching them work.

So what did I do with my morning? I didn't really have an agenda, but I did take care of some errands that I've been meaning to run and haven't been able to, trapped in the house with the baby either by precipitation or a heat index topping 100 degrees. I went to Barnes and Noble and picked up "The Pillars of the Earth" in paperback. Thank god, something new to read. But man, first my sickness in needing to complete the (progressively ridiculous) Dan Brown compendium, and now this Ken Follett thing. I'm becoming one of those Thriller Readers. Well, it's summertime anyway, all light reading is forgiven.

I dropped by Staples and rubbed myself on all the lovely, lovely Back to School supplies. How ridiculous is it that I, a 27 year-old woman, still get all turned on by all those magic markers and Trapper Keepers and such? I am such a nerd. I could probably spend an hour alone just in the pen section, trying out all manner of medium tip versus fine tip, gel ink versus ball point.

I stopped by Old Navy and got some super sale sports bras because I don't have any bras that fit me anymore, and while I have a huge stash of these tops that I've basically been wearing exclusively for the past four weeks, I have to come to terms with the fact that the weather may not permit me to wear tank tops for the rest of my life. I also picked up a few new 3-6 month sale outfits for Cal, because he burns through clothes like some sort of award show host (though it's unclear if Whoopi Goldberg changed clothes so often during the Oscars for the sake of fashion, or because she got spit up over each successive outfit). Anyway, these sales rack baby clothes, you cannot resist them. Because of CUTENESS.

And finally, I swung by Walgreens and got some cheap-ass $1.99 lip gloss. The $1.99 lip gloss was, so far as I can tell, identical to the $7.99 lip gloss, so why spend the extra money? Actually, the cheaper lip gloss was probably better--the brand name stuff was all unnecessarily sparkly and "less sticky" (as per the advertising), but the sparkles just end up all over your face by the end of the day, making you look like you came to work straight from a rave or some such thing. Also, I actually prefer my lip gloss sticky. It stays on better that way. Nothing more annoying that a thin, smeary lip gloss that glides right off the second you take a bite of your sandwich.

So those were the things that I occupied myself with during my self-imposed exile from the house. Then I ran home and everyone was still alive and smiley and happily playing, which made me feel both great and superfluous.

Well, they still need me to provide the food, anyway.

Currently reading: My new book. Also while at Barnes and Noble, read all the Us Weekly/In Touch/People-type magazines while sitting at the cafe and felt a little bit sick afterwards, the way you feel the morning after Halloween from all that candy the night before.

on letting sleeping dads lie

During the weekends, Joe and I trade off in manning Cal's overnight demands--usually I'll feed him, and Joe will be on diaper patrol--but during the work week, usually I take full night-shift responsibility. This is my choice because I figure Joe has to work the next day, whereas I can always take a midday nap to make up for broken sleep overnight. Well, that, and the fact that Joe is fairly difficult to rouse from sleep. If by "fairly difficult" I mean "can sleep through a nuclear holocaust." Honestly, some nights I just change that diaper myself, because I'm awake anyway, and in the amount of time it would take me to rouse Joe from Stage 4 sleep and actually communicate to him that he needed to spring into fatherly action, I could change five diapers.

Joe is also very strange when he wakes from a deep sleep in that he provides a window directly into his unconscious psyche, and from what I have seen, that psyche is almost completely consumed with ophthalmology. This may seem right and natural for those members of the [University Hospital] ophthalmology department that read this webpage, but trust me, for the rest of the population, it's a little bit weird. I finally succeeded in prodding Joe awake one night over this past weekend, and the first thing he said was, "I'll put in the baby's eye drops if you need me to." I reminded him that the baby doesn't use eye drops ("Oh, right...") but that his diaper probably had vision-obscuring poo in it. But at least the concept of a baby needing eye drops isn't outside of the realm of reason. About two months ago, however, Joe started shouting in his sleep about needing to prescribe bifocals for the dog. I'm so not kidding you about this. How could I make that up?

(Though, in the spirit of full disclosure, I did have a dream myself a couple of weeks ago that I was in the OR and left the sevo running full blast, not hooked up to a patient, but just hissing out into the room. In the dream, I realized too late and started blacking out in the middle of reaching for the dial on the anesthesia machine to turn off the gas.)

Last night, Cal was a little off his usual schedule (though who's to say what his "usual" schedule is, he's only three and a half weeks old--for all we know, last night was "the usual") and woke twice after we went to bed, once at midnight and once at 3am. Between feedings and diaper changing and him generally being WIDE AWAKE what with the big eyes and the cooing and readiness for play, it took me about an hour to settle back to sleep each time. Joe slept through it all.

This morning, Joe woke me up briefly to say goodbye before leaving for work.


JOE
Hon?

MICHELLE
Mphg? Glrub?

JOE
I'm off to work.

MICHELLE
S'nice. Work's nice.

JOE
Page me later if you need anything, OK?

MICHELLE
S'mokay. (Waking up a little more) Rough night last night.

JOE
It was?

MICHELLE
Yeah. I mean, more than usual. How did you sleep?

JOE
Eh. When I woke up, I felt like it still wasn't enough.

MICHELLE
(Unable to restrain)
Well, CRY ME A RIVER, daddy.


That's it, I'm waking his ass up tonight.

Currently reading: "Death of a Salesman." Plans to bring Cal with me to the bookstore were foiled by rain, so working my way through the High School Reading List Greatest Hits.

what you really need to put on your baby registry




What would you say is the most useful item in the arsenal when dealing with a new baby?

a.) A musical crib mobile which dangles and rotates the most celebrated works of various Renaissance master artists over your newborn's unsuspecting head

b.) A diaper wipes warmer so your baby's butt will not be SCANDALIZED by the indignity of a cold wipe

c.) A closet full of teeny tiny nightgowns and onesies

d.) A pile of rags

People, the answer, far above all the other choices, is D. Rags rags rags! You do not understand how many rags we blow through a day. Sure, they go by different names-- washcloths, cloth diapers, burp cloths, receiving blankets--but at the end of the day, they're all rags, and they probably make up 75% of Cal's laundry burden.

What do we do with all these rags, you ask? I'm glad that you did. Use of rags includes but is not limited to:

• Wiping up baby puke
• Protecting clothes against baby puke
• Covering baby
• Wrapping up baby
• Washing baby
• Covering baby weenie during diaper changes to protect against airborne urine
• Covering changing pad to protect against butt-shaped poo stains
• Serving as boob pads in a pinch

So the next time you're invited to a baby shower, forget the Baby Einstein and frilly booties. Just get the parents a pile of rags. They may look at you cockeyed at first and accuse you of being cheap, but believe me, in a few weeks, they will thank you.




(This is tummy time, by the way, not negligence. El bebe dormir boca arriba. Also, as you can see, we foolishly forgot to place a rag between Cal's face and the playmat. For this, we will pay. Pay in quarters, that is, deposited into the washing machine.)

Currently reading: Still killing time with "Needful Things," but may revisit the bookstore later today. I love how you guys always have book suggestions for me. It's like being in a book club, only I never have to bring baked goods.

let me eat cake

I didn't have many specific cravings while I was pregnant, but ever since Cal was born, I've been obsessed with cake. CAKE. Could there be anything more delectable? Great big slabs of cake with vanilla frosting. In my belly. Taste the deliciousness.

I think this cake obsession can be owed to Joe's mom, who made a great big chocolate chip orange zest cake for us when they came to visit two weeks ago. The cake wasn't originally meant to be frosted, but it kind of fell apart when attempts were made to extricate it from the Bundt pan, so last minute repairs were made with two tubs of vanilla frosting to "glue" the top of cake back on.

Maybe I was at an impressionable point, but I think this was maybe the best cake I've ever eaten in my life.

Since then, I've been obsessed with cake. I have a box of yellow cake mix in the kitchen that's ready to go whenever I summon the proper motivation to actually bake, but an Entenmann's All-Butter Loaf with frosting on it was a good stopgap measure. But now the All-Butter Loaf has been consumed, and I'm at a decision point. Should I get another Loaf at the supermarket and take the lazy way out, or should I actually bake with the cake mix that I already have? (Yes, it's sad that the instant cake mix is the harder of the two options. But it entails eggs and the greasing of pans and the oven and everything.)

Forgoing cake is not an option here. You do not understand. Cake, it is just so, so good. Call it the breastfeeding hungries, call it postpartum psychosis, whatever. I must have my cake and eat it too.

Currently reading: "Needful Things." Even though he's getting unbearably folksy as of late, Stephen King is a good go-to guy when you're biding your time until the next new book. My copy is so old that the cover just fell off.

priming the pump

Huh. So it turns out I didn't have to go to that Grand Rounds after all. I realized this when I bumped into my program director.



PROGRAM DIRECTOR
(Double take)
What are you doing here?

MICHELLE
I'm...uh...attending Grand Rounds?

PROGRAM DIRECTOR
But why?

MICHELLE
Because...it's mandatory?

PROGRAM DIRECTOR
No it isn't! You're on leave!

MICHELLE
Because I got this e-mail that was all like, "YOU, MICHELLE AU, HAVE BEEN SCHEDULED TO ATTEND GRAND ROUNDS TODAY!" So I figured that the e-mail was all specific, with my name on it and everything, so I had to come.

PROGRAM DIRECTOR
(Making swatting gesture)
Oh, those e-mails. They're just automatically generated. They don't even pass through our office. Just ignore them until you're back at work.

MICHELLE
Aha. And I just thought, "Wow, here's a residency program that's really serious about Grand Rounds!"

PROGRAM DIRECTOR
Yes, but we're not crazy.


So, you heard it here first. Anesthesiologists: Not Crazy.



* * *


It was good to get a chance to do the little work-routine dress rehearsal, though. First thing that I learned this morning is that even with Joe and I splitting baby and dog duty, I'm going to need a full hour to get ready for work, even if I shower the night before. The second thing I learned during my little run-through was that from start to finish, one pumping session at work should not take more than 20 minutes--and I'll probably be able to shave down that time significantly once I get the hang of it. In brieffor those interested (those not can just skip ahead), here is the pump that I've been using for the past three weeks.





It's the Medela Symphony, and it's a hospital-grade pump that I'm renting from some crunchy granola mommy business on the Upper West Side. Now, my original plan had been to just buy a pump, figuring that given the cost of several months of rental fees, the thing would pay for itself. But I decided to rent a hospital-grade pump instead for two reasons: one, I didn't want to commit to purchasing a pump unless I knew that this pumping-at-work thing was going to pan out; and two, if I was going to pump at work, I wanted the monster of all pistons to ensure maximum pumping session speed. Hence, the Symphony. There are other hospital-grade pumps out there too, but I'd heard many good things about the Symphony (including the big plus that it's really quiet while running), so that's the one I picked. It's costing me $60 a month to rent, which is a lot, but it's worth it, and cheaper than formula besides.

I actually think that what I need to do to shave the most time off these sessions is just to have the pump set up already each time I need to us it, so all I need to do is to plug it in and then, uh, plug myself in. Ahem. But seriously, I could probably save a good three to five minutes each session if I didn't have to take the damn machine out, connect all the tubes and whatnot, unhook everything and pack the whole apparatus back up again everytime I needed to do my thing. So what I really need now is a chain and a bicycle lock, so I can just leave the pump out in the locker room shower. You might think it's crazy to need to chain down a breast pump--honestly, who would want to steal something like that except for a TOTAL PERVERT--but keep in mind, the in-store price of such an item is more than $1,200. Hence the rental, you see?

Ah, breast-pumping. So fascinating. And now that I've alienated 75% of my audience...


* * *


I was watching that documentary on ABC last night about Peter Jennings. It's so strange when someone like that dies, because they're barely even real people to you--they're just like these timeless, immutable icons that never age, never change, and certainly never die, for chrissake. I've been watching the evening news with Peter Jennings ever since I can remember (it was my family's evening news program of choice, I didn't really have much say in the matter as a kid, though I did come to prefer him to Rather and Brokaw when I actually developed an opinion on the matter) and I just always thought of him as this kind of James Bond character, all dashing and suave and well-versed in world affairs. No one could pull of a safari jacket like that guy, let me tell you.

It sounds strange, but this kind of reminds me of when Mister Rogers died. (Yes, his name was Fred Rogers, but you have to call him "Mister" or no one knows who you're talking about.) Mister Rogers wasn't supposed to die. He's Mister Rogers! He's supposed to be around forever, feeding his fish and throwing his blue Keds up in the air! For him to actually dare to be mortal was just blasphemous.

We'll miss you, Peter Jennings.

Currently reading: I had considered this before, but the chatter from the Comments section reminds me that I really should read "The Pillars of the Earth" at some point. I just need to find a copy.

wet dress rehearsal, so to speak





Is there a name for this phenomenon where, after having your first human child, your pet gets downgraded from "child proxy" status to "pet"? Because that's what's happened to Cooper around here. She's stopped being our baby and started being The Dog. I feel kind of bad about it, since she's been so doted on for almost three years, but honestly, given the choice between having the baby sleep in our bed and having the dog sleep in our bed, I choose the baby. I don't know how she feels about all of this--not to anthropomorphize, but I do think that part of her must understand that Cal needs a lot of our attention right now--but I wonder what's going on in that little brain of hers now that she's no longer the Queen of the Universe. (Honestly, she still kind of is the Queen of the Universe, it's just that Cal is the King.)

So it turns out that I have another Grand Rounds to attend tomorrow. This one isn't some JCAHO thing, it's just a regular clinical Grand Rounds with a faculty speaker and whatnot. I wouldn't have thought to attend this Grand Rounds since, you know, I'm on leave, except for the fact that I've gotten about three e-mail from various departmental figures reminding me that I, MICHELLE AU, HAVE BEEN SCHEDULED TO ATTEND GRAND ROUNDS ON THURSDAY, 8/11. So I guess that means I need to go. I'm fine with it, actually. It's nice to have a chance to rehearse our morning routine before I actually have to return to work, and nice to give Georgia (our nanny) a chance to practice her early morning subway commute. Cal's been switching pretty effortlessly between boob and bottle for the past week anyway, so I don't have any worries about that, or leaving him for four hours.





But on the subject of foodstuffs, one thing in particular that I do want to rehearse tomorrow when I'm up at the hospital is my pumping routine. I honestly don't know how feasible it's going to be to have any kind of regular pumping schedule when I back in the ORs, but I want to at least try to keep it up it I can. I even scoped out a good spot with an electrical outlet before I went on leave--in the shower facilities of the women's changing room next to the ORs on the fourth floor. I just want to do a quick run-through if I can tomorrow, and see how much time it will take to get to the room, set up the pump, actually do the pumping, and pack everything back up again. Will I be able to do all this during my 15 minute morning break? Unclear. I guess we'll just have to see.

Currently reading: Dude, I need a new book to read. (A real, non-medical book, I mean.) Even dropped by Borders the other weekend to load up, but nothing caught my eye.

you decide

Hey all. Not much going on around here. I mean, yes, there is stuff going on, but nothing of much interest, unless you have some sort of burning passion for infant scatology. However, in a brazen rip-off of the poll featured on Ray and Susan's baby webpage, I now present to you the first Underwear Drawer Reader's Poll. Today's question, since it's All About The Baby around here these days: Which parent does Cal most resemble? Vote at the sidebar to the left, pictures have been provided below for your convenience.








Personally, I think he looks more like me when he's awake, but more like Joe when he's sleeping. Which is pretty much the weirdest thing I've ever heard of, so top that.

Currently reading: The chapter in Baby Miller about local anesthetics. This was the morning lecture I missed two Fridays ago because I was, you know, in labor and all that. I have an exam that I have to take the week I return to work, and I've decided that after two full weeks of devoting myself to all baby, all the time, this is the week I'm going to resume studying. I really want to do well on this test, if for no other reason than to prove that going on maternity leave didn't liquefy my brain.

liberated

Joe came back to bed after Cal's 2am diaper change and said, "Well, I have good news and bad news."


MICHELLE
(Sitting up)
Uh-oh. What's the bad news?

JOE
I can't find it.

MICHELLE
Can't find...can't find what?

JOE
That's the good news.

MICHELLE
That being?

JOE
It fell off.

MICHELLE
His stump?

JOE
It finally fell off. But I don't know where it is.

MICHELLE
Oh. Oh! Yay! Well, whatever, I'm sure we'll find it in the morning.

JOE
Yeah.

MICHELLE
Either that, or the dog will eat it.


Every single day this week, we've been saying that Cal's umbilical cord stump would probably fall off that day or the next. And every day, the cord would deny us, tenaciously hanging on, that shriveled little piece of Wharton's jelly and connective whatnot. Once we hit the two week mark, I even started to get a little nervous that it hadn't fallen off yet, thinking maybe Cal had chronic granulomatous disease or some such thing, because WHY WASN'T IT FALLING OFF? And also, I am crazy.

So now it looks like Cal has a nice little innie. It will probably have to settle over the course of a couple of days, but it's definitely concave, not an outtie or a "swirlie" like his dad (that being a level or very shallow umbilicus with a twirling pinwheel of skin at the base). I'm sure he'll use his innie for good, not evil. Maybe he'll tuck things in there for safekeeping.

I did find the cord this morning, by the way. It was on the floor, at the foot of our bed. At first I thought it was a dead roach or a fly or something, but on closer inspection, nope, just a shriveled umbilical cord stump. Nothing to see here, people, please disperse. I showed Joe the nubbin, and then without much fanfare, chucked it in the trash. No, we didn't save it for the scrapbook. We're crazy, but not that crazy.

Currently watching: "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou." Well, we tried to watch it last night, at least. I love the look of Wes Anderson's movies--every scene is like a diorama or a museum exhibit, so perfectly blocked and posed. Unfortunately, we both fell asleep halfway though the movie, though this may have had less to do with the movie than with the fact that it was 11:00pm and the new bedtime in this house is 9:30pm.

two weeks notice

As a new parent, I can tell you that probably the most common thing that you're told both before and after the baby pops out is some sort of comment about the lack of sleep, something along the lines of, "stock up on sleep now, you're not going to be getting much once the baby's born." (This possibly followed by an ill-concealed snicker of schadenfreude. Jerks.) Of course Cal's not sleeping through the night, because he's only two weeks old--we wouldn't expect anything more than four or five hours at a stretch max. Lately he's been going to bed at 9 or 10pm, waking once to feed at 1 or 2am, and then again at around 5 or 6am, when he realizes that it's morningtime, so wakey-wakey.

This may sound a little tortuous, but it actually hasn't been all that terrible. Joe and I were remarking yesterday at how (despite the fact that we would both love to not be awake at 2am every night) relatively normal we feel despite living on a newborn's sleep schedule. And the explanation that we came up with is this: as medical residents, we're already used to having our sleep disrupted multiple times a night, and we're already used to waking up obscenely early. Getting up just once overnight to feed and change the baby? So much better than getting paged 20 times a night to TPA some kid's Broviac or do Q2 resp checks for the bronchiolitic up on the 8th floor. Waking up every day at 5:30am? Talk about sleeping in, friend--usually I wake up at 4:45am to get to work on time. Also, since I'm still on leave, I actually get to take a nap during the day, which more than makes up for Cal's nocturnal activities. Taking a nap during the day in my nice air-conditioned bedroom with a smushy little baby on my chest is one of life's more decadent pleasures.

I guess the problem will come when I have to dovetail back into my regular work schedule. Perhaps this 2am feed-and-change routine will become much less amusing when I actually have to get ready for work two hours after that.


* * *


So Cal's two weeks old today. (Trivia factoid: in my family, you can't say "two weeks" without saying, right after it, "twooo weeeeks" in a slurred voice, like the fat lady in "Total Recall" whose head and body splits open to reveal the Arnold Schwarzenegger within. "You're in a Johnny Cab!") So how has he changed in the past two weeks, you may ask? Well, not really that much, actually.

He's a little bit bigger I think, though this is just by feel, since we have no infant scale in our home. But he's eating more, and even though he still has chicken legs and skinny arms, he's getting some rolls where there were no rolls before. He's definitely stronger, lifting his head up to look all around and scootching up with his legs when he's lying on our chests. And of course, his elimination skills have become prodigious. Clearly he cares not for the landfills or the environment, because he goes through diapers like they're going out of style. Of course, once could make the argument that it's actually Joe and I that care not for the environment, as we made the choice to go with disposable diapers instead of cloth--but have you seen Cal's diapers? There's poo in them! Poo! Poo is for the trash, not for touching! Anyway, if you saw how much medical waste I generate at work every day what with the tubing and syringes and individually-wrapped everything, you would understand why I am relatively inured to the thought of throwing out 12 diapers a day, even if I am dooming my great-great-great-great grandchildren to living in subterranean burrows to escape the acid rain and toxic, choking smog.

So yes, there has been some development in the past two weeks. But he still can't walk, talk, or make his own meals. Scootching? Putting on weight? These skills are useless to me!


* * *


So no big plans for the weekend, since we can't really take The Boy much of anywhere yet. I'm just glad that Joe's going to be home for the next two days, so we can resume the tag-team action that we had going on for that first week. More than one parent around is good.

Oh wait, I take that back. There is one big plan for the weekend--tonight for dinner, specifically. We're planning to order in sushi--the actual raw kind, I've had enough shrimp tempura rolls to last me my entire life, thank you--and I'm going to have a beer. La Leche League says "occasional light consumption" of the old EtOH is OK and won't get Cal all drunky or stupid, so by gum, I'm going to take them on their word. Yay for not being pregnant anymore!

Currently watching: "30 Minute Meals," trying to get some ideas about quick meals to make for when I go back to work. Rachel Ray annoys the shit out of me, though. Shut up with your EVOO already.