You Down With Newport Beach? (Yeah You Know Me)

Wow. That was the most shocking episode of The OC ever! Nothing truly bad ever happens on The OC, but the past few episodes have been catastrophic for our friends in Orange County. Mind you I still don't get how someone can get sent to rehab for a three episode drinking problem. Like, didn't she JUST get hit by a freakin' mack truck?

In the ever-changing world that is my brain, it seems that the crazy dreams have not ceased eventhough the baby is now out of my body and sleeping 12 hours a night. A few weeks ago I had this dream that Sista Sunshine and I were actually in The OC. I was in the kitchen having bagels with Seth Cohen. I was flirting with him and telling him that I was glad he was Seth Cohen and not Adam Brody, because sometimes the character is hotter than the actor. I gave the following example: I was never into Jason Priestly, but Brandon Walsh... whoa. We even had a kiss named after Brandon Walsh. He had a signature move where he would reach out and grab the girl from the back of the neck and pull her into the kiss. The Dog gave me The Brandon on our first quasi-date in Edwards Garden. That really sealed the deal for me.

Anyways, Seth totally gave me the brush-off, citing that he was actually into my sister (say what?!) and the two of them go off to the pool that is never ever used and is merely there as an excuse to give Ryan his own pad ("the Pool House" for those who don't know -- if you haven't surfed out already). So then Ryan comes over with his coffee and we start chatting. He is way into me in my dream. Normally I am not attracted to this Russell Crowe Jr whatsoever. He's cute and a nice guy and all, but not my type. But as soon as he starts paying attention to me, I suddenly have a crush on him in the dream.

"What about Marissa?" I ask him.
"Forget about her," he says with a half-smile. Yay, this dream is heating up! "The real dillema," he says, looking deep into my eyes, "Is what we're going to do about your husband and your baby."

UGH. Ruined. Even in my sleep I can no longer fantasize about sleeping with hotties. Everyone knows my situation it seems. Can't a girl get a little sum'in sum'in in her dreams at least?

Last night I dreamt that I was back at work. Everything had changed and no one was telling me what was going on. I went to lunch and when I came back my laptop was gone and replaced with a desktop. The next day (in dream time) I came back from lunch to find I had no machine to work on at all. "You're being moved into another department," I was told. "You will now be a Business Specialist." Oh the horror! This is actually my sister's job title and I laugh because the initials for the job are BS. Probably why I got burnt with that job in my dream. Then in my dream, I had a huge confrontation with my boss where I tried to appologize for being mean to her and hurting her feelings and I started to cry from shame. So weird. I guess my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

Anyway, I wonder what I will dream of tonight after such a violent, tragic West-Side Story-esque ending to The OC. I can't believe I have wait until November to know if Marissa goes to jail. Perhaps I will dream that we are in the state pen together and I won't give her any smokes until she gives me that dope Chanel pearl necklace she wore to the prom last week. I'm sure it will be like Camp Cupcake. I just hope the Dog and the baby can come visit.

Never Cry Cough

So I forgot to mention that Nate's adorable fake coughing was misdiagnosed by me as of last Friday. Also misdiagnosed were my thoughts that he was teething badly. We must have picked up a bug at the Doc's office, because last weekend Nate and I came face-to-face with our first full-fledged cold since meeting each other in January.

Thursday after brunch with Crown, I felt so dizzy that I called Telehealth thinking I was having a stroke. Now that Nate's had one, I have this crazy hypochondria that I may have one too. Irrational I know. Anyway, thank God for Telehealth as it saves so many unnecessary trips to the walk-in clinic or emergency room. I had a good lie-down with my feet up all afternoon, while the Dog played with the baby, who was whining excessively. Must be his teeth, we thought.

Friday I hung out with my mum-in-law, while the Dog played golf with his pop-pop. We had a fabulous time, eventhough Nate was cranky for most of the day. She took me out for lunch and Nate slept while I ate. I am really enjoying her company lately. We have totally bonded over Nate. Mid-afternoon Nate sneezed and snot shot out his nose for the first time ever. I started to notice that his nose was kinda runny. Well, by night he was completely congested, which is frightening since newborns can only breathe through their noses. So I used the nasal aspiator and did my best to suck excess boogies out his nose -- an impossible task with a squirmy, easily-annoyed newborn. I woke with motherly instinct at 2 am to find him looking rather uncomfortable (paranoia?) and fully awake in his crib. So I brought him to our bed and the Dog relocated to the couch (self-imposed exile). I checked his temperature excessively. I worry that due to his early brain trauma, any fever might send him into febrile seizures.

No fever, no nothing. Only sniffles and some coughing due to inhaling phlegm. In fact, Nate seemed pretty happy to be sick. I called Doc H Saturday morning to see if I was doing the right things, but they insisted I bring him in. Mamacita and Sista Sunshine were downtown having their hair done, so I coralled them (more like emotional blackmailed them) into coming with me. And when we got to the Doc, every kid was coughing and sick, and even the Doc was sick!

"He look happy," Doc H remarked in his thick Chinese accent. "He's got a bit of a cold, but he's fine. Will take about a week to pass."

Nice. So I put Nate to bed that night with the humidifier and headed over to Blondie's place to party with Suzy Q. The three of us were long overdue for a night of dancing. Actually Kerouac shoulda been with us, but she has been quite ill lately. Anyway, we had some champers, confront Suzy Q about a love affair she's been hiding from us for the better part of a year now, had a lot of laughs and then headed out to Revival. GTs! Man, does it ever feel weird to be someone's mom and be in a meat market. But the tunes were good. GTs were had by all.

To tell the truth, I couldn't really get my groove on because a) I am breastfeeding and can only drink so much without getting Nate a bit tipsy and b) I talked to the Dog before leaving Blondie's house and he and Crown had gotten into several beers (read: 6 each) and a cuppy cocktails while babysitting. Now is it me, or should the babysitter NEVER be HAMMERED?

The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got. This was supposed to be my night out! Shouldn't one of us be in control in case something mildly catastrophic happens? Grrrrr.

After becoming dancefloor roadkill (got whipped in the face by someone's hair during "Shook Me All Night Long" -- ick) I decided it was time to walk home and tell the Dog off. So I did. So he slept on the couch for the second night in a row, again self-imposed. He truly felt bad for being selfish and didn't want to sleep next to me reeking of booze and guilt.

Anyway, the next morning I had the most evil sore throat, which at first I attributed to shouting over loud music, but by mid-aft I was a sniffly mess too. Nate must have been fussy due to the sore throat, which he could not communicate to me. So here we are, nearly a week in and both almost better, but not quite at 100% yet. Still, we survived our first cold together and I didn't freak out nearly as much as I thought I would. Only one call to Telehealth, only one major fight with the Dog, and the trip to the Doc was on their suggestion--not bad. Maybe I'm getting the hang of this.

Dick Clark Would Be Proud

The balls have dropped and it was like a Rockin' New Year's Eve for me.

Went to see Dr. Hui for our 4 month Well Baby checkup last week. Nate was almost 15 lbs and 25.5 inches. I checked out the percentiles online, which you should never do because you just become obsessed with dumb-ass stats telling you that 64% of North American babies are taller than your kid (which I end up reading as "better than").

Anyway, Dr. H was super busy, so instead I got the hot South Asian intern. Oh my. Was he ever hot. He went through Nate's check-upt, while I regaled him with stories of Nate's fake-coughing to get attention. "They learn so fast," he said, like someone who knew what it was like. "You have kids?" I asked, subconsciously playing with my hip new African-style necklace. "Nope," he replied with a foxy smile, "No time. Graduating next month."

"Married?" I enquired, slightly aware that I was sliding my left hand under my tush. "Nope," he replied, slightly creeped out this time. "No time." I was too busy checking out his ass to really register his discomfort. So I kept on, with such brilliant come-ons as, "You must get moms calling your mom all the time, offering up their daughters to you." (yeah, the record player came to a screeching halt for that one) I was flirting! And so badly!

What the hell was I trying to achieve? Did I think that he would just ignore the fact that Nate was on my lap and whisk me away in some Bollywood fantasy? Duh.

Back to reality. "So, when we were at the hospital last week, they mentioned that Nate's baw-l--I mean testicles, were not... um... in yet."

He promptly undid my son's diaper, copped a wee feel and, like a salesgirl at the Biotherm counter replying to my quest for never-in-stock highly-coveted toner and face wash, said, "Yup, they're both in now."

Yay! Doctor H came in and when we went over everything they said at the hospital, he just kept rolling his eyes. They both felt that Nate looked great. I like these visits, they are the complete opposite to the depressing hospital visits. Two more shots in each thigh drew sobs and tears from my little prince. But overall, he had fun. After all, he gets to let it all (new bawls included) hang out at the doctor.

Mother's Day

I can be such a total beeyatch sometimes, as we all know. So of course, I put a lot of expectation on my first Mother's Day.

I have this photo in my head. It's my mom on her first Mother's Day. I am 10 months old in the photo and she is glowing and round with my sister in her tummy. She is in tears, opening a box -- probably clothes -- that my dad got on my behalf.

I was hoping for something similar. A cheesy card written from Nate's perspective. A pretty, locally-crafted piece of wearable art/jewellery. You get the idea.

Instead, the Dog ran out for flowers while I was in the shower. And while I was feeding Nate, he ran out again, presumably to get me a gift. And he told me not to come into the living room, while he hastily wrote a card on a sample piece of stationary that I had bought for Nate's Thank You cards/birth announcements (which I have been procrastinating making and writing for way too long).

I was a bit pissy, because things weren't going as smoothly as I'd hoped. But by the time we had headed pretty north out of the city and I figured out where we were going, I began to relax a bit. The Dog had actually PLANNED! He made reservations for brunch at The Doctor's House in Kleinberg, a place we had gone to over a romantic weekend almost 7 years ago! Nate actually fell asleep before I bellied up to the buffet (perhaps the best gift he could give me) and was a perfect angel all day. The Dog and I sipped wine, ate lobster and shrimp, and basically just reminisced. It was fabulous.

When I got home, I opened the present he had waiting for me: a copy of Before Sunset on DVD, an inside joke of sorts. Many years ago, Before Sunrise had assisted me in wooing this man. I think the line I used was, "You haven't seen Before Sunrise? You ARE Before Sunrise." And so he watched it and felt I understood the simple romantic he truly was underneath the class clown exterior. A pivotal film in the story of this dynamic duo. And then just before we had Nate, we spent a night in our new Queen-size, with my work laptop acting as portable DVD, and watched Before Sunset (the sequel to Before Sunrise for those of you who don't know) and the backpackers of the first film had grown up, and so had we. The film represented a new romance, an adult romance, one that involved being excited at owning an EQ3 platform bed instead of IKEA. OK, maybe not quite the same as being in Paris for your first book-signing, but still, it translates if you read between the sheets (still IKEA sadly). So I guess Before Sunset is now also a pivotal film in this ongoing, ever-evolving love affair.

And the card had a poem in it, so I guess the fact that I can still inspire eloquence is rather remarkable. The Dog had not chosen to mark my entrance into motherhood, but to celebrate my graduation into full-fledged woman, bursting with life and love. As I looked into the onyx jewel eyes of my baby boy, I got misty and realized that I had the best gift of all.

Waiting for the Ball to Drop

The last few days have been trying to say the least. Nate has been drooling, chewing and screaming like a Paris Hilton in that new horror flick (or her sex tape for that matter), and no amount of cuddling is making it stop. I finally had to resort to an argument with the anti-drug lord, aka The Dog, so I could give Nate a Tylenol fix and we could all get some relief.

When I'm with Nate each day, I don't even think about what happened to him (THE STROKE) until I have to give him his medicine each night. The Dog and I (way more him than me though) disdain pharmaceuticals in general and hate that we've had to medicate our son since birth, but you do what you're told so that your child can be well. He's an amazing baby, but you have to wonder if we're seeing his true personality when we have to sedate him every day. But for the most part, I don't even think about THE STROKE. I just concentrate on how wonderful my baby is. That is until the hospital calls to remind about an upcoming appointment. Nothing brings me more anxiety than having to go to the hospital, where they examine our son with a fine-tooth comb, looking closely for differences.

I know I should be glad that this is even available to us, because if something were to happen or be wrong with him the lovely staff in the neonatal follow-up clinic would be able to spot it early on and we could work to fix it immediately. Unfortunately, the hospital mostly brings up bad memories for me and makes me completely insecure about the consequences of my son's brain damage. I know that if I treat Nate as though something's wrong with him, then the possibility of him growing up with a problem will be more likely. And in my heart I do believe that nothing is wrong with him. At least, until I go to the hospital, which we did on Tuesday.

At the hospital Nate was weighed (14 lbs 5 oz - almost double his birth weight!) and examined under the microscopic eye of the Occupational/Physical Therapist. They bent him every which way, watching his movements uber-carefully and then scored him on this multi-page test sheet. Talk about unnerving. The kid's not even in school yet and he's being graded. To take the edge off we asked about Nate's obsessive thumb-sucking and the non-stop drooling. Thumb-sucking = OK, because he is learning about his hands and able to soothe himself. If you can't soothe yourself, you would never be able to lean. Cool. Thumb-sucking + drooling = teething for sure. Hence the super bad moods and inconsollable crying. Check.

When they were done the physical test, they basically said he wasn't getting enough "tummy time" and thus his abdominal and upper body strength was weak. I told this to Special K the next day and she was shocked. "Nate is the Tummy Time master!" She quipped that if Nate's not getting enough Tummy Time, then her son would surely fail that test. That made me feel a bit better. It must just be that he's being examined much more closely than the average infant, I rationalized.

Then they mentioned that his left hand was tighter and more often in a fist than his right hand. "We don't want to see ANY differences at this point," the therapist emphasized. Crap. "It might correct with more Tummy Time." Now I felt like a shitty mom. Like I wasn't doing enough to aid in his development. I don't know if it was just her tone or what, but I remembered her from those first days in the NICU and I don't recall her to be particularly encouraging. Then the sweet nurse who was attending the check-up looked at his chart and mentioned that worst of his brain injury was on the left side of his brain, meaning that if there was a problem it should be apparent on the right side of his body (where we first saw his seizures). "Oh good," said the therapist, " We do like to see those kinds of differences."

I know this hand thing might seem minor, but it just made me feel like there was a chance that he may grow up to have motor skill issues, and that bummed me out. It's ridiculous. I should stay positive. But it just deflated me a bit. Then they said we have to keep Nate on the meds until his next MRI is done and the reports come in. So basically he has to be drugged up for another four months! Bloody hell! On a positive note, they did say his legs were doing beautifully. Phew! Oh, and they all thought he was super cute.

So as if all that wasn't enough, while the nurse was examining Nate's body, she turned to me and said, "I can't seem to find his testes. Have you ever felt them before?" WHAT??? I felt like saying, "Listen honey, I just open up that diaper, wipe the poo off what I think are his testicles, and then close it all back up. I don't exactly feel up my son's balls."

But instead I said, " Uhhhhhhhhh........I don't know?"

"Have you ever felt them at night?" asks the intern.

Whaddithey need it in a Dr. Seuss book?

I DO NOT FEEL THEM WHEN WE PLAY.
I DO NOT FEEL THEM IN THE DAY.
I HAVE NOT FELT THEM IN THE LIGHT.
I HAVE NOT FELT THEM LATE AT NIGHT.
I DO NOT SQUEEZE MY SON'S BROWN BALLS.
I DO NOT SQUEEZE THEM, NOT AT ALL.

So the head doctor comes in and finds Nate's balls -- in the vicinity where our ovaries would be. And all this tugging and no rubbing makes my Nate scream hysterically. "I wouldn't worry about it, but when you come back in September, if they still haven't dropped into the scrotum, he'll have to see a surgeon. They'll tack them down."

Say what? Tack them down? Are his balls suddenly equivalent to some Martha "Good Thing" project? Do we just "tack them down" with some folliage and frame them for my hallway? And if I'm not to worry about it, why are they telling me? UGH!

As soon as they left the room the Dog turned to me and said, "They don't know what the F#&k they are talking about." Maybe so, but that doesn't give me any more answers. I guess that's where faith comes in. That's all I have to hang on to. That, and this new face Nate makes where he sucks in his bottom lip to his chin and then tries to smile at me. Wow. Melts more hearts than Seth Cohen I tells ya.

Aww... my little baby's all grown up!

After reading the latest at Mother of All Blogs I realized that it's been a whole year since I decided to document my foray into motherhood.

Let's take a trip down memory lane shall we MFM fans? Read the first entry all over again.

Pre-Mother's Day Jitters

So I came home the other night to find a shiny package on my bed. Awww, I thought, the Dog has decided to spoil me early! Bzzt. Wrong.

I opened the package to find a cool card and note from my friend and editor Miss Kitty (nicknamed for her adorable fashionista vintage cat glasses and her friendly kittenish dispostion.), who had read my blog entry On Shedding and hastily sent a care package my way. Wow! It totally made me feel like a million bucks. From French creams and scrubs to Bobby Brown lip tints to OPI nail polish, I looked at each addition with wonder and excitement. YAY! So this is what it feels like when someone thinks of you and gives you a present... I cannot thank Miss Kitty enough. I'll be lavishing my stretch marks with shea butter for weeks.

So I've been dropping major hints that my first Mother's Day is a MAJOR event, but the Dog does not seem to be... how you say... getting it? Last Thursday, he actually admitted that he "hadn't really thought about it." What is that? That is so not acceptable. I mean, he hasn't even given me a token for carrying and giving birth to his son! Not even a card! The least he can do is something special for Mother's Day! Am I being irrational?

Special K's hubby sent her to the Elmwood to show his thanks. Loula designs a ring for herself with each kid, that Fifo pays for. These ideas make sense to me. After all, getting fat and ruining your body so that your man's lineage continues seems worth getting even a small trinket for.

So I have to admit -- I'm afraid that he will blow it. I love the homemade cards he gives me, but I think this time it's going to take more than that. It's going to take time, thinking about what I would like and planning accordingly. Not a last-minute slap together event. Will the Dog dissapoint? I will let you guys know next week. Right now I'm going to schedule time in Outlook for him to go shopping.

Kiddie Cult

Nate is four months old today! Yay! Will take a photo later today and post them soon. Tomorrow we go to the hospital to see how he's doing and find out if we can take him off the drugs. I fear the drugs are making him more susceptable to reprogramming and joining strange kiddie sects.

Last Wednesday we decided to try out a Gymboree class. We were invited by my exercise buddy Special K. I think she just wanted to see if she was the only one who thought it was weird. She wasn't.

Gymboree is a cult. Everyone takes off their shoes and gathers 'round the parachute on the ground. One piece of the parachute pie per baby/mom combo. Everyone wears Hello My Name Is... name tags and you put baby's name below yours. The cult minister sits where everyone can see her, but she is just a figurehead. The real leader of this cult, the one that all infants are taught to worship is Jimbo the Clown. The minister does all the songs and activities using Jimbo as her baby. To quote Special K, "There's so much emphasis on Jimbo."

I don't know about you, but I freakin' HATE clowns. They are weird and freak me out. Jimbo is no different. I can't look at him. So it's really uncomfortable when at the end of the class we all have to put Jimbo puppets on our hands and sing to baby using Jimbo. The preview class was free and at the end of the session I realized that Nate and I can do all this stuff together at home (we already do!) without paying these freaks $16 a class. And there's that extra bonus of there being no clowns at home. Well, unless you count The Dogger.

At one point, the cult minister comes around with massage oil and asks us to take our babies' tops off for massage time. By the time I realized that
no one else was undressing her baby, Nate was already down to diaper and socks, having a grand ol' time flirting with the girls in the class. And when the cult minister was getting us quiet for "relax time," Nate was his disruptive self, screeching with glee from being naked and oiled up.

I have to admit that Nate seemed to have fun. But I felt awkward, singing these children's songs that we all know and love, but with the words changed to accomodate the Gymboree manifesto. Uh-uh. Not for this baby/mom combo.

They are ever so clever those Gymboree folk, because they manage to seep there way into my life via another avenue -- their amazing clothing line. Hit me where it hurts why don't you? Brainwashing at it's best. I'll get you Jimbo. I'll get you when you least expect it. Maybe you'll go down Waco style, or maybe you'll be wearing nothing but black and Nikes. Either way, I wouldn't be drinking Kool-Aid anytime soon if I were you clown.