Tomorrow, actually. St. Brigid of Kildare. I was reminded by this site here, a lovely reflection about Brigid.
I was told once that Brigid means "fiery arrow." I like that.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Seven Things I Like About Leo
Ok, kind of a lame title, but I couldn't think of anything wise. We've had our ups and downs the past 11 days, but I've written a whole lot more about the downs than the ups. So here are some things that have occurred to me, in the ten seconds I took to think about this entry, about this new Leo. Things that sort of relax my shoulders a bit as I try to nurse at 3 in the morning.
1. He's a big baby. I like big babies. There was nothing that made me more nervous as a la leche leader than to meet with a mom of a little 5 pounder who didn't have enough energy to latch on and stay on. Mom's supply drops, the baby gets weaker...Leo is strong and big and has a vigorous suck.
2. He cries when his diaper is dirty. And that's it. He gets a little squirmy when he gets laid down to sleep, and obviously a sponge bath is not his idea of a fun time, but he is no mystery. Every unhappy moment has an immediate cause.
3. He sleeps well. Mostly he likes to sleep in your arms, yes, but he's starting to take to the crib mattress. It means I sleep kind of half in the crib, too, but sleep is sleep at this point. He hasn't switched to a diurnal pattern yet, not all the way, but it's getting easier.
4. His name provokes conversation. So did the girls', but I like talking about his namesake, Mike's uncle Leo, and the Grateful Dead song we got Cassidy from. Neither of the girls were named for people in our family, so this is new. And it's nice. Leo Baudino was a good guy. I didn't know him well, but every conversation I had with him with real. A lot of my conversations with Mike's extended family, and my extended family, are very much on the surface and awkward. Never with Leo. We talked politics and Catholicism and political Catholicism...one time he called Justice Scalia "the biggest Nazi wop" he'd ever seen. He brought his own wine to dinner and I always had a glass--usually a nice Italian red, when everyone else in the room imbibing was drinking Asti. He had completely white hair, a van dyke that came to a point, and a horse he let Sophia ride. And Cassidy? I like seeing folks' facial expressions when I tell them. Although I'm kind of crunchy granola, I'm a lot closer to the idea of soccer mom than to deadhead.
5. Ann has quite a story about the milieu Leo's born into. Call it synchronicity, coincidence, or one of the little moments in my life that catch me unawares and say "Hello Bridgett, this is God checking in." The short version: unbeknownst to me, and also to Ann, Leo was born on the 8th anniversary of Ann's father's death. Ann's dad's name was Leo. Go here to read it.
6. Coming back to the mundane world, he really is quite a cute little guy. He looks more and more like Maeve all the time--with Sophia's mouth, but otherwise, it's Maeve II. It makes me eager to see where he's headed. The eyes, the hair--they're still up in the air. Coming soon enough.
7. When I had to go to the ER with Maeve and out of my mind and of course I wasn't bringing my newborn to another germ factory of an ER...I'd pumped about 6 ounces when I had some engorgement a few days before and stuck it in the fridge, you know, just in case. I told my mother-in-law to feed him that, that we'd work it out later when I was home (breastfeeding is tenuous at the beginning, and I know how hard it can be to fix early screw ups). We use difficult bottle nipples to help babies realize the breast really is better--they're designed for babies with cleft palate and I was passed them in the NICU with Sophia. So anyway, I got home to nurse Leo and bam, he latched on and did just fine. Nicely resilient.
In other news, I got my back straightened out, my tailbone isn't broken after all, and pain medication is working. Oh, and I am SO HAPPY with the paint job in my room. I'll have to take a picture there, too. In the middle of the night, sitting up nursing the baby, it's nice not to have to stare at that awful wallpaper anymore.
1. He's a big baby. I like big babies. There was nothing that made me more nervous as a la leche leader than to meet with a mom of a little 5 pounder who didn't have enough energy to latch on and stay on. Mom's supply drops, the baby gets weaker...Leo is strong and big and has a vigorous suck.
2. He cries when his diaper is dirty. And that's it. He gets a little squirmy when he gets laid down to sleep, and obviously a sponge bath is not his idea of a fun time, but he is no mystery. Every unhappy moment has an immediate cause.
3. He sleeps well. Mostly he likes to sleep in your arms, yes, but he's starting to take to the crib mattress. It means I sleep kind of half in the crib, too, but sleep is sleep at this point. He hasn't switched to a diurnal pattern yet, not all the way, but it's getting easier.
4. His name provokes conversation. So did the girls', but I like talking about his namesake, Mike's uncle Leo, and the Grateful Dead song we got Cassidy from. Neither of the girls were named for people in our family, so this is new. And it's nice. Leo Baudino was a good guy. I didn't know him well, but every conversation I had with him with real. A lot of my conversations with Mike's extended family, and my extended family, are very much on the surface and awkward. Never with Leo. We talked politics and Catholicism and political Catholicism...one time he called Justice Scalia "the biggest Nazi wop" he'd ever seen. He brought his own wine to dinner and I always had a glass--usually a nice Italian red, when everyone else in the room imbibing was drinking Asti. He had completely white hair, a van dyke that came to a point, and a horse he let Sophia ride. And Cassidy? I like seeing folks' facial expressions when I tell them. Although I'm kind of crunchy granola, I'm a lot closer to the idea of soccer mom than to deadhead.
5. Ann has quite a story about the milieu Leo's born into. Call it synchronicity, coincidence, or one of the little moments in my life that catch me unawares and say "Hello Bridgett, this is God checking in." The short version: unbeknownst to me, and also to Ann, Leo was born on the 8th anniversary of Ann's father's death. Ann's dad's name was Leo. Go here to read it.
6. Coming back to the mundane world, he really is quite a cute little guy. He looks more and more like Maeve all the time--with Sophia's mouth, but otherwise, it's Maeve II. It makes me eager to see where he's headed. The eyes, the hair--they're still up in the air. Coming soon enough.
7. When I had to go to the ER with Maeve and out of my mind and of course I wasn't bringing my newborn to another germ factory of an ER...I'd pumped about 6 ounces when I had some engorgement a few days before and stuck it in the fridge, you know, just in case. I told my mother-in-law to feed him that, that we'd work it out later when I was home (breastfeeding is tenuous at the beginning, and I know how hard it can be to fix early screw ups). We use difficult bottle nipples to help babies realize the breast really is better--they're designed for babies with cleft palate and I was passed them in the NICU with Sophia. So anyway, I got home to nurse Leo and bam, he latched on and did just fine. Nicely resilient.
In other news, I got my back straightened out, my tailbone isn't broken after all, and pain medication is working. Oh, and I am SO HAPPY with the paint job in my room. I'll have to take a picture there, too. In the middle of the night, sitting up nursing the baby, it's nice not to have to stare at that awful wallpaper anymore.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Things I Don't Need Right Now
Ok, there are many things I don't need right now. And overall, things are ok. Maeve has hit the 48 hour mark with no recurrence, her original fever is gone, and she is back to her old self. Mike is taking the coming week off from work and we have lots of tasty food coming into the house via neighbors and parishioners. I'm recovering from my fall--still on pain medication round the clock, but my back is back in the right spots and the tailbone seems unbroken. So it'll all be ok.
Then the piano teacher called this afternoon. She's kind of flaky--shows up late, or calls the morning of a lesson to tell us she isn't coming, and so on. She last came to my house on January 3. I told her not to worry about the 24th, since it was my first day home from the hospital, but I fully expected the other Saturdays to have piano, or at least make up days during the week, since I paid her for 4 lessons this month and she said make up days would be "no problem."
No problem.
She called today to tell me that she has to go to the doctor tomorrow to get a prescription refilled, which is legitimate considering two snow days this week and all that. I told her we were going to have to move to a weekday afternoon instead of a Saturday morning--we used to do Thursday afternoons and switched for her convenience, supposedly only for the month of November for whatever reason. She told me she'd check her calendar and get back to me. Monday.
She is our second piano teacher. We would still be with Sanja except that when we started with her, we were homeschooling and met on a Tuesday morning. When Sophia started full time school this fall, we couldn't fit into her schedule. Which sucked.
I should have gone with someone I knew or someone recommended. But I'd found Sanja on Craig's List and this woman's ad was impressive--the right degrees, the right experience. She wasn't flaky until early October when she asked me for an advance (which she worked off that month). I should have taken that as a red flag, but Sophia liked her...then, the recital, Sophia did a song that she could have done last December. Seriously. Sanja had her so much further along.
I need to fire her. I need to fire her Monday when she calls. This sucks. I hate doing stuff like this. I think I'm going to use new baby as part of the reason: "We're just suddenly really busy and I think we'll take the rest of the semester off, maybe see where she is this summer..."
This sucks.
Anybody know a good piano teacher?
Then the piano teacher called this afternoon. She's kind of flaky--shows up late, or calls the morning of a lesson to tell us she isn't coming, and so on. She last came to my house on January 3. I told her not to worry about the 24th, since it was my first day home from the hospital, but I fully expected the other Saturdays to have piano, or at least make up days during the week, since I paid her for 4 lessons this month and she said make up days would be "no problem."
No problem.
She called today to tell me that she has to go to the doctor tomorrow to get a prescription refilled, which is legitimate considering two snow days this week and all that. I told her we were going to have to move to a weekday afternoon instead of a Saturday morning--we used to do Thursday afternoons and switched for her convenience, supposedly only for the month of November for whatever reason. She told me she'd check her calendar and get back to me. Monday.
She is our second piano teacher. We would still be with Sanja except that when we started with her, we were homeschooling and met on a Tuesday morning. When Sophia started full time school this fall, we couldn't fit into her schedule. Which sucked.
I should have gone with someone I knew or someone recommended. But I'd found Sanja on Craig's List and this woman's ad was impressive--the right degrees, the right experience. She wasn't flaky until early October when she asked me for an advance (which she worked off that month). I should have taken that as a red flag, but Sophia liked her...then, the recital, Sophia did a song that she could have done last December. Seriously. Sanja had her so much further along.
I need to fire her. I need to fire her Monday when she calls. This sucks. I hate doing stuff like this. I think I'm going to use new baby as part of the reason: "We're just suddenly really busy and I think we'll take the rest of the semester off, maybe see where she is this summer..."
This sucks.
Anybody know a good piano teacher?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
One. Day. At. A. Time.
Yesterday afternoon, Maeve took a nap on the couch. I was sitting next to her, talking to Mike, who had just come home from work. I'd fallen down the stairs earlier in the day, so I was prepared to go into a long "woe is me" kind of conversation.
Yes, I fell down the stairs a week post-partum, a week after abdominal surgery. Yes, I hurt like you wouldn't believe (or probably would). Yes, I'm stupid. No, this was not the worst part of my day.
Maeve coughed in her sleep and started chewing, like she'd coughed up something solid. I shook her and called her name. No answer. Still a little chewing, and then I had Mike get a cold wet paper towel to bring her out of sleep. She reacted to the cold, but in a creepy unearthly way, eyes open and no response. I did a finger sweep, figuring she was choking, and pulled up some gross yellow chunky mucus stuff. Wiped her down some more. Still nothing. Mike picked her up, and she kind of whined at him, but nothing. She wasn't there.
I've never called 911 for a health emergency. I call about crime, and about fire. About fire that might be crime. We have a fire station around the block, and they got there first. Still unresponsive, but her vitals were fine except for an increased heart rate. But one of the medics strongly suggested going to the hospital.
Well, that's why I called you, I thought to myself, but later my neighbor Trisha pointed out that people call 911 for a hangnail. I call Trisha for a hangnail...so yeah.
The ambulance pulled up and there are now 6 burly guys in my living room: "Let's get some clothes on this kid and get her to the hospital," one said good-naturedly. Mike ran around finding something for her to wear and they talked about jeeps they have bought in the past and recent past. Then Mike went to the ambulance with Maeve and I stood there in the front hall freaking out.
I'm a week post-partum. I can't drive. I fell down the steps. I have a baby who is exclusively breastfed. But I'd pumped earlier in the week due to some minor engorgement, so I told Mary Helen to feed him if need be and I'd work it out later. My brother-in-law, Pete, pulled up (because yesterday was also Mike's birthday, I kid you not) and he drove me to Glennon.
In the waiting room, Mike and I placed bets on what it might be. Mike thought meningitis, but there was no fever. I suggested seizure. But as I looked at Maeve, zombie-like in Mike's arms, I thought, but did not say, coma.
In triage, she woke up some more. Took a few steps. Knew who we were. Responded to questions. They asked if there was any history of epilepsy in our families. I sighed. There's a strong history on my dad's side and I admitted it.
We got a room. I won't bore you with ER details, but here are some highlights:
*Blue Cross Blue Shield denied her coverage. We worked that out today, but it was just LOVELY on top of all that.
*Waiting and waiting some more
*The same questions asked and answered again and again
*Bloodwork: all fine
*CT scan: all fine
*An adult neurologist shrugging her shoulders and not giving us any real answers. Maybe a seizure. Maybe...who knows? Nobody gave me any hard numbers: how likely is this to repeat? Being my major question. Shrugs.
We got home about 9:30 and she went instantly to bed. And I fell instantly apart. Not only do seizures run in my family, but there was some suspicion about 10 years ago that I was having them (I wasn't). Not only all that, but Mike's ex-girlfriend died from a seizure (she fell on a marble floor and hit her head just right) the year we got married. There are layers of doom written all over this. Plus it looked like temporal lobe (the chewing motion) which are not good--they aren't generalized seizures, but they tend not to respond to medication (that was what they thought I was having, by the way). I was dreading...pretty much the rest of our lives.
Had some dinner, rescheduled Mike's birthday for Thursday, and Mary Helen went to bed--she was going to sleep with Maeve in the guest room to keep an eye on her. She came out of the room a few minutes later: I think she has a fever. It was 102 under her arm, on a thermometer that reads 96.4 when I take my own temperature.
I called the help line for Glennon Neurology to see what the hell we were supposed to do now. The resident who talked to me was casual. It was good that she had a fever--treat it with tylenol and know that the seizure earlier was probably febrile. Meaning, caused by fever. But the fever wasn't there in the ER. He said it could have been subclinical, which, if you are a long time reader of this blog, you know is one of my favorite concepts. Heh.
But it was midnight, I hurt like crazy, I was exhausted. I was willing to cling to any hope we had available to us.
Since then, two different neighbors confirmed this hope--made it stronger. Both their kids had febrile seizures, long ago, and one started before they knew about the fever, and the other went limp and nonresponsive the same way. I talked to my dad later in the day today and he summed it up: the brain gets a fever before the body does, so it could happen in that order. (My dad was an RN when I was growing up, this wasn't just my looking for random thoughts about fever from an accountant). Trisha, a neighbor in the health field, got my email this morning about the fever and told me later she was so relieved. So I'm going with this theory.
Today we fixed the stupid insurance thing: "it's a mystery!" I made the appointments with the neurologist, the (sleep deprived) EEG, and the MRI. Let's just hope the insurance is what it says it is--we will meet our family deductible with the c-section and hospital stay, easy, and so we probably won't have to sell Sophia to pay for Maeve...truly robbing Peter to pay Paul.
We made it 24 hours without a seizure--longer now as I write this, but that was sort of the happy birthday moment (the neurologist in the ER said the next 24 hours were the most crucial--if it was going to repeat (remember, this is before the fever spike), it most likely would occur in the next 24 hours. Mike's brothers and their girlfriends came over this evening for Mike's birthday plus a day, and everyone is in bed now--even I am, since Mike's laptop is home.
I think she's going to be ok. I, on the other hand, hurt. A lot. Woe is me. Funny how I just don't even care (I care enough to take pain medication and rest, but really....).
Yes, I fell down the stairs a week post-partum, a week after abdominal surgery. Yes, I hurt like you wouldn't believe (or probably would). Yes, I'm stupid. No, this was not the worst part of my day.
Maeve coughed in her sleep and started chewing, like she'd coughed up something solid. I shook her and called her name. No answer. Still a little chewing, and then I had Mike get a cold wet paper towel to bring her out of sleep. She reacted to the cold, but in a creepy unearthly way, eyes open and no response. I did a finger sweep, figuring she was choking, and pulled up some gross yellow chunky mucus stuff. Wiped her down some more. Still nothing. Mike picked her up, and she kind of whined at him, but nothing. She wasn't there.
I've never called 911 for a health emergency. I call about crime, and about fire. About fire that might be crime. We have a fire station around the block, and they got there first. Still unresponsive, but her vitals were fine except for an increased heart rate. But one of the medics strongly suggested going to the hospital.
Well, that's why I called you, I thought to myself, but later my neighbor Trisha pointed out that people call 911 for a hangnail. I call Trisha for a hangnail...so yeah.
The ambulance pulled up and there are now 6 burly guys in my living room: "Let's get some clothes on this kid and get her to the hospital," one said good-naturedly. Mike ran around finding something for her to wear and they talked about jeeps they have bought in the past and recent past. Then Mike went to the ambulance with Maeve and I stood there in the front hall freaking out.
I'm a week post-partum. I can't drive. I fell down the steps. I have a baby who is exclusively breastfed. But I'd pumped earlier in the week due to some minor engorgement, so I told Mary Helen to feed him if need be and I'd work it out later. My brother-in-law, Pete, pulled up (because yesterday was also Mike's birthday, I kid you not) and he drove me to Glennon.
In the waiting room, Mike and I placed bets on what it might be. Mike thought meningitis, but there was no fever. I suggested seizure. But as I looked at Maeve, zombie-like in Mike's arms, I thought, but did not say, coma.
In triage, she woke up some more. Took a few steps. Knew who we were. Responded to questions. They asked if there was any history of epilepsy in our families. I sighed. There's a strong history on my dad's side and I admitted it.
We got a room. I won't bore you with ER details, but here are some highlights:
*Blue Cross Blue Shield denied her coverage. We worked that out today, but it was just LOVELY on top of all that.
*Waiting and waiting some more
*The same questions asked and answered again and again
*Bloodwork: all fine
*CT scan: all fine
*An adult neurologist shrugging her shoulders and not giving us any real answers. Maybe a seizure. Maybe...who knows? Nobody gave me any hard numbers: how likely is this to repeat? Being my major question. Shrugs.
We got home about 9:30 and she went instantly to bed. And I fell instantly apart. Not only do seizures run in my family, but there was some suspicion about 10 years ago that I was having them (I wasn't). Not only all that, but Mike's ex-girlfriend died from a seizure (she fell on a marble floor and hit her head just right) the year we got married. There are layers of doom written all over this. Plus it looked like temporal lobe (the chewing motion) which are not good--they aren't generalized seizures, but they tend not to respond to medication (that was what they thought I was having, by the way). I was dreading...pretty much the rest of our lives.
Had some dinner, rescheduled Mike's birthday for Thursday, and Mary Helen went to bed--she was going to sleep with Maeve in the guest room to keep an eye on her. She came out of the room a few minutes later: I think she has a fever. It was 102 under her arm, on a thermometer that reads 96.4 when I take my own temperature.
I called the help line for Glennon Neurology to see what the hell we were supposed to do now. The resident who talked to me was casual. It was good that she had a fever--treat it with tylenol and know that the seizure earlier was probably febrile. Meaning, caused by fever. But the fever wasn't there in the ER. He said it could have been subclinical, which, if you are a long time reader of this blog, you know is one of my favorite concepts. Heh.
But it was midnight, I hurt like crazy, I was exhausted. I was willing to cling to any hope we had available to us.
Since then, two different neighbors confirmed this hope--made it stronger. Both their kids had febrile seizures, long ago, and one started before they knew about the fever, and the other went limp and nonresponsive the same way. I talked to my dad later in the day today and he summed it up: the brain gets a fever before the body does, so it could happen in that order. (My dad was an RN when I was growing up, this wasn't just my looking for random thoughts about fever from an accountant). Trisha, a neighbor in the health field, got my email this morning about the fever and told me later she was so relieved. So I'm going with this theory.
Today we fixed the stupid insurance thing: "it's a mystery!" I made the appointments with the neurologist, the (sleep deprived) EEG, and the MRI. Let's just hope the insurance is what it says it is--we will meet our family deductible with the c-section and hospital stay, easy, and so we probably won't have to sell Sophia to pay for Maeve...truly robbing Peter to pay Paul.
We made it 24 hours without a seizure--longer now as I write this, but that was sort of the happy birthday moment (the neurologist in the ER said the next 24 hours were the most crucial--if it was going to repeat (remember, this is before the fever spike), it most likely would occur in the next 24 hours. Mike's brothers and their girlfriends came over this evening for Mike's birthday plus a day, and everyone is in bed now--even I am, since Mike's laptop is home.
I think she's going to be ok. I, on the other hand, hurt. A lot. Woe is me. Funny how I just don't even care (I care enough to take pain medication and rest, but really....).
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
You've got my attention
So Leo doesn't really sleep at night. We do a modified form of co-sleeping--the crib is right next to my bed, mashed against the wall, attached with a sheet and thus making a smooth transition from my mattress to the crib's. This has worked like a dream ever since Sophia was 3 months old and finally able to sleep without the damned bouncy vibrating seat going full time. Seriously, we had her sleep sitting up and vibrating that long. But she was a hard case (NICU set her back). Maeve took to the bed immediately and slept well. But this one has learned a very simple equation:
lying down = diaper changes
being held in arms = sleeping or eating, where "smells like mom" is eating and "smells like anyone else" is sleeping.
He's only a week old. We're working on it and I have the luxury of another adult in the house, and therefore I nap.
Being awake at night means that I can hear things going on. Like two nights ago when I got to hear a woman screaming north of my house somewhere (I think closer to Grand as well). And then last night, I got to hear a sound that makes every parent fill with a tiny bit of dread: a seal barking.
It was 2 a.m. I knew it was Maeve immediately. Croup, out of nowhere. No cold, no fever. Just croup. I brought her downstairs (from the third floor to the second) so I could hear her better. It was just the cough--no stridor--and so the humidifier and a glass of water seemed to do the trick. But guess what--between croup and faulty logic baby, I didn't fall asleep until 4:45. I'm up for the moment, just finished nursing, and about to hand this kid off to someone else. Then I will sleep, well, at least I will lie down...Maeve is in the next room with the humidifier, and she has my attention.
lying down = diaper changes
being held in arms = sleeping or eating, where "smells like mom" is eating and "smells like anyone else" is sleeping.
He's only a week old. We're working on it and I have the luxury of another adult in the house, and therefore I nap.
Being awake at night means that I can hear things going on. Like two nights ago when I got to hear a woman screaming north of my house somewhere (I think closer to Grand as well). And then last night, I got to hear a sound that makes every parent fill with a tiny bit of dread: a seal barking.
It was 2 a.m. I knew it was Maeve immediately. Croup, out of nowhere. No cold, no fever. Just croup. I brought her downstairs (from the third floor to the second) so I could hear her better. It was just the cough--no stridor--and so the humidifier and a glass of water seemed to do the trick. But guess what--between croup and faulty logic baby, I didn't fall asleep until 4:45. I'm up for the moment, just finished nursing, and about to hand this kid off to someone else. Then I will sleep, well, at least I will lie down...Maeve is in the next room with the humidifier, and she has my attention.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Pictures from the hospital
Although there are some more interesting ones from the delivery room, I will spare you the details. My favorite newborn picture of Maeve was one taken with the nurse rushing across the OR, but the way Mike took it, they look like they're standing still and the rest of the room is a blur. Which is pretty much how I remember it--it's a cool picture, except that everyone is covered in blood. That would be my blood. I've come to a point in my life that I just don't think that's such a hot idea anymore....so nothing like that. And no pictures of early fumbling at getting him to nurse either.
But here are a couple.
Here is the first photo as he came around the "sterile field" and they gave me a look before I went back to counting and concentrating on breathing.
This one is Leo all bundled up. Note that the nurse has on THERMALS.
Here we rest in the room that afternoon.
Baby.
Lost now on the country miles in his cadillac.
I can tell by the way you smile he is rolling back.
Come wash the nighttime clean, come grow the scorched ground green.
But here are a couple.
Here is the first photo as he came around the "sterile field" and they gave me a look before I went back to counting and concentrating on breathing.
This one is Leo all bundled up. Note that the nurse has on THERMALS.
Here we rest in the room that afternoon.
Baby.
Lost now on the country miles in his cadillac.I can tell by the way you smile he is rolling back.
Come wash the nighttime clean, come grow the scorched ground green.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Leo's Birth Story
Winter waited for Leo. Cold and windy, dry as a bone through November and December, but besides going through an entire jar of Aquaphor, it didn't seem like winter yet. I put the girls to bed Monday night with the promise that I'd sew up a project for Sophia, a little bag she wanted to give to the baby when he came. She was almost as discombobulated as I was, old enough to realize that change was coming but not able yet to take the long view and know her place in my heart was safe. I stayed up later than I should chatting with my mother-in-law and Mike and then remembered I'd promised to sew. I did, getting to bed just after midnight.
One last glass of water and then no sleep. I played alphabet games in my head--name a rock band for every letter of the alphabet. A is for ABBA, B is for Beatles, C is for Chicago...and after I'd done three rounds of different categories, I moved to prime factorization of numbers 1-200. 1, 2, 3, 2x2, 5, 3x2...I made it to 188 and fell asleep dreaming of that number. Woke up after 2 sometime and started over. Made it to 192 and the alarm went off. 3:45 a.m. Mike got up and took a shower. I pretended to snooze and got up myself. Looked out the window.
It was snowing. Snow was on the ground.
We were in the car at 4:40. I drove. The Guess Who's Share the Land was on two different stations in a row. We filled the tank at a Quik Trip out at 141 and Manchester. I watched the snow blow around and Mike hopping up and down outside to stay warm. We arrived and parked and were getting off the elevator on the 5th floor of St. Luke's at 5:30 a.m. Cheerful but not sugary nurses greeted us and took us to a room to get ready.
A bizarre set of questions followed. Mixed together with "When is your due date?" was "What is your mother's maiden name?" Every medication I've ever taken, did I have any cultural observances they should take into account, how much weight had I gained? At 6:30 I met the anesthesiologist, a Vietnamese woman who set me right at ease. I've had weird anesthesiologists. The last one argued with a nurse behind me, right as he was about to start my epidural, complaining that I had too many bones. It's a spinal cord. If it surprises you, get away from me. But she was easy to talk to and made me feel more confident about my chances of escaping this surgery without something horrible happening.
It only took two tries to get the IV started, which is typical for me--nurses look at this one vein near my wrist and I guess see it as a challenge they must meet or something. It blows every time. Finally, I mentioned this, as she moved the needle in and out (oy), and she started it in my hand. Told me to let others know in the future--they can't tell by looking that it's a sneaky liar.
She put a hospital inpatient (billing) bracelet on me, and a pink one, which she explained was a blood recipient bracelet. "Your doctor put it in your orders in case you needed blood during surgery. But you won't."
"I lost a lot with my second," I told her.
"And you'll probably lose a lot today, too. More with each baby. But you won't need blood."
I had mentioned this to my doctor in passing a month before. He hadn't even written it down at the time. Seemed very casual about it. But this was the first of several moments that week that I realized he listened to every word I said in appointments. Maybe I would have gotten a pink bracelet anyway because it was my 3rd baby. But maybe not.
At 7:10, it was show time and I was surprised my heart rate wasn't higher. Wheeled me down the hall to the OR, where my doctor was waiting with a couple of nurses and the anesthesiologist. It was so cold. They asked me more questions about who I was, why I was here, who these doctors were--I remember being asked these questions with both girls, and my answers were different then. "What is the doctor going to do?" was responded to with "end this" and then I corrected myself. This time, I was in my right mind and I answered better.
Did I mention how cold it was? I was shivering uncontrollably, and this was before anesthesia.
The numbing shot in the back is pretty damned bad, but I had a wonderful nurse anesthetist who narrated everything. Like thus:
"You'll feel a burning needle prick in your back, followed by more burning. This is all superficial. The burning will get worse and worse, and just when you think you can't take it anymore, everything will get numb."
"Now the doctor is going to insert another needle. You'll feel a tugging on either your right or your left, and I want you to tell me which one so she can adjust it."
"This last one is the epidural catheter, and some women experience a shock, like an electric shock, or like hitting your funny bone. Dad, you might want to brace yourself because if she's going to kick, it's going to be now."
"Now you should feel a warm sensation in your toes, tingly, moving up from your feet."
And all that was just how she said. Tingly and warm now, I was moved back down onto my back, where I instantly started shivering from the medication. But the narcotic they gave me in conjunction made me loopy and sleepy so I kind of just shut my eyes and thought of England. No, actually, I shut my eyes and thought about prime numbers.
They did the cotton ball test, where an alcohol-dipped cotton ball is rubbed say, on my arm: "This is cold." And then on my thigh: "Is this cold?" Of course it isn't. Nothing from my sternum down was cold or hot or sharp or anything. Below my chest, I think my body took a trip to the Bahamas. The rest of me was somewhere near Toronto.
Someone said "7:26" and then the nurse anesthetist stood by my side and golf-announced for me. Seriously. And she was good.
"He's made the first incision."
"Now he is working on the incision into the uterus. He will break the waters and you'll hear the suction, like at your dentist."
"Now he's going to push on your abdomen to help bring the baby out. You might feel the pressure--" I didn't "--And then you should be able to tell that he's pulled the baby out." I did.
Boy, just as we had been told (thank God, considering all the decisions we'd made already based on that information). Born at 7:47 in the morning. Cried right away. Apgar of 8, followed 5 minutes later with an Apgar of 9. Healthy and huge: 9 pounds, 1 ounce. Managed to "void" on the doctor as he lifted him out. Good for him.
Mike went over to the little warming station with the nursery nurse while my doctor finished the job of, oh, you know, putting me back together again. Leo was here. But just like the other two births, I was concentrating on staying alive. I wasn't in any danger this time, but you still kind of feel like you're dying. You can't feel your lungs expand, so you have to concentrate on the air going through your nose to remember that you're breathing. And I was still shivering. Not pleasant. But I lay there thinking 2 to the 5th power, 11 x 3, 17 x 2, 5 x 7, 6 squared...and then my doctor's face appeared in front of the sterile screen.
"Looks good. Went through the same scar as before. You had some adhesions but nothing that made me worry. I'll see you back in the recovery room in a few minutes."
And I was done. Epidural came out. They transferred me to a more stable bed with sides, handed me this new person, and wheeled me back to the room where I'd started. Leo nursed, latching on easily (although, since I still couldn't feel anything below my sternum, I didn't catch his sucked in lower lip until after he'd given me a blood blister--but it's getting better). No complications, I started wiggling my feet after a few minutes, and before I knew it, I was sitting in room 5508 staring out at the light gray sky. Snow was still blowing around. It was quiet. Mike gave me my St. Benedict medal back. Leo nursed, I breathed and crunched on ice chips, and all was well.
One last glass of water and then no sleep. I played alphabet games in my head--name a rock band for every letter of the alphabet. A is for ABBA, B is for Beatles, C is for Chicago...and after I'd done three rounds of different categories, I moved to prime factorization of numbers 1-200. 1, 2, 3, 2x2, 5, 3x2...I made it to 188 and fell asleep dreaming of that number. Woke up after 2 sometime and started over. Made it to 192 and the alarm went off. 3:45 a.m. Mike got up and took a shower. I pretended to snooze and got up myself. Looked out the window.
It was snowing. Snow was on the ground.
We were in the car at 4:40. I drove. The Guess Who's Share the Land was on two different stations in a row. We filled the tank at a Quik Trip out at 141 and Manchester. I watched the snow blow around and Mike hopping up and down outside to stay warm. We arrived and parked and were getting off the elevator on the 5th floor of St. Luke's at 5:30 a.m. Cheerful but not sugary nurses greeted us and took us to a room to get ready.
A bizarre set of questions followed. Mixed together with "When is your due date?" was "What is your mother's maiden name?" Every medication I've ever taken, did I have any cultural observances they should take into account, how much weight had I gained? At 6:30 I met the anesthesiologist, a Vietnamese woman who set me right at ease. I've had weird anesthesiologists. The last one argued with a nurse behind me, right as he was about to start my epidural, complaining that I had too many bones. It's a spinal cord. If it surprises you, get away from me. But she was easy to talk to and made me feel more confident about my chances of escaping this surgery without something horrible happening.
It only took two tries to get the IV started, which is typical for me--nurses look at this one vein near my wrist and I guess see it as a challenge they must meet or something. It blows every time. Finally, I mentioned this, as she moved the needle in and out (oy), and she started it in my hand. Told me to let others know in the future--they can't tell by looking that it's a sneaky liar.
She put a hospital inpatient (billing) bracelet on me, and a pink one, which she explained was a blood recipient bracelet. "Your doctor put it in your orders in case you needed blood during surgery. But you won't."
"I lost a lot with my second," I told her.
"And you'll probably lose a lot today, too. More with each baby. But you won't need blood."
I had mentioned this to my doctor in passing a month before. He hadn't even written it down at the time. Seemed very casual about it. But this was the first of several moments that week that I realized he listened to every word I said in appointments. Maybe I would have gotten a pink bracelet anyway because it was my 3rd baby. But maybe not.
At 7:10, it was show time and I was surprised my heart rate wasn't higher. Wheeled me down the hall to the OR, where my doctor was waiting with a couple of nurses and the anesthesiologist. It was so cold. They asked me more questions about who I was, why I was here, who these doctors were--I remember being asked these questions with both girls, and my answers were different then. "What is the doctor going to do?" was responded to with "end this" and then I corrected myself. This time, I was in my right mind and I answered better.
Did I mention how cold it was? I was shivering uncontrollably, and this was before anesthesia.
The numbing shot in the back is pretty damned bad, but I had a wonderful nurse anesthetist who narrated everything. Like thus:
"You'll feel a burning needle prick in your back, followed by more burning. This is all superficial. The burning will get worse and worse, and just when you think you can't take it anymore, everything will get numb."
"Now the doctor is going to insert another needle. You'll feel a tugging on either your right or your left, and I want you to tell me which one so she can adjust it."
"This last one is the epidural catheter, and some women experience a shock, like an electric shock, or like hitting your funny bone. Dad, you might want to brace yourself because if she's going to kick, it's going to be now."
"Now you should feel a warm sensation in your toes, tingly, moving up from your feet."
And all that was just how she said. Tingly and warm now, I was moved back down onto my back, where I instantly started shivering from the medication. But the narcotic they gave me in conjunction made me loopy and sleepy so I kind of just shut my eyes and thought of England. No, actually, I shut my eyes and thought about prime numbers.
They did the cotton ball test, where an alcohol-dipped cotton ball is rubbed say, on my arm: "This is cold." And then on my thigh: "Is this cold?" Of course it isn't. Nothing from my sternum down was cold or hot or sharp or anything. Below my chest, I think my body took a trip to the Bahamas. The rest of me was somewhere near Toronto.
Someone said "7:26" and then the nurse anesthetist stood by my side and golf-announced for me. Seriously. And she was good.
"He's made the first incision."
"Now he is working on the incision into the uterus. He will break the waters and you'll hear the suction, like at your dentist."
"Now he's going to push on your abdomen to help bring the baby out. You might feel the pressure--" I didn't "--And then you should be able to tell that he's pulled the baby out." I did.
Boy, just as we had been told (thank God, considering all the decisions we'd made already based on that information). Born at 7:47 in the morning. Cried right away. Apgar of 8, followed 5 minutes later with an Apgar of 9. Healthy and huge: 9 pounds, 1 ounce. Managed to "void" on the doctor as he lifted him out. Good for him.
Mike went over to the little warming station with the nursery nurse while my doctor finished the job of, oh, you know, putting me back together again. Leo was here. But just like the other two births, I was concentrating on staying alive. I wasn't in any danger this time, but you still kind of feel like you're dying. You can't feel your lungs expand, so you have to concentrate on the air going through your nose to remember that you're breathing. And I was still shivering. Not pleasant. But I lay there thinking 2 to the 5th power, 11 x 3, 17 x 2, 5 x 7, 6 squared...and then my doctor's face appeared in front of the sterile screen.
"Looks good. Went through the same scar as before. You had some adhesions but nothing that made me worry. I'll see you back in the recovery room in a few minutes."
And I was done. Epidural came out. They transferred me to a more stable bed with sides, handed me this new person, and wheeled me back to the room where I'd started. Leo nursed, latching on easily (although, since I still couldn't feel anything below my sternum, I didn't catch his sucked in lower lip until after he'd given me a blood blister--but it's getting better). No complications, I started wiggling my feet after a few minutes, and before I knew it, I was sitting in room 5508 staring out at the light gray sky. Snow was still blowing around. It was quiet. Mike gave me my St. Benedict medal back. Leo nursed, I breathed and crunched on ice chips, and all was well.
Getting Back to Normal
Yeah, right.
We're home and all systems are go. I think I might have a bit of a spitter on my hands but that's essentially a laundry problem at this point. He'll figure out what's going on and my supply will average out and all will be well.
I'm actually recovering from this surgery faster than the other two, which I guess makes sense since I didn't labor for an entire holiday weekend beforehand. I also have a hunch that my doctor this time is a better surgeon than last, which is impressive because Maeve's birth went really well, all things considered. The incision is small and well done, subcutaneous stitches again (imagine sewing up a pillow you've just stuffed and you don't want anyone to see the stitches). The pain is remarkably less than either previous incision. I think tonight will be the last percoset, frankly, and during the day I've switched to just ibuprofen.
He cluster fed all night long, though, which was incredibly taxing. Like most newborns, he's got his days and nights upside-down. But we'll gradually get that figured out--I have a week with my mother-in-law in town and the week after that with Mike off work, so I can nap during the day and get myself back in order. I'm taking it easy on myself because this time is so different from a real-world point of view. With Sophia, obviously, it was summer, I wasn't working, and I had no other kids around. With Maeve, well, Sophia went to preschool 2 afternoons a week and speech/language therapy the mornings before school. That was it. Now...
*Sophia goes to school every day.
*Maeve goes to preschool 4 days a week.
*Maeve has atrium on the other day, which I actually run (I have a sub until mid-February at least)
*Sophia has Irish dance one evening a week
*Maeve has Irish dance Tuesday afternoons
*Sophia has piano once a week
*Sophia has Atrium at the crack of dawn Sunday mornings
*I am involved in RCIA, Children's liturgy, and a smattering of other groups at church (but, alas, no more parish council)
*I'm a block captain (can you believe it? I wasn't a block captain at that point. It seems like I've been one forever--of course, nowadays it isn't nearly as hard as it used to be)
*I'm a brownie girl scout leader for Sophia's troop, encompassing 4 schools and with a roster of 18 girls
*As the stay-at-home person, I have full responsibility for appointments, almost all housework, shuttling children back and forth, shopping, and correspondence. I know, it's not the same as a corporate work day, but you don't keep a newborn on your lap during a corporate workday--I love what I do and that I'm able to do it, that's not what I'm saying, it's just that I'm realizing this newborn phase is going to be a little much this time around.
And we're expecting a couple inches of snow tomorrow night. Time to make some hot chocolate, watch 30 Rock in the middle of the night, and count some blessings.
We're home and all systems are go. I think I might have a bit of a spitter on my hands but that's essentially a laundry problem at this point. He'll figure out what's going on and my supply will average out and all will be well.
I'm actually recovering from this surgery faster than the other two, which I guess makes sense since I didn't labor for an entire holiday weekend beforehand. I also have a hunch that my doctor this time is a better surgeon than last, which is impressive because Maeve's birth went really well, all things considered. The incision is small and well done, subcutaneous stitches again (imagine sewing up a pillow you've just stuffed and you don't want anyone to see the stitches). The pain is remarkably less than either previous incision. I think tonight will be the last percoset, frankly, and during the day I've switched to just ibuprofen.
He cluster fed all night long, though, which was incredibly taxing. Like most newborns, he's got his days and nights upside-down. But we'll gradually get that figured out--I have a week with my mother-in-law in town and the week after that with Mike off work, so I can nap during the day and get myself back in order. I'm taking it easy on myself because this time is so different from a real-world point of view. With Sophia, obviously, it was summer, I wasn't working, and I had no other kids around. With Maeve, well, Sophia went to preschool 2 afternoons a week and speech/language therapy the mornings before school. That was it. Now...
*Sophia goes to school every day.
*Maeve goes to preschool 4 days a week.
*Maeve has atrium on the other day, which I actually run (I have a sub until mid-February at least)
*Sophia has Irish dance one evening a week
*Maeve has Irish dance Tuesday afternoons
*Sophia has piano once a week
*Sophia has Atrium at the crack of dawn Sunday mornings
*I am involved in RCIA, Children's liturgy, and a smattering of other groups at church (but, alas, no more parish council)
*I'm a block captain (can you believe it? I wasn't a block captain at that point. It seems like I've been one forever--of course, nowadays it isn't nearly as hard as it used to be)
*I'm a brownie girl scout leader for Sophia's troop, encompassing 4 schools and with a roster of 18 girls
*As the stay-at-home person, I have full responsibility for appointments, almost all housework, shuttling children back and forth, shopping, and correspondence. I know, it's not the same as a corporate work day, but you don't keep a newborn on your lap during a corporate workday--I love what I do and that I'm able to do it, that's not what I'm saying, it's just that I'm realizing this newborn phase is going to be a little much this time around.
And we're expecting a couple inches of snow tomorrow night. Time to make some hot chocolate, watch 30 Rock in the middle of the night, and count some blessings.
Friday, January 23, 2009
tomorrow home again
Many of you know, from either reading my other blog or from knowing me in person, but just wanted to fill you in on a few details about this week. More to come later.
Edward Leo Cassidy Wissinger was born Tuesday morning at 7:47 a.m. He weighed 9 pounds, 1 ounce, and was/is 21 1/2 inches long. Big boy. A fully pound over the girls and at least an inch. So those of you who saw me in person and mentioned that golly, I looked big: you were right.
I am very glad not to be pregnant anymore.
The c-section went well, although I must say that it's not one of those activities I look back on and think, "gosh, I wish I could do that again." I note one advantage to laboring before a c-section, but only one. That would be the fact that when you labor first (and it starts going downhill), they start an epidural in your room, where it's probably about 73 degrees. When you go in for a scheduled c-section, you get your epidural in the OR, where you are dressed in a sheet and it's about -45 degrees. Celcius.
Other than that, it was good! They didn't play Steely Dan. The anesthesiologist was great at her job; my OB did marvelous work, according to every nurse who has looked at my incision. And I'm high as a kite on pain medication, so that makes many things better.
So this baby of many names...Edward is for his dad and grandfather and many, many other family connections. Leo is Mike's uncle who died this past February, Leo Baudino. I think he makes a fine namesake. Mike's great-grandfather (Leo Baudino's dad) was Leone. And my great-grandmother's youngest brother was Leo Fox. It's short, it's not so common, it's tied to the family, and it's not too off the wall either. And Cassidy is directly pulled from the Grateful Dead song of the same name (this was totally my doing). Born to me Cassidy. Fare thee well now/let your life proceed by its own design/nothing to tell now/let the words be yours I'm done with mine. I think it's the Dead's finest example of lyrics, and I always wanted to name a boy Cassidy. So he gets two middle names AND gets called by one of them to further confuse him and everyone else around him.
All has been well since he was born. he had a teeny bit of physiologic jaundice that has dissipated; he has already started to gain back his weight. So that's all good. I hurt, actually quite a bit sometimes (I forgot somehow...), but like I said, my doctor isn't stingy with the pain medication this time (my last one, she kinda was). We'll be home tomorrow around lunch time for week two of adjustment.
Well, better go before we lose the illicit wifi connection. Pictures will come soon.
Edward Leo Cassidy Wissinger was born Tuesday morning at 7:47 a.m. He weighed 9 pounds, 1 ounce, and was/is 21 1/2 inches long. Big boy. A fully pound over the girls and at least an inch. So those of you who saw me in person and mentioned that golly, I looked big: you were right.
I am very glad not to be pregnant anymore.
The c-section went well, although I must say that it's not one of those activities I look back on and think, "gosh, I wish I could do that again." I note one advantage to laboring before a c-section, but only one. That would be the fact that when you labor first (and it starts going downhill), they start an epidural in your room, where it's probably about 73 degrees. When you go in for a scheduled c-section, you get your epidural in the OR, where you are dressed in a sheet and it's about -45 degrees. Celcius.
Other than that, it was good! They didn't play Steely Dan. The anesthesiologist was great at her job; my OB did marvelous work, according to every nurse who has looked at my incision. And I'm high as a kite on pain medication, so that makes many things better.
So this baby of many names...Edward is for his dad and grandfather and many, many other family connections. Leo is Mike's uncle who died this past February, Leo Baudino. I think he makes a fine namesake. Mike's great-grandfather (Leo Baudino's dad) was Leone. And my great-grandmother's youngest brother was Leo Fox. It's short, it's not so common, it's tied to the family, and it's not too off the wall either. And Cassidy is directly pulled from the Grateful Dead song of the same name (this was totally my doing). Born to me Cassidy. Fare thee well now/let your life proceed by its own design/nothing to tell now/let the words be yours I'm done with mine. I think it's the Dead's finest example of lyrics, and I always wanted to name a boy Cassidy. So he gets two middle names AND gets called by one of them to further confuse him and everyone else around him.
All has been well since he was born. he had a teeny bit of physiologic jaundice that has dissipated; he has already started to gain back his weight. So that's all good. I hurt, actually quite a bit sometimes (I forgot somehow...), but like I said, my doctor isn't stingy with the pain medication this time (my last one, she kinda was). We'll be home tomorrow around lunch time for week two of adjustment.
Well, better go before we lose the illicit wifi connection. Pictures will come soon.
Monday, January 19, 2009
OK
It's ok. I'm about 8 hours from the operating room and I'm ok. I'm going to bed now; everything is packed and explained and planned. Well, I probably should have vacuumed the living room, but it's too late now. Instead I read two chapters at bedtime to the girls (usually they get one). Choosing the better part.
Sophia is getting anxious about less and less mom-time. Tonight she asked if she could go back to homeschool maybe one day a week? Not an option (we have to go all the way or not at all now that we're at a charter school). Then she suggested maybe she take next year off? I told her once again, if she quit City Garden there was no going back due to demand for space. Then she started crying. I knew immediately this had nothing to do with homeschooling and everything to do with losing out on time with me. Even more time, since the past few months have been awful in that regard. Something to keep in mind in the coming days, nursing on the couch. Don't have to watch reruns. I can read to girls. And maybe do some reports on ancient Egypt and The Hobbit.
Parenting is kind of hard.
But me and this baby, we're going to be fine tomorrow. Talk to you later.
Sophia is getting anxious about less and less mom-time. Tonight she asked if she could go back to homeschool maybe one day a week? Not an option (we have to go all the way or not at all now that we're at a charter school). Then she suggested maybe she take next year off? I told her once again, if she quit City Garden there was no going back due to demand for space. Then she started crying. I knew immediately this had nothing to do with homeschooling and everything to do with losing out on time with me. Even more time, since the past few months have been awful in that regard. Something to keep in mind in the coming days, nursing on the couch. Don't have to watch reruns. I can read to girls. And maybe do some reports on ancient Egypt and The Hobbit.
Parenting is kind of hard.
But me and this baby, we're going to be fine tomorrow. Talk to you later.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Scheduling
So this last week has been an exercise in deep denial mixed with insomnia and panic. Hence, the "Where I Used To Live" series. Painting my room. Anything to keep my mind off what's coming. I think the anxiety began when I left coffee on Wednesday, realizing I wasn't going to be back for a long time (cold weather, new baby, etc). That began the list of "last things before Tuesday morning" that has occupied my free moments.
This list--all my lists--end at 5:30 Tuesday morning and it's starting to bring me down. It feels more like an ending than a beginning and that's no good for my head right now. Tying up loose ends...getting people to cover for me...sending those last notes...making sure the girls' stuff is in order: it's crazy-making. Plus the running mantra of things in my head trying to make me stop freaking out is actually making me freak out. Things like "more adults die after tonsillectomies than c-sections" and since I've survived one of the former and two of the latter, I'm probably ok. Right?
I can do this, right?
So now I'm trying to focus on what happens after 5:30 on Tuesday. And not like in the following 4 hours. Like after that. Baby will be there, but that's too intangible right now to wrap my head around. I can wrap my head around things like: little cups of grape juice. Percoset. Reading a novel while nursing. Watching highlights from the inauguration. On Wednesday, maybe I'll have something to eat. And more percoset. Ooh--and I can sleep on my back. On my back. Walk down the hall. Argue about a hepatitis B vaccine (or maybe I won't have to argue). Maybe work on Sophia's boot socks. Sleep some more. Take a shower. Take some more percoset.
It'll be fine.
I'll post when I can; probably Saturday or Sunday, though. I can't imagine St. Luke's having wifi, but maybe I'm wrong. I guess I could always make Mike guest-blog for me. Either way, I'll be back next week.
This list--all my lists--end at 5:30 Tuesday morning and it's starting to bring me down. It feels more like an ending than a beginning and that's no good for my head right now. Tying up loose ends...getting people to cover for me...sending those last notes...making sure the girls' stuff is in order: it's crazy-making. Plus the running mantra of things in my head trying to make me stop freaking out is actually making me freak out. Things like "more adults die after tonsillectomies than c-sections" and since I've survived one of the former and two of the latter, I'm probably ok. Right?
I can do this, right?
So now I'm trying to focus on what happens after 5:30 on Tuesday. And not like in the following 4 hours. Like after that. Baby will be there, but that's too intangible right now to wrap my head around. I can wrap my head around things like: little cups of grape juice. Percoset. Reading a novel while nursing. Watching highlights from the inauguration. On Wednesday, maybe I'll have something to eat. And more percoset. Ooh--and I can sleep on my back. On my back. Walk down the hall. Argue about a hepatitis B vaccine (or maybe I won't have to argue). Maybe work on Sophia's boot socks. Sleep some more. Take a shower. Take some more percoset.
It'll be fine.
I'll post when I can; probably Saturday or Sunday, though. I can't imagine St. Luke's having wifi, but maybe I'm wrong. I guess I could always make Mike guest-blog for me. Either way, I'll be back next week.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Bridgett's Folly
They said the high today was 43. After a couple of days in single digits, this sounded like a situation I could handle. I knew it would be colder on the river, but I thought, forty-three. We can do forty-three.
But 43 is the high. The day started at 20, you know. And even though the sun had been up for several hours by the time we parked the cars at North Riverview Park to catch the waiting, warm shuttle bus to the bridge, it certainly was closer to 20 than to 43.
It was a small group, thank goodness (the Chain of Rocks Bridge makes me a little scared even with just my own two kids. I know, there are railings. I know, people don't tend to pitch over the sides accidentally. But I worry. The Chain of Rocks Bridge combines my three irrational fears:
1. Falling
2. Drowning
3. Old Industrial Spaces of Any Kind
So I was glad when we only had 6 brave girl scouts out of my troop of 18. We did it in two cars, and Mike came to keep Maeve corralled.
Back to that 43 vs. 20 thing. It was pretty close to 20, but we got to the entrance to the bridge and were able to go see a World Bird Sanctuary program with a rescued eagle named McGwire. It was in a tent. Then we looked at a replica of an eagle's nest. A little windy, but not so bad. After that, though, we headed up onto the bridge towards the viewing stations and "warming tent" in the center.
This is when I realized that one of the girls didn't have boots or athletic shoes on, but keens, you know, what I consider to be creek shoes. Great for summer--they have a good sole, they wrap around your foot, but they have holes in them.
I reworked some scarves (some of the scarves we made in a troop meeting, in fact, in the Biggest Hit of the Year). I reassured the girl in the keens that her feet would make it and be fine, that it wasn't THAT cold.
They were troopers. We made it up to the warming tent and nobody was whining about being cold, amazingly, except of course for Maeve. But I will say that Maeve's BOOT SOCKS meant that she did not say anything about cold feet!
That would be ice in the river. It's not warm. In fact, at one point, as I was taking the picture below, I realized my face had probably never been this cold before. Ever. I mean, except for less than a year spent in Milwaukee, St. Louis is as far north as I've lived. It stays a little damp, not a lot of wind, it's just not so bad here. But in the center of the Mississippi River in January? Heh.
Of course, we could have been these people:
We saw eagles. Lots of them. Groups of 4 or 5 just sitting in trees. Juveniles and adults swooping down with the gulls at the rapids. Yesterday's count was over 50; I'm sure it was that high today as well. But no good shots with the camera, alas.
Last year in Clarksville was more productive that way. Last year in Clarksville, it really was around 40 degrees. Last year in Clarksville, we stood in pavilions on the river's edge and didn't have to stand on the old Route 66 bridge with the bend in the middle worried that the wind was going to carry off our toddlers. Last year in Clarksville, we took a whole day and got home near dark.
Makes me think about Passover: Next year, in Clarksville!
But 43 is the high. The day started at 20, you know. And even though the sun had been up for several hours by the time we parked the cars at North Riverview Park to catch the waiting, warm shuttle bus to the bridge, it certainly was closer to 20 than to 43.
It was a small group, thank goodness (the Chain of Rocks Bridge makes me a little scared even with just my own two kids. I know, there are railings. I know, people don't tend to pitch over the sides accidentally. But I worry. The Chain of Rocks Bridge combines my three irrational fears:
1. Falling
2. Drowning
3. Old Industrial Spaces of Any Kind
So I was glad when we only had 6 brave girl scouts out of my troop of 18. We did it in two cars, and Mike came to keep Maeve corralled.
Back to that 43 vs. 20 thing. It was pretty close to 20, but we got to the entrance to the bridge and were able to go see a World Bird Sanctuary program with a rescued eagle named McGwire. It was in a tent. Then we looked at a replica of an eagle's nest. A little windy, but not so bad. After that, though, we headed up onto the bridge towards the viewing stations and "warming tent" in the center.
This is when I realized that one of the girls didn't have boots or athletic shoes on, but keens, you know, what I consider to be creek shoes. Great for summer--they have a good sole, they wrap around your foot, but they have holes in them.
I reworked some scarves (some of the scarves we made in a troop meeting, in fact, in the Biggest Hit of the Year). I reassured the girl in the keens that her feet would make it and be fine, that it wasn't THAT cold.
They were troopers. We made it up to the warming tent and nobody was whining about being cold, amazingly, except of course for Maeve. But I will say that Maeve's BOOT SOCKS meant that she did not say anything about cold feet!
That would be ice in the river. It's not warm. In fact, at one point, as I was taking the picture below, I realized my face had probably never been this cold before. Ever. I mean, except for less than a year spent in Milwaukee, St. Louis is as far north as I've lived. It stays a little damp, not a lot of wind, it's just not so bad here. But in the center of the Mississippi River in January? Heh.
Of course, we could have been these people:
We saw eagles. Lots of them. Groups of 4 or 5 just sitting in trees. Juveniles and adults swooping down with the gulls at the rapids. Yesterday's count was over 50; I'm sure it was that high today as well. But no good shots with the camera, alas.
Last year in Clarksville was more productive that way. Last year in Clarksville, it really was around 40 degrees. Last year in Clarksville, we stood in pavilions on the river's edge and didn't have to stand on the old Route 66 bridge with the bend in the middle worried that the wind was going to carry off our toddlers. Last year in Clarksville, we took a whole day and got home near dark.
Makes me think about Passover: Next year, in Clarksville!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Sophia Continues Her Media Appearances
Hurry now before it expires and you can see Sophia be cute and deer-in-the-headlights on Great Day St. Louis (KMOV channel 4) promoting girl scout cookie sales:
Great Day St. Louis 1-16-2009 (she comes in a few minutes into the banter)
Great Day St. Louis 1-16-2009 (she comes in a few minutes into the banter)
Where I Used to Live: South Compton
My brother Ian loved that I had an address on a street called Compton. Ian, back then, was big into rap music in a way that only suburban white teenagers can be: ironically. He would refer to Mike and me as "Straight Outta Compton" and be thoroughly obnoxious.
We lived at Compton & Russell, in a building named the Russco (how original). It was a recently rehabbed two bedroom apartment on the first floor. I think the building probably had 12-16 units total, not the typical shotgun at all. It was a grown-up apartment and I loved it. Central air, forced air heat, laundry in the basement, a new kitchen with lots of cabinets and a decent stove. The only thing I wasn't totally thrilled with was the gray carpeting, really. And that was one of those things I could let go.
We moved in November 1996 and probably would have lived there a long time--perhaps 3 or 4 years--except that things fall apart. Not in the apartment, but in the management of the apartment. Terry and Ben, a married couple with their office on site, disappeared from view without even telling their tenants. In their place came a management company out of Illinois that didn't answer their phones very often. And one of the first things this company did was sign a lease with our new upstairs neighbor.
Wade and Scott had lived there before, on loan to St. Louis from Wisconsin, getting architecture degrees, I think I recall. Quiet and nice. Like everyone else who got their mail at my entrance (6 apartments total). Wade and Scott moved home and the apartment upstairs was empty for a few months. Then that kid moved in. I don't even remember his name. His father was a bigwig with Harris-Stowe and, like my brother, he was a suburban white kid who liked to put on airs of being from the 'hood.
He had a rottweiler in that apartment. Second floor. He didn't walk the dog. Let it crap on his porch, and then periodically would dump it all into the courtyard. He had revolving girlfriends, and each visit from a girlfriend went like this:
1. Door slams.
2. Music goes on.
3. Bed squeaks and thumps against the wall.
4. Shower turns on.
5. Door slams.
And then, what really made me like him, he broke into the mailboxes. Claimed he couldn't find his key, so he peeled the whole unit off the wall. That was the end of that.
We started looking to buy a house. We qualified for a first-time home buyer's loan that was very good for us. We found a real estate agent who was shockingly wonderful and knew the city and city houses and what is good to see in a basement and what isn't. We found our house on the third try (we put a contract on a house on Nottingham that they didn't even counter; one on Hartford that came back with an offended tone, how dare we "lowball" them--the price was the asking price--later, after we'd signed everything over here, they had their agent call us back....ha!).
Totally broke our lease. The management company, it turned out, was another married couple acting as some kind of front for a corporation. When they did answer phones, there were crying babies in the background. They were pissed, because they claimed they'd started eviction proceedings on the guy upstairs. Too little too late, I told them. You'll lose your security deposit, they warned. Don't care.
The day we moved out, we set the alarm on our way. Ours wasn't hooked up to a company--it was still on the default numbers our original landlords had given us, and it was simply a loud noise. Sometime a couple of days later, the management lady calls me (we kept our phone number--we only moved 10 blocks or so south) because the alarm went off and they didn't know what to do...it had been going off for hours and the police hadn't come (because it wasn't hooked up), and they couldn't get any work done in the apartment...ah well. I hope it bugged the guy upstairs, if nothing else.
It was a good place, but I think more than that, it was important that we got fed up with the bad neighbor and made our move. Because that was 10 1/2 years ago and makes this the last of the Where I Used to Live series. After Compton, it's "Where I Live."
Where I Used to Live: South Grand II
Mike and I married in July 1996. He'd already lived in the apartment for a year. My bed lived there, and my dresser, various pieces of furniture that came up to St. Louis when my parents moved to Austin. But I didn't leave Aunt Sarah's house until after we came home from the honeymoon in San Francisco.
Partly, I will admit, because I didn't want to live there very much. Not really a nice place. Mike had looked for an apartment at the end of college the year before, and this was the result. The first apartment he walked through, he took. Of course, when he took it, it looked very likely that he would be working literally across the street at a group home for high school aged boys, but he decided, oh so wisely, at the last moment to take the job at the Science Center instead.
It was a shotgun flat, second floor. Shotgun, meaning, if you shot a gun through the front window, it would go through every room in the house. It was a small flat, too, just three rooms. The living room was the only room with air conditioning, and the summer of '96, if I remember correctly, was brutal. The kitchen had an old fridge, you know, the kind kids get trapped in when they're left out in junkyards? It also had a gas stove that frightened me. The standard Sears and Roebuck metal sink/draining board/cabinet unit (at least, that's what I've heard it called). The kitchen was large, really a kitchen-dinette, but since we didn't have a table or chairs, it was just a big kitchen. We ate, and lived, in the living room. In the very back was the bedroom, where we actually never slept until the September break in the weather.
And then, we only used it for a bedroom for two months, before we decided we'd had enough of little brown mice and nasty brown carpet and the weird constant gas odor. It was time to move, and this time, I was in charge of finding a place.
Partly, I will admit, because I didn't want to live there very much. Not really a nice place. Mike had looked for an apartment at the end of college the year before, and this was the result. The first apartment he walked through, he took. Of course, when he took it, it looked very likely that he would be working literally across the street at a group home for high school aged boys, but he decided, oh so wisely, at the last moment to take the job at the Science Center instead.
It was a shotgun flat, second floor. Shotgun, meaning, if you shot a gun through the front window, it would go through every room in the house. It was a small flat, too, just three rooms. The living room was the only room with air conditioning, and the summer of '96, if I remember correctly, was brutal. The kitchen had an old fridge, you know, the kind kids get trapped in when they're left out in junkyards? It also had a gas stove that frightened me. The standard Sears and Roebuck metal sink/draining board/cabinet unit (at least, that's what I've heard it called). The kitchen was large, really a kitchen-dinette, but since we didn't have a table or chairs, it was just a big kitchen. We ate, and lived, in the living room. In the very back was the bedroom, where we actually never slept until the September break in the weather. And then, we only used it for a bedroom for two months, before we decided we'd had enough of little brown mice and nasty brown carpet and the weird constant gas odor. It was time to move, and this time, I was in charge of finding a place.
Photo Friday: Meditation
Meditation is easy at my monastery. At any monastery, let's be frank. Meditation is not easy in my house or van or really anywhere in my every day life. This is the trade off, I suppose, for living the life I live.
My friend (and Sophia's godmother) Rachel went with me to Clyde last time I visited. Rachel is a former Jesuit volunteer. She acts on her faith in tangible, countable ways. I don't, I mean, in the same way she does. She asked me at one point, as we walked along a dirt road between the women's and men's monasteries, what drew me to Clyde (as opposed to a more activist oblate group, or another associate/third order program).
I don't even know. There's something about being so busy, about doing ten thousand things a week and keeping twice that number in my head, that makes me not want to DO anything else. I know that many things need to be done, but I need a place where I can rest for a moment and then get up and do what needs to be done. I need a place where I can go and not do. Just be. And that's what Clyde is. The weekends there last three or four weeks apiece, it seems. Every moment is so purposeful and slow. Not artificially--it's just the way things seem to be there. Great big chunks of down time separated by prayer.
If I lived there, I know a lot of that downtime would be work time, but I'm not a resident. When I'm there, I'm on retreat. And the last thing I want to do on retreat is learn, do, make, or debate something. I don't like retreats that feel like girl scout field trips. My whole life already feels like that, trust me.
I try to bring some of that home, but it's like trying to bottle air. I'm just not there yet--I need to be constantly tapped on the shoulder to remember to live the way that works best for me. But I still try. Fall and get up, fall and get up. Small moments still occur in my days when I have that same expansive feeling, like my eyes have unfocused a bit and my rib cage has expanded. And then, even if just for a short time, everything takes on a bit of the sacred.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Where I Used to Live: Auntie Sarah's House
I went home after freshman year and stayed at my parents' house. Sophomore year, too, which was a difficult year (separated from Mike and pretty much my entire life). So after my junior year, I negotiated a different set up. I would stay with my Aunt Sarah.
Sarah is actually my mother's aunt, her father's sister. She lives in South St. Louis, right near the River des Peres.
She has lived in her house since my mother was a child (and lived across the street). A little three bedroom bungalow, no trees in the yard because that would be "messy." When I moved in, the summer of 1995, her husband Johnny had been dead for many years and she was going strong. I took the front bedroom and lived small. Most of my stuff went into storage or into Mike's apartment on South Grand. I spent most of my time over at Mike's, too, but I came home at a reasonable hour.
That summer I worked at Toys R Us and went to the community college. Then I quit working in a place that smelled just like a vinyl shower curtain and started cutting fabric at a Cloth World closer to home (which later became JoAnn Fabric). That was probably my favorite non-career-related job. I learned so much about fabric and notions and how to sew and why one might choose this over that.
It was the summer of old ladies. Not only did I go home to one every evening, but my days were spent oohing and ahhing over projects women would bring into the store for advice on (or just to show off). I kept that job even after I went back to the dorm (deMattias this time, right next door to Marguerite, with a single on an all-senior floor). I stayed with Cloth World until the day before Thanksgiving, simply because I wanted to go home for the holiday and I knew they'd make me work the Friday after. Plus I was going to be student teaching in the spring...
When I graduated in May 1996, it made no sense to move home to Houston, since my parents were moving to Austin and I was getting married in July. So I went home for a few weeks to help my parents move, and then moved back in with Sarah for the month or so before the wedding. This was a busy time, obviously, and I did little more than sleep at home.
While I lived there, both summers, I got to hear all those family stories I hadn't heard. I got to read my grandfather's V-mail (which mostly complained about getting V-mail instead of real mail). We went through pictures and she made copies for me. She was pushing 80 but still maintained relationships with people she'd known since she first started working, or when her kids were in school. Friends were dying, though, and some of her newer friends were the most needy. Bernice was one of them, and every time she'd call, my sainted aunt would roll her eyes. But talk to her for a good half hour.
Sarah, although she wouldn't say this because it isn't polite to discuss a lady's age, will be 92 next month. She's not really eating anymore, and stays with her daughter or with her son, alternating, only occasionally spending a night at home in the house she's lived in since the 1960s. She has panic attacks because she wakes up thinking she's stopped breathing and she's dying. There's nothing specifically wrong with her that would kill her outright (she's survived two different kinds of relatively mild cancer, but she has good blood pressure, good weight, no diabetes, etc). She's just old and getting a little fuzzy on the details.
She's my namesake (I'm Sarah Bridgett). If this baby coming had been a girl, she would have been Marguerite Josephine. Marguerite after the dorm where Mike and I met, and Josephine after Sarah (she's Sarah Jo). Instead, I have a boy named for his father and grandfather, and for several great-uncles, one of which figured prominently in Mike's recent adult life the way Sarah did in mine. So it's a good counterpoint. And who knows what the future holds, right?
Sarah is actually my mother's aunt, her father's sister. She lives in South St. Louis, right near the River des Peres.
She has lived in her house since my mother was a child (and lived across the street). A little three bedroom bungalow, no trees in the yard because that would be "messy." When I moved in, the summer of 1995, her husband Johnny had been dead for many years and she was going strong. I took the front bedroom and lived small. Most of my stuff went into storage or into Mike's apartment on South Grand. I spent most of my time over at Mike's, too, but I came home at a reasonable hour.
That summer I worked at Toys R Us and went to the community college. Then I quit working in a place that smelled just like a vinyl shower curtain and started cutting fabric at a Cloth World closer to home (which later became JoAnn Fabric). That was probably my favorite non-career-related job. I learned so much about fabric and notions and how to sew and why one might choose this over that.
It was the summer of old ladies. Not only did I go home to one every evening, but my days were spent oohing and ahhing over projects women would bring into the store for advice on (or just to show off). I kept that job even after I went back to the dorm (deMattias this time, right next door to Marguerite, with a single on an all-senior floor). I stayed with Cloth World until the day before Thanksgiving, simply because I wanted to go home for the holiday and I knew they'd make me work the Friday after. Plus I was going to be student teaching in the spring...
When I graduated in May 1996, it made no sense to move home to Houston, since my parents were moving to Austin and I was getting married in July. So I went home for a few weeks to help my parents move, and then moved back in with Sarah for the month or so before the wedding. This was a busy time, obviously, and I did little more than sleep at home.
While I lived there, both summers, I got to hear all those family stories I hadn't heard. I got to read my grandfather's V-mail (which mostly complained about getting V-mail instead of real mail). We went through pictures and she made copies for me. She was pushing 80 but still maintained relationships with people she'd known since she first started working, or when her kids were in school. Friends were dying, though, and some of her newer friends were the most needy. Bernice was one of them, and every time she'd call, my sainted aunt would roll her eyes. But talk to her for a good half hour.
Sarah, although she wouldn't say this because it isn't polite to discuss a lady's age, will be 92 next month. She's not really eating anymore, and stays with her daughter or with her son, alternating, only occasionally spending a night at home in the house she's lived in since the 1960s. She has panic attacks because she wakes up thinking she's stopped breathing and she's dying. There's nothing specifically wrong with her that would kill her outright (she's survived two different kinds of relatively mild cancer, but she has good blood pressure, good weight, no diabetes, etc). She's just old and getting a little fuzzy on the details.
She's my namesake (I'm Sarah Bridgett). If this baby coming had been a girl, she would have been Marguerite Josephine. Marguerite after the dorm where Mike and I met, and Josephine after Sarah (she's Sarah Jo). Instead, I have a boy named for his father and grandfather, and for several great-uncles, one of which figured prominently in Mike's recent adult life the way Sarah did in mine. So it's a good counterpoint. And who knows what the future holds, right?
Where I Used to Live: Marguerite Hall
You cannot go home again.
This was made abundantly clear to me when Mike's brothers, Pete and Steve, started at SLU 8 years after I'd graduated (9 years after Mike had). Mike and I had this picture of how things were back when we were there--and since we still lived within easy biking distance from campus and could see what things looked like from the outside, at least, we just didn't notice how much everything had changed. I even had Sophia in speech and language therapy at SLU for 4 semesters and it seemed pretty much like how I'd left it. But it wasn't. Most all of the differences were in Housing.
Or Residence Life, as it's called now.
In town for my cousin's wedding in the fall of 1991, at College Church, no less, I took a tour of SLU. They showed me a girls' dorm in the Griesedieck Complex (just as Firmin Desloge can become Vermin Deathlodge, Griesedieck had its own nickname). The rest of the campus was fine, sure, whatever, but the dorm was lousy. I didn't like the tour guide. And the student volunteers who called later in my senior year weren't, well, like me. Then that spring break, I went on a college trip up to see a couple of different places (by then I already knew we couldn't afford Yale and U of Chicago, and so it came down to two: Cornell in Iowa and SLU). I didn't like Cornell. So I made my mom park down on the west end of campus and we took a tour all on our own. Back then, the tours ended at West Pine & Spring, which made sense because the only things west of there were the education department building and Marguerite Hall. Marguerite Hall had been badmouthed on the phone by the student volunteers. But something about it, about me, made me want to go check it out.
The desk worker called up to one of her floormates, Joel, who took us up to 3rd floor and showed us his room, his hall, how things worked. Yeah, the walls were cinderblock. Yeah, the rooms were just a little smaller than the dorms I'd seen thus far. But they were suites--you shared a bathroom with the room next door. I didn't see any Greek letters. And the floors were co-ed. "This is where I'm going to school and this is where I'm going to live," I told my mother on the trip home to Texas.
I became known as one of the only people in my freshman class who had actually chosen Marguerite Hall. Most freshmen, who obviously had no knowledge of game theory had put down Reinert Hall floors as their top 4 choices. If you picked Reinert Hall and you were a freshman, well, your clue meter was reading zero back then because Reinert was an old hotel--complete with air conditioning and private bathrooms. But the words "private bathrooms" meant that if you chose it...you invariably got stuck in Marguerite (the other dorms were single-sex by floor with communal bathrooms). Lots of unhappy people. But not me. I knew what I wanted. Fourth Floor Marguerite. And I got it.
My roommate, Stephanie, had not wanted it. Nobody did, really, although some people found that once they were there, that it was a good fit. Like Mike, who was one of the freshman advisors (called "VISAs") on my floor.
I lived in Marguerite for 3 years--the first two I was a resident, and the third year I took a CDA job, which was NewSpeak (or SLUSpeak) for RA. That was a bad decision, since I was and always have been sort of live-and-let-live while the folks whose floor I was assigned to, 5th, especially a group of uptight sophomores, really wanted me to be a law enforcement officer. It's not that I didn't bust a party or two, but I was not going to be first responder to any sort of conflict. Work it out on your own. This was not popular, and it made me unpopular with that crowd (although I was a non-entity to most of the freshmen, which was my goal--low interference). The next year, 5th floor got a CDA who was very, very, very excited to be there. Brought everything she'd learned from her "wonderful, tight-knit" floor in Walsh Hall. And folks would run into me in the cafeteria and admit that they didn't know how good they'd had it with me. Yeah. Dipshits.
But other than that, this was a good introduction into adulthood for me (actually, that was too, I just didn't realize it until much later). There were a lot of Spaniards in Marguerite, for whatever reason, who threw week-long parties. Lots of smoking. At one point, a non-student, essentially a derelict guy in his late teens, lived on my floor, moving from room to room as people checked him in under their IDs. When Tony "Tino" Constantino was kicked out of the dorm, he assembled all his liquor bottles at the end of the hall and used them for hockey target practice. It became known in some circles as the Opium Den because of all the drug use. But the general apathy--no one was stuck up about anything--was very nice. The day to day existence in Marguerite was easy.
And it's where I met my husband.
These days, all the rooms have matching furniture, or lofts made-to-plan (back then, you could pretty much do as you pleased). Every room has air conditioning, all across campus, and so Marguerite is a choice place to live, with the private bathrooms/suites. It contains a social justice residence program. And it's the home of upperclass honors program participants. The rooms have safety screens, so even if you can still take the windows out of their tracks, you can't hang your feet out the window while you lie on your bed. No smoking, so I can't imagine what the Spaniards do on Friday nights. Yeah, as a parent, I see some changes as Good Things. But I still wonder who I'd be now if it weren't for Marguerite back then.
This was made abundantly clear to me when Mike's brothers, Pete and Steve, started at SLU 8 years after I'd graduated (9 years after Mike had). Mike and I had this picture of how things were back when we were there--and since we still lived within easy biking distance from campus and could see what things looked like from the outside, at least, we just didn't notice how much everything had changed. I even had Sophia in speech and language therapy at SLU for 4 semesters and it seemed pretty much like how I'd left it. But it wasn't. Most all of the differences were in Housing.
Or Residence Life, as it's called now.
In town for my cousin's wedding in the fall of 1991, at College Church, no less, I took a tour of SLU. They showed me a girls' dorm in the Griesedieck Complex (just as Firmin Desloge can become Vermin Deathlodge, Griesedieck had its own nickname). The rest of the campus was fine, sure, whatever, but the dorm was lousy. I didn't like the tour guide. And the student volunteers who called later in my senior year weren't, well, like me. Then that spring break, I went on a college trip up to see a couple of different places (by then I already knew we couldn't afford Yale and U of Chicago, and so it came down to two: Cornell in Iowa and SLU). I didn't like Cornell. So I made my mom park down on the west end of campus and we took a tour all on our own. Back then, the tours ended at West Pine & Spring, which made sense because the only things west of there were the education department building and Marguerite Hall. Marguerite Hall had been badmouthed on the phone by the student volunteers. But something about it, about me, made me want to go check it out.
The desk worker called up to one of her floormates, Joel, who took us up to 3rd floor and showed us his room, his hall, how things worked. Yeah, the walls were cinderblock. Yeah, the rooms were just a little smaller than the dorms I'd seen thus far. But they were suites--you shared a bathroom with the room next door. I didn't see any Greek letters. And the floors were co-ed. "This is where I'm going to school and this is where I'm going to live," I told my mother on the trip home to Texas.
I became known as one of the only people in my freshman class who had actually chosen Marguerite Hall. Most freshmen, who obviously had no knowledge of game theory had put down Reinert Hall floors as their top 4 choices. If you picked Reinert Hall and you were a freshman, well, your clue meter was reading zero back then because Reinert was an old hotel--complete with air conditioning and private bathrooms. But the words "private bathrooms" meant that if you chose it...you invariably got stuck in Marguerite (the other dorms were single-sex by floor with communal bathrooms). Lots of unhappy people. But not me. I knew what I wanted. Fourth Floor Marguerite. And I got it.
My roommate, Stephanie, had not wanted it. Nobody did, really, although some people found that once they were there, that it was a good fit. Like Mike, who was one of the freshman advisors (called "VISAs") on my floor.
I lived in Marguerite for 3 years--the first two I was a resident, and the third year I took a CDA job, which was NewSpeak (or SLUSpeak) for RA. That was a bad decision, since I was and always have been sort of live-and-let-live while the folks whose floor I was assigned to, 5th, especially a group of uptight sophomores, really wanted me to be a law enforcement officer. It's not that I didn't bust a party or two, but I was not going to be first responder to any sort of conflict. Work it out on your own. This was not popular, and it made me unpopular with that crowd (although I was a non-entity to most of the freshmen, which was my goal--low interference). The next year, 5th floor got a CDA who was very, very, very excited to be there. Brought everything she'd learned from her "wonderful, tight-knit" floor in Walsh Hall. And folks would run into me in the cafeteria and admit that they didn't know how good they'd had it with me. Yeah. Dipshits.
But other than that, this was a good introduction into adulthood for me (actually, that was too, I just didn't realize it until much later). There were a lot of Spaniards in Marguerite, for whatever reason, who threw week-long parties. Lots of smoking. At one point, a non-student, essentially a derelict guy in his late teens, lived on my floor, moving from room to room as people checked him in under their IDs. When Tony "Tino" Constantino was kicked out of the dorm, he assembled all his liquor bottles at the end of the hall and used them for hockey target practice. It became known in some circles as the Opium Den because of all the drug use. But the general apathy--no one was stuck up about anything--was very nice. The day to day existence in Marguerite was easy.
And it's where I met my husband.
These days, all the rooms have matching furniture, or lofts made-to-plan (back then, you could pretty much do as you pleased). Every room has air conditioning, all across campus, and so Marguerite is a choice place to live, with the private bathrooms/suites. It contains a social justice residence program. And it's the home of upperclass honors program participants. The rooms have safety screens, so even if you can still take the windows out of their tracks, you can't hang your feet out the window while you lie on your bed. No smoking, so I can't imagine what the Spaniards do on Friday nights. Yeah, as a parent, I see some changes as Good Things. But I still wonder who I'd be now if it weren't for Marguerite back then.
Where I Used to Live: Pearland, Texas
Things kind of fell apart in Georgia--the corporation my dad worked for was investigated by the FBI (which led to a conversation on the phone with my mom that included the words "no one expects the Spanish Inquisition"). It was time to bail, and he did, taking a job for a competitor down in Houston. I wasn't sad to go. My only really good friend, Robin, was moving to Las Vegas that summer, too, and no one else was worth feeling anything for except relief that I would be long gone.
We lived in a furnished apartment for a few months when we left Macon, looking around for a house. Found a new development in a suburb called Pearland. It was the ultimate in exurb development at the time--cheap housing put up fast, designed to last about 15-20 years. Most things in Houston, in fact, seem to be designed to last that long. Having moved from Macon, which had more history than I could take, it was weird to live somewhere with no history at all. Pearland had very recently been rice fields and cow pastures--mostly the latter, which still existed in fits and starts throughout the town. Also throughout Houston proper, but it's kind of a weird place. No zoning will do that to a city.
Pearland had zoning, though. All our houses looked the same, had the same limited paint selection on the exteriors, the same rules about sheds, signs in the yard, keeping your garage door closed--you know, suburban things.
I went to the city every day, though, down a hideous back road named Mykawa, to my new high school, Mount Carmel. Pearland was so far away from Houston, though, that the "city" that I saw was older inner ring suburbs that had been annexed back in the 60s and 70s. And they were still far away--a good half hour on this two lane road that flooded in the spring and was filled with potholes the rest of the time. When I later drove the Triumph to school, I often went out of my way to not take this patch of concrete heaven.
I was a junior, and my grades that I brought with my from the amazingly challenging private school I attended in Georgia placed me smack dab at the top of the class. Social chameleon? Not this time. I climbed that ladder as fast as I could and found myself doing just fine.
In Houston, or, rather, Pearland, I can point directly at myself for everything that went badly, and at sheer luck combined with right place/right time for most of the things that went well. It was a good place to live and go to school--any time you're a big fish in a little pond, it's a good time. I had decent friends and usually had something to do. My mother taught at my high school, which wasn't as bad as you might think (although by the time I was in college in St. Louis and had disengaged myself, literally, from life in Texas, my mother still got phone calls from my classmates--she was more popular in high school than I was, but this wasn't a big thing, by that point). When I talk about "my high school" this is the one I mean--and not just based on averages (one semester at The Colony High; a year and a half at Mount de Sales; two years at Mount Carmel). This was the idyllic, in some ways, sheltered, in other ways, proving ground of my mid-teen years. Yes, things sucked, as in all teenage lives, but there was plenty of good to balance that out.
We lived between Houston (proper) and Galveston Island. I didn't go to Galveston as much as my memory tells me I did--but I think that indicates its importance. The high school boyfriend and I spent time down there, my family spent time down there,and every time an out of town guest was visiting, we went down to look at the Gulf of Mexico and shop on the Strand. There's something about the ocean, even on the industrial Gulf, that draws you to it, even if you're not a suntan beach sand kind of person. Galveston matched me pretty well--I am not (never have been) the sort to think a beach vacation sounded like a top priority. I am not aching to visit the Caribbean or Hawaii any time, perhaps ever. But the gray ocean and brown sand and little shark eye moon snail shells and just enough water on your feet to remind you how small you really are, that was enough ocean and beach for me. And that's what Galveston was. That and an emotional load of young love and human interaction dynamics and looking backwards through not quite rose colored glasses, but definitely in that spectrum.
But, due to my impatience or instability or whatever, I was ready to leave when I graduated. I worked that last summer at, yup, Wal*Mart, and then headed up to SLU for college. It took me a full year to let go of the idea of the high school boyfriend, but I did, and like in that Elton John song, once I saw those city lights....I knew I could never really go back to pretending in the exurbs. I became part of St. Louis.
We lived in a furnished apartment for a few months when we left Macon, looking around for a house. Found a new development in a suburb called Pearland. It was the ultimate in exurb development at the time--cheap housing put up fast, designed to last about 15-20 years. Most things in Houston, in fact, seem to be designed to last that long. Having moved from Macon, which had more history than I could take, it was weird to live somewhere with no history at all. Pearland had very recently been rice fields and cow pastures--mostly the latter, which still existed in fits and starts throughout the town. Also throughout Houston proper, but it's kind of a weird place. No zoning will do that to a city.Pearland had zoning, though. All our houses looked the same, had the same limited paint selection on the exteriors, the same rules about sheds, signs in the yard, keeping your garage door closed--you know, suburban things.
I went to the city every day, though, down a hideous back road named Mykawa, to my new high school, Mount Carmel. Pearland was so far away from Houston, though, that the "city" that I saw was older inner ring suburbs that had been annexed back in the 60s and 70s. And they were still far away--a good half hour on this two lane road that flooded in the spring and was filled with potholes the rest of the time. When I later drove the Triumph to school, I often went out of my way to not take this patch of concrete heaven.
I was a junior, and my grades that I brought with my from the amazingly challenging private school I attended in Georgia placed me smack dab at the top of the class. Social chameleon? Not this time. I climbed that ladder as fast as I could and found myself doing just fine.
In Houston, or, rather, Pearland, I can point directly at myself for everything that went badly, and at sheer luck combined with right place/right time for most of the things that went well. It was a good place to live and go to school--any time you're a big fish in a little pond, it's a good time. I had decent friends and usually had something to do. My mother taught at my high school, which wasn't as bad as you might think (although by the time I was in college in St. Louis and had disengaged myself, literally, from life in Texas, my mother still got phone calls from my classmates--she was more popular in high school than I was, but this wasn't a big thing, by that point). When I talk about "my high school" this is the one I mean--and not just based on averages (one semester at The Colony High; a year and a half at Mount de Sales; two years at Mount Carmel). This was the idyllic, in some ways, sheltered, in other ways, proving ground of my mid-teen years. Yes, things sucked, as in all teenage lives, but there was plenty of good to balance that out.
We lived between Houston (proper) and Galveston Island. I didn't go to Galveston as much as my memory tells me I did--but I think that indicates its importance. The high school boyfriend and I spent time down there, my family spent time down there,and every time an out of town guest was visiting, we went down to look at the Gulf of Mexico and shop on the Strand. There's something about the ocean, even on the industrial Gulf, that draws you to it, even if you're not a suntan beach sand kind of person. Galveston matched me pretty well--I am not (never have been) the sort to think a beach vacation sounded like a top priority. I am not aching to visit the Caribbean or Hawaii any time, perhaps ever. But the gray ocean and brown sand and little shark eye moon snail shells and just enough water on your feet to remind you how small you really are, that was enough ocean and beach for me. And that's what Galveston was. That and an emotional load of young love and human interaction dynamics and looking backwards through not quite rose colored glasses, but definitely in that spectrum.
But, due to my impatience or instability or whatever, I was ready to leave when I graduated. I worked that last summer at, yup, Wal*Mart, and then headed up to SLU for college. It took me a full year to let go of the idea of the high school boyfriend, but I did, and like in that Elton John song, once I saw those city lights....I knew I could never really go back to pretending in the exurbs. I became part of St. Louis.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Where I Used to Live: Macon, Georgia
Ok, so while it was a good idea that we left that north Dallas suburb, central Georgia was probably not the ideal locale to find oneself in the aftermath. The subtleties of social interaction in southern culture is a topic too big for this entry, this blog, this girl's life. What Macon taught me was not only is protective coloration often a good idea, but fading into the background entirely is sometimes your best protective coloration.
We lived in North Macon, which I believe is just a geographic designation and not a suburb for a change. It was a beautiful custom built saltbox style house set on a hill with giant trees all around. There was a screened in, concrete-floored back porch that went the length of the house. The neighborhood was sleepy, no traffic, not even any sidewalks. And everyone hated us.
See, we cut down a tree. It was a dead hickory or oak of some kind. And it took us, get this, a few weeks to get the trunk taken care of--all the branches and whatnot were hauled away, but since we had a wood burning fireplace, we were going to save the trunk and larger branches. We got an anonymous note from "your caring neighbors" mailed to us about our unsightly wood problem.
So my mother hired some "will work for food" guys to come out and haul it into the back yard.
My carpool dumped me. My boyfriend reported on rumors folks had come up with about me. At one point, the girls locker room's chalkboard had the words "Bridgett is a dike" (I appreciated the misspelling even then) for weeks--and trying to erase it, as Joanna tried to do, just made it seem more obvious.
It was a fantastic place to live. How I miss it so.
Where I Used to Live: The Colony, Texas
After my 7th grade year, my dad's job--he wasn't an RN anymore by this point, but a hospital comptroller--was taking him to Dallas to open up the new Charter Hospital of Dallas. It was the heyday of private psychiatric institutes, and Charter was one of the few national companies churning them out. The hospital in question was actually in a suburb, Plano (home of Frito Lay as well), and we found a house in a suburb of that suburb. I kid you not.
It was called The Colony. It was named for a failed emigrant colony (Peter's Colony, in fact) in the 1850s. In the early 70s, it became a planned bedroom community established by the Fox and Jacobs land developers. We moved there in 1987, when they had just opened the high school. We lived on Pruitt Drive, which I of course can only associate with Pruitt-Igoe at this point, even though I'm confident there is no connection. The house had been through a fire and a divorce and we got it fairly cheaply.
But somewhat like a housing project, living in the Colony was like being stuck in a teenage ghetto. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I biked a lot and read a lot of books in the library, which was only a 3 minute bike trip away (it was next door to the factory-style middle school I attended as well). Once in high school, I snuck out a lot to play with Lillian, which usually meant meeting boys in random parks and playing hard to get.
I ran track, which was a good outlet for me. Here is an aerial view of why my knees are so bad:
I wasn't fast enough to sprint, and I didn't have the stamina to do cross-country. So I ran the 800 and did quite well. I think that's probably where they stick all the "willing to try/no talent" folks anyway. I also played soccer and had my first summer job: YMCA soccer referee.
But that was also where I learned that fooling around with boys? Not such a great plan. I watched Lillian do stupid things with her life and learned from her mistakes. Amy, too. And all of Lillian's lousier friends. It's where I developed some social chameleon tactics, too--Mary would call them "protective coloration." I wasn't square enough to hang out with the band people, and I didn't put out or do drugs, so that eliminated another large set of contacts. I was still willing to play video games with Roz, hang out with the church youth group and David, and blame track practice for my lack of other social time. Even though I had 3 different lunch periods once I got to high school, I always had someone to sit with.
Along with Amy, I pushed a girl into her locker and slammed the door shut when I was in 9th grade. They were big lockers--I was in track class but all the locker rooms had football-sized lockers. Kind of stupid when all you store in them are a tank top and the shortest pair of shorts ever. I don't even remember the girl's name. She never even told on us.
It was the first, and last, time I ever saw someone smoke crack. And I saw my first black locust tree. It was kind of a hodgepodge, to say the least. And probably not in a good way.
I had never been more upset to move than when my parents told me we were moving to central Georgia in the middle of my 9th grade year. I went through stages of grief and still was angry at the end. I didn't want to leave--I had it pretty damned good, after all. At least, I thought so. But in the end, it was best that we left.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pause in the Reminiscing: Ike
Don't know why I thought about the hurricane while I crunched on tums and debated whether to go to bed. But I did. Inland, like where my brother lives, all is well. But I hadn't heard anything about Galveston, say, in a long time. Sure, I've had other things to think about. But it struck me suddenly that I never read any resolution anywhere about death toll, for instance.
Eighty-two Americans died (half the death toll--almost all the others were in Haiti), but this counts people like the St. Louisans who drowned somehow during the hurricane aftermath. That isn't anything like the 1800+ who died during or right after Katrina (my numbers are from Wikipedia--I know there is lots of variation).
But what I find disturbing is that, according to Wikipedia, there are still 200 Texans left unaccounted for. A TV station website in Houston reported that a woman's body was found in a pile of debris in Crystal Beach just over Christmas. They know she's blond. That's about it. Other websites put up notices for memorial services this month for folks who aren't displaced, who aren't staying with Cousin Fred in Ohio, who didn't choose this exact moment to flee the country and their responsibilities. These folks lived on Bolivar Peninsula, Galveston, Crystal Beach--and they were washed to sea.
Now, I know some folks are the Free and Independent sort, who aren't going to leave no matter what. Like the woman whose "Missing" flier mentions that she was "always barefoot." This gal ain't leaving. But then, the phone call to out of state from the 70 year old on Bolivar whose ride never arrived for her and her son: Called to say goodbye. Me and Charles Allen are gonna drown. Bolivar Peninsula's evacuation time was sketchy and many people got caught evacuating (folks who planned to evacuate the whole time, that is, not even last minute panickers).
Me and Charles Allen are gonna drown. That's going to stay with me a while.
Eighty-two Americans died (half the death toll--almost all the others were in Haiti), but this counts people like the St. Louisans who drowned somehow during the hurricane aftermath. That isn't anything like the 1800+ who died during or right after Katrina (my numbers are from Wikipedia--I know there is lots of variation).
But what I find disturbing is that, according to Wikipedia, there are still 200 Texans left unaccounted for. A TV station website in Houston reported that a woman's body was found in a pile of debris in Crystal Beach just over Christmas. They know she's blond. That's about it. Other websites put up notices for memorial services this month for folks who aren't displaced, who aren't staying with Cousin Fred in Ohio, who didn't choose this exact moment to flee the country and their responsibilities. These folks lived on Bolivar Peninsula, Galveston, Crystal Beach--and they were washed to sea.
Now, I know some folks are the Free and Independent sort, who aren't going to leave no matter what. Like the woman whose "Missing" flier mentions that she was "always barefoot." This gal ain't leaving. But then, the phone call to out of state from the 70 year old on Bolivar whose ride never arrived for her and her son: Called to say goodbye. Me and Charles Allen are gonna drown. Bolivar Peninsula's evacuation time was sketchy and many people got caught evacuating (folks who planned to evacuate the whole time, that is, not even last minute panickers).
Me and Charles Allen are gonna drown. That's going to stay with me a while.
Where I Used to Live: Columbia, Missouri
It was a split level. I had my own room. I had a pink and maroon Catholic school uniform but I had my own room, complete with 12 channels of cable TV (which included HBO and AMC, along with local channels and stuff I didn't watch). My room was in the basement, of sorts, and had most recently been a home office, which meant it had an outside entrance. My bed was pushed up against that wall, of course, and I didn't live there long enough to have any reason to leave through my own entrance. My parents probably would have moved me upstairs before that point, anyway, and put my two young sisters in that room.
It was a curvy street neighborhood just outside of town, set up so that folks didn't have to obey Columbia's laws about antennae on their roofs or how many motorcycles were in their backyards. HAM radio operators were fine! Chickens? No problem! Cock fighting? We'll see!
Never really knew the neighbors except for Danielle, who was a year behind me in school (and light years behind me socially--I had finally started to catch up with my schoolmates). She lived next door with her sister Stephanie and her cycle of abuse parents. But all our houses backed up onto a large park, complete with an old stone homestead building that I would view now as Tetanus Central, but back then was just fabulous. All sorts of trees you could climb, no teenagers ruining the fun, and although our house was clearly visible from the park, a sense of freedom from adults.
My school friends--Marita, Leslie, Carol, Helen--spent a lot of time with me in that park, and I spent lots of time with them everywhere. Columbia had just come to the concept of a mall, and it was brand spanking new. Perfect for 7th graders. Marita and I biked all over the place, sans helmets (which makes me crazy thinking about it now), including down WW, a state highway with no shoulder. My brother got into a fair load of trouble; my cousin Dan would babysit over weekends and send us to the Casey General Store for everything but the beer--my parents had supplied him with that.
When I look at the satellite pictures, I'm reminded that we also spent a great deal of time in a gravel pit. I can only hope this wasn't too toxic an experience.
The last time I visited Columbia, I drove to the old neighborhood and located my house easily (I wouldn't be able to find my house in Broken Arrow, for instance, but I was almost 13 when we left Columbia).
It was a pit. Not a gravel pit--the house had been allowed to totally fall apart. It hadn't been painted since we painted it in 1987. The screened-in porch had no screens. The fence sagged.
You can't go home again.
It was a curvy street neighborhood just outside of town, set up so that folks didn't have to obey Columbia's laws about antennae on their roofs or how many motorcycles were in their backyards. HAM radio operators were fine! Chickens? No problem! Cock fighting? We'll see!
Never really knew the neighbors except for Danielle, who was a year behind me in school (and light years behind me socially--I had finally started to catch up with my schoolmates). She lived next door with her sister Stephanie and her cycle of abuse parents. But all our houses backed up onto a large park, complete with an old stone homestead building that I would view now as Tetanus Central, but back then was just fabulous. All sorts of trees you could climb, no teenagers ruining the fun, and although our house was clearly visible from the park, a sense of freedom from adults.
My school friends--Marita, Leslie, Carol, Helen--spent a lot of time with me in that park, and I spent lots of time with them everywhere. Columbia had just come to the concept of a mall, and it was brand spanking new. Perfect for 7th graders. Marita and I biked all over the place, sans helmets (which makes me crazy thinking about it now), including down WW, a state highway with no shoulder. My brother got into a fair load of trouble; my cousin Dan would babysit over weekends and send us to the Casey General Store for everything but the beer--my parents had supplied him with that.
When I look at the satellite pictures, I'm reminded that we also spent a great deal of time in a gravel pit. I can only hope this wasn't too toxic an experience.
The last time I visited Columbia, I drove to the old neighborhood and located my house easily (I wouldn't be able to find my house in Broken Arrow, for instance, but I was almost 13 when we left Columbia).
It was a pit. Not a gravel pit--the house had been allowed to totally fall apart. It hadn't been painted since we painted it in 1987. The screened-in porch had no screens. The fence sagged.
You can't go home again.
Where I Used to Live: Fairwick Dr.
My parents bought the next house--I was almost 10. This, combined with Mike's parents' experience, was why we bought our house before we had kids. We didn't want to fall victim to the whims of landlords and nearby tenants, and so we set our goals very specifically on this front. But in 1984, my parents bought a house east of Forder Road, west of Telegraph. I stayed at St. Bernadette's, which was good, because I went from having instant after school playmates to having...my brother. That was it.
But the good thing was that the backyard backed up to a creek, rock bottom (natural, not a drainage ditch), complete with a waterfall on our property. How fabulous is that? A short walk away, close enough my parents didn't care if Ian and I explored, revealed a concrete bridge over the creek with grass on top instead of pavement. It led to a Foursquare Gospel Church campus, but nobody seemed to care if we played in the creek, on the bridge, under the bridge, and so on. We didn't cross the creek into the woods behind our house, even though there was no fence. I don't know why.
The backyard was terraced, which meant when it snowed, you closed your eyes, jumped on your sled, and someone revived you later in the frozen creek.
It made such an impression on my brain that when I read juvenile fiction, plots occur in that house almost exclusively. Ramona lives on Fairwick. The Bridge to Terabithia? Oh, I know where that is. Shiloh gets attacked by a German Shepherd in that backyard. And so on.
My mother hated that house. It was tiny--not even 1000 square feet--and Colleen was born when we lived there (that would make us a family of 6). I shared a room, and a bed, with Bevin, who was 2. It had a great walk-out basement, though, and I can't say enough about that backyard. Still, even I knew at age 11 that it was important news when we sold the house quickly and moved again, to Columbia, Missouri.
But the good thing was that the backyard backed up to a creek, rock bottom (natural, not a drainage ditch), complete with a waterfall on our property. How fabulous is that? A short walk away, close enough my parents didn't care if Ian and I explored, revealed a concrete bridge over the creek with grass on top instead of pavement. It led to a Foursquare Gospel Church campus, but nobody seemed to care if we played in the creek, on the bridge, under the bridge, and so on. We didn't cross the creek into the woods behind our house, even though there was no fence. I don't know why.
The backyard was terraced, which meant when it snowed, you closed your eyes, jumped on your sled, and someone revived you later in the frozen creek.
It made such an impression on my brain that when I read juvenile fiction, plots occur in that house almost exclusively. Ramona lives on Fairwick. The Bridge to Terabithia? Oh, I know where that is. Shiloh gets attacked by a German Shepherd in that backyard. And so on.
My mother hated that house. It was tiny--not even 1000 square feet--and Colleen was born when we lived there (that would make us a family of 6). I shared a room, and a bed, with Bevin, who was 2. It had a great walk-out basement, though, and I can't say enough about that backyard. Still, even I knew at age 11 that it was important news when we sold the house quickly and moved again, to Columbia, Missouri.
Where I Used to Live: Orangewood Trail
Orangewood Trail is the inspiration for this series--another blog I read posted an aerial view of where he used to live down in Oklahoma City, focusing on the rise and fall of the cul-de-sac. Orangewood was a cul-de-sac, and it was a good place to live, if only for about a year and a half.
First, though, we lived with my grandparents off Tesson Ferry Rd, on Fernhill Dr., also a cul-de-sac. They lived at the end of the street, behind a huge pin oak tree in the front yard. The back yard sloped gently down with cyclone fencing fading into the background between the back yards. Nice place, especially that January with a huge snowfall.
We moved, I think, in the summertime, to Orangewood, with its 15 houses and nosy neighbors. Just like where I live today, I can name everyone who lived there (in 1984, of course). Lots of kids--not as many as where I live today, but we have a higher density of houses as well, so it might turn out to be approximately the same rate.
It was idyllic for someone 8 years old. Everyone went to different grade schools (just like where we live now) and so we came home with nothing to live up to or down. I attended St. Bernadette's; Patti and her siblings were at Martin of Tours. Cammy and Geoff were at whatever Oakville elementary or middle school we lived near. They rode a bus. Some of the older kids went to St. Francis of Assisi.
We had free run of the street, which was concrete sealed with tar--which means when it's hot, you can pick tar out of the seams and use it for your own purposes. Lots of tar initials and pictures in the gutters. Nobody seemed to care as long as it didn't wind up on our clothes. We had a huge backyard with a garden; everyone had a horse trough pool and a swingset. It was just what you want to believe suburbia is. Except that I don't think it is anymore, having visited it as an adult these days.
It would have been a terribly dull place to live as a teenager.
But of course we moved before I ever had to wake up from that dream. John, our landlord, got remarried. We didn't have a lease. And so it was time to move...
First, though, we lived with my grandparents off Tesson Ferry Rd, on Fernhill Dr., also a cul-de-sac. They lived at the end of the street, behind a huge pin oak tree in the front yard. The back yard sloped gently down with cyclone fencing fading into the background between the back yards. Nice place, especially that January with a huge snowfall.
We moved, I think, in the summertime, to Orangewood, with its 15 houses and nosy neighbors. Just like where I live today, I can name everyone who lived there (in 1984, of course). Lots of kids--not as many as where I live today, but we have a higher density of houses as well, so it might turn out to be approximately the same rate.
It was idyllic for someone 8 years old. Everyone went to different grade schools (just like where we live now) and so we came home with nothing to live up to or down. I attended St. Bernadette's; Patti and her siblings were at Martin of Tours. Cammy and Geoff were at whatever Oakville elementary or middle school we lived near. They rode a bus. Some of the older kids went to St. Francis of Assisi.
We had free run of the street, which was concrete sealed with tar--which means when it's hot, you can pick tar out of the seams and use it for your own purposes. Lots of tar initials and pictures in the gutters. Nobody seemed to care as long as it didn't wind up on our clothes. We had a huge backyard with a garden; everyone had a horse trough pool and a swingset. It was just what you want to believe suburbia is. Except that I don't think it is anymore, having visited it as an adult these days.
It would have been a terribly dull place to live as a teenager.
But of course we moved before I ever had to wake up from that dream. John, our landlord, got remarried. We didn't have a lease. And so it was time to move...
Where I Used to Live: Broken Arrow, Oklahoma
Another move, right after kindergarten was over, we headed back east, to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. It's really just a suburb of Tulsa. I lived on First Street, but that doesn't tell the truth, either. It's really just a suburb and should have names like "Fox Glen" and "Pecan Valley". It was a nondescript three bedroom house in an obviously nondescript curvy street neighborhood. Not a lot of kids, although a girl my age a block away and a girl two or three years older in the opposite direction. My father chopped his knee open with an axe that year--he was cutting firewood and missed.
There, I attended first grade (and a part of the day in a second grade classroom, again) at Vandever Elementary School. If I were attending tomorrow, I'd be looking forward to this for lunch:I wonder what's in WINTER NUGGETS.
School was situated nearby, close enough that I didn't ride a bus. The main school was a large modern brick building, but it was overcrowded and we were outside in portable buildings, although not the typical trailer looking things you see these days. They looked like little one-room schoolhouses, with white siding and wooden steps. There were two classrooms per building, each with a cloakroom, and in the center hallway, a drinking fountain. No bathrooms--we went up to the main building several times a day. Those were good trips because the main building was air conditioned and the poor little first graders were in barracks with cyclone fencing on the windows.
My teacher that year, Mrs. Smallwood, did not like me. I think it was because I already could read and was kind of sassy about it. She was the first teacher I had who didn't like me, but of course, she was not to be the last.
My dad lost his job the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and we moved home to St. Louis over Christmas. We lived with my grandparents a while, and then rented a house in South County.
Where I Used to Live: Palm Desert
My dad got a job at Indio Community Hospital and we moved to a small house in a retirement community in Palm Desert, California. This is a suburb, believe it or not, of Palm Springs. This photo is of my house, although when I lived there, it was off white stucco and we didn't dare try to grow grass or giant shrubs. Doesn't the house look like it's all garage? I look at that now and it's just bizarre. But all the houses had private courtyards right next to the garages--sort of a backyard in the front yard.I started kindergarten there, at a school with open breezeways instead of halls. I was in the English speaking class; the Spanish ESL class was in the afternoon. Since I already knew how to read, I spent part of my day in the first grade classroom (the beginning of my complete social development breakdown, frankly). Mrs. Gretch was my teacher. A kindergarten teacher named Mrs. Gretch. Seriously.
I learned to ride a bike in Palm Desert, and I went over the handlebars for the first and last time. Had gravel in my chin from the accident for several years of panic on my mother's part. That year I also got bullous myringitis (middle ear infection involving blisters that form on the eardrums--I remember this clearly) and the chicken pox. Thank goodness that was in the era before schools would fail you based simply on absences.
We lived down the street from Ed and Virginia, who had a pool. They were retirees and later became my sister Bevin's godparents. I spent a lot of time in the pool. Probably the first place I lived where I got nicely tanned, which was to be repeated only twice more in 30 years. Ah well.
Where I Used to Live: Black Forest and Fredericksburg Court
After they realized the shotgun apartment on South Grand was not going to meet the needs of a family of four, we moved back to 63129, to an apartment complex called Black Forest. Instead of alcoholic drinks, all the streets were named for "good" parts of Germany and German speaking Europe. Black Forest, Innsbruck, Westphalia, Chalet. No Berlin Wall Lane or Blitzkrieg Court. They were standard 1970s era apartments, and the only thing I remember about living there was that was the one and only place where my parents were robbed. It was a burglary when they weren't at home, there wasn't much to take, but it was there--not in the city, but in the deep "safe" county. Huh.
They broke their lease and moved to a townhouse closer to the city, but still in the county, just before my brother was born. Actually, I have a nagging suspicion that we moved here first and then Black Forest. But it doesn't really matter--everything at that point (I was, what, 3?) kind of seems the same. This complex was named for southern locations. Actually, confederate locations. Like General Lee. We lived on Fredericksburg Court.
Ian was born while we lived there. It was the last time I would have my own room until I was 12. It iced that winter, my first ice storm. And there was a girl in the townhouse next door named Vanessa who claimed that her parents had changed their last name to Bartender because her mom had gotten a job. Vanessa Bartender and I weren't the greatest of friends--she was obsessed with tracing coloring book page outlines before she colored them in.
My dad got a job at a hospital in Milwaukee and we moved to Waukesha. I can't tell you anything about Waukesha except that we lived in a duplex, it snowed a lot, and I started preschool. We just didn't stay long enough. Oh. And they trick-or-treated during the day.
They broke their lease and moved to a townhouse closer to the city, but still in the county, just before my brother was born. Actually, I have a nagging suspicion that we moved here first and then Black Forest. But it doesn't really matter--everything at that point (I was, what, 3?) kind of seems the same. This complex was named for southern locations. Actually, confederate locations. Like General Lee. We lived on Fredericksburg Court.
Ian was born while we lived there. It was the last time I would have my own room until I was 12. It iced that winter, my first ice storm. And there was a girl in the townhouse next door named Vanessa who claimed that her parents had changed their last name to Bartender because her mom had gotten a job. Vanessa Bartender and I weren't the greatest of friends--she was obsessed with tracing coloring book page outlines before she colored them in.
My dad got a job at a hospital in Milwaukee and we moved to Waukesha. I can't tell you anything about Waukesha except that we lived in a duplex, it snowed a lot, and I started preschool. We just didn't stay long enough. Oh. And they trick-or-treated during the day.
Where I Used to Live: South Grand
After the little suburban apartment, we moved to South Grand, deep South Grand, down at Grand & Bates. We were three doors down from a National Supermarket and walked groceries home in a "borrowed" cart. These days, grocery stores in the city have electronic devices that don't allow them to leave the parking lots. Times change.
My father was working at Firmin Desloge Hospital, which was built in 1933 using money the Desloge Family donated for this purpose. Unfortunately, it was built during the Depression and the limitations the Desloge Family placed on the building (it had to be a certain number of stores high, for instance) made it a tall, thin, Gotham-city-esque creation. The Desloge Family made their money in lead mining. In fact, the "St. Joe Lead" company absorbed the Desloge holdings before the hospital was built--and later became Doe Run Lead Company, the largest lead producer in the United States, which runs the largest secondary lead smelter just down I-55 from where I'm living now. Missouri is known for its lead mining (and even more so, its lead poisoned children. Some of this is from lead paint, some is from leaded gasoline, but let's face facts: lead mining is dangerous and polluting).
Anyway, according to my dad, Desloge (pronounced, by the way, deh-LOZH) also put the stipulation that any hospital built with this money could not treat patients with mining-related illnesses. This has all changed, of course, and the hospital has been renamed to an easier to pronounce, less linked with death, name of Saint Louis University Hospital.
(photo by capitrueno)
But back then, 1975 or so, it was Firmin Desloge, which of course can be bastardized easily to Vermin Death-lodge.
My dad worked in the ER and finished his bachelor's degree (BSN). And we lived just down the way from his place of work, not walking distance, but definitely biking distance, in a four family flat on South Grand. We were, as I said, about a half block from Bates, south of Eiler. We lived upstairs in a shotgun flat, just slightly bigger than a 1 bedroom. My parents knew some of the neighbors, and we planted a tree in the backyard that is still there 33 years later. I like to think of this as my first home, because it's a pleasant full-circle feeling to be just north of where I first lived. But in truth, I didn't make it there until I was one. And, as became our habit, we didn't stay long. Back to the south county apartment life when my mom was pregnant with my brother.
My father was working at Firmin Desloge Hospital, which was built in 1933 using money the Desloge Family donated for this purpose. Unfortunately, it was built during the Depression and the limitations the Desloge Family placed on the building (it had to be a certain number of stores high, for instance) made it a tall, thin, Gotham-city-esque creation. The Desloge Family made their money in lead mining. In fact, the "St. Joe Lead" company absorbed the Desloge holdings before the hospital was built--and later became Doe Run Lead Company, the largest lead producer in the United States, which runs the largest secondary lead smelter just down I-55 from where I'm living now. Missouri is known for its lead mining (and even more so, its lead poisoned children. Some of this is from lead paint, some is from leaded gasoline, but let's face facts: lead mining is dangerous and polluting).
Anyway, according to my dad, Desloge (pronounced, by the way, deh-LOZH) also put the stipulation that any hospital built with this money could not treat patients with mining-related illnesses. This has all changed, of course, and the hospital has been renamed to an easier to pronounce, less linked with death, name of Saint Louis University Hospital.
(photo by capitrueno)But back then, 1975 or so, it was Firmin Desloge, which of course can be bastardized easily to Vermin Death-lodge.
My dad worked in the ER and finished his bachelor's degree (BSN). And we lived just down the way from his place of work, not walking distance, but definitely biking distance, in a four family flat on South Grand. We were, as I said, about a half block from Bates, south of Eiler. We lived upstairs in a shotgun flat, just slightly bigger than a 1 bedroom. My parents knew some of the neighbors, and we planted a tree in the backyard that is still there 33 years later. I like to think of this as my first home, because it's a pleasant full-circle feeling to be just north of where I first lived. But in truth, I didn't make it there until I was one. And, as became our habit, we didn't stay long. Back to the south county apartment life when my mom was pregnant with my brother.
Where I Used to Live: Tanqueray Court
I was born in 1974. My parents hadn't been married a full year yet, and lived in a little apartment down in South County, south of the 270/255 loop. The name of the development was Brandywine Station. This was not a reference to a river in a Tolkien book. This had to do with alcohol. I came home to an apartment on Tanqueray Court.
Note "Daquiri" and "Bacardi" Lanes. This was a swinging place, I'm sure. It was built in 1971 but recently rehabbed and renamed the only slightly less alcoholic "The Vineyards Apartments." Conveniently smashed between Interstate 55 and Lemay Ferry Road, with easy access to South County Mall and long commutes to downtown locations.
We didn't stay long. There may have been another suburban apartment, but I can't recall the name if so. Tanqueray was a long commute for my dad, who was either just starting out at Firmin Desloge (aka SLU Hospital), or soon would be.
Note "Daquiri" and "Bacardi" Lanes. This was a swinging place, I'm sure. It was built in 1971 but recently rehabbed and renamed the only slightly less alcoholic "The Vineyards Apartments." Conveniently smashed between Interstate 55 and Lemay Ferry Road, with easy access to South County Mall and long commutes to downtown locations.
We didn't stay long. There may have been another suburban apartment, but I can't recall the name if so. Tanqueray was a long commute for my dad, who was either just starting out at Firmin Desloge (aka SLU Hospital), or soon would be.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Can't I just kind of dislike them a little bit?
I am tired. Not only should I be in bed, where I will toss and turn and never fall asleep, but I'm worn out. The girl scout meeting did me in. Dinner did me in. Sweet potatoes were on the menu, and while Maeve will eat them if they are shocked into a diabetic coma first, Sophia makes a big production of gagging on every bite and tears rolling down her cheeks. If it were the only thing she disliked, maybe I'd care. But the picky-picky is picking up and I have no sympathy. My kids are driving me crazy.
Yes, how novel. The woman about to give birth has two kids who are wearing her out. Never heard that before.
I actually had to physically dress Maeve this morning. She came down from the attic, plopped herself on my bed, and was still there at 8:20 (when Sophia is supposed to be at school) whining about being tired. So tonight, bedtime was 7:30. Maeve came downstairs at 9:30 to tell me that falling asleep was too hard, it was making her tired.
What do you say to that?
And Sophia then pulled her "But Mom, I want you" song and dance. Threats were made. They both went back upstairs crying. So much for an earlier bedtime.
They are good kids. I love them. I feel so blessed that they're both in my life, that Mike and I managed to have them, that they're healthy and happy and safe. I just...want them to live with the neighbors for the next month. Is that so wrong??
Yes, how novel. The woman about to give birth has two kids who are wearing her out. Never heard that before.
I actually had to physically dress Maeve this morning. She came down from the attic, plopped herself on my bed, and was still there at 8:20 (when Sophia is supposed to be at school) whining about being tired. So tonight, bedtime was 7:30. Maeve came downstairs at 9:30 to tell me that falling asleep was too hard, it was making her tired.
What do you say to that?
And Sophia then pulled her "But Mom, I want you" song and dance. Threats were made. They both went back upstairs crying. So much for an earlier bedtime.
They are good kids. I love them. I feel so blessed that they're both in my life, that Mike and I managed to have them, that they're healthy and happy and safe. I just...want them to live with the neighbors for the next month. Is that so wrong??
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