Zoe and the Litter Box

Erik: What do I find if I find the clicky clack shoes (high heels)

Zoe: Give you a sticker.

Erik: I want something more than that. I want you to clean the litter box for the rest of your life.

Zoe: Ew.

Erik: That’s the deal. What do you think about that?

Zoe: It motivates me.

To save herself from a lifetime of litter box scooping, she asked my mom who is in town visiting to help her look and said: Maestra, if you find it, can we pretend I found it? The litter box is gross.

(edited to include the story only once).

Bulletin from the Advising Center

I meant to blog before I went back to work asking for advice but then I ran out of time. That seems like it will be the theme for the next six to eight years. Tuesday was my first day back and I, for some reason, thought hosting my advising center/office hours Tuesday morning was a good idea but that meant getting Z ready to go by 8:50 as well as feeding Mr. Max twice before I left. Had I slept the night before? Not so much. Max thinks, as if he were some kind of hedgehog, that kicking and grunting is an appropriate way to spend the hours between 2 and 3. And between 5 and 6. But I still made it up and out of the house.
I was late. But not SO late.
I advised.
I went home to eat lunch and finish prepping for class. Then, I taught. Almost the whole time. On the first day. Then we had a friend over for tacos. Tuesday nights have been deemed taco night. It was good to see someone from the outside world even if my eyes were only half open by 7:30. I blame the rooting of hedgehog.
But it was really the rest of the week that tried to kill me.
Tuesday afternoon I was asked to speak at a conference on Thursday because the original guest speakers dropped out. In order to avoid the sort of disaster of last year's conference where the keynote speaker had only 4 audience members, I said I'd come and bring my class. So I had to prepare something to read and to somehow make what I read fit with my grad nonfiction class (not too hard. I read some appropriate nonfiction).
Z was sick with the stomach flu Tuesday night. She hates to throw up. She looks so disappointed after--she thinks her stomach has betrayed her.
So Wednesday, no school for Z and a class to prepare for and a talk to give. Mr. Max slept better the night before so I was a little more on.
Thursday, I taught and spoke at the panel and then stayed for the keynote which had been smartly (though I wasn't aware this had been done) combined with another conference. The audience was full and the attendance of my class wasn't as necessary. The high point? After: pizza.
Friday night, as an extended part of the conference, the lit mag here hosted a reading. Friday afternoon, I came down with Zoe's disease and felt as betrayed as she. I made myself go the reading though. I'm glad I did. It was good and by the end, my stomachache had subsided. It was a short sickness that I think Max only got the slightest hint of.
Now it's a new week and Z probably has another cold and I'll panic again like I did with her last cold and this last stomach bug that Max will get it. I hope the theory about breast milk as an immune-system-enhancer is true.
I'm in the advising center, wrapping up. I'm almost ready to teach. I have a meeting with my chair about summer funding. Rinse. Repeat. 10 more weeks of this.
I think I can do it, hedgehogs, stomach betrayal and tardiness notwithstanding.

The Days. Oh How They Are Long

Perhaps you could read this to the tune of "If you take a mouse to school..."

Erik has this job where he has to wake up at 6:45. In the morning. I know some people do this regularly but we are not usually of these people. Erik's getting up didn't wake me but Zoe popped in at 7:14. (You can tell what kind of day it's going to be by how strictly you pay attention to the minutes on the clock. ) From there, the day began. First, coffee. Then, breakfast for me and Z while Max still slept. I printed out the galleys to my book so I can try to get them off to Publishers Weekly today. Then, awaken the Max so he can eat. Bring Zoe's albuterol to her in the front room so she can nebulize whilst watching Curious George. Change Max. Print out homemade publicity letter. No color comes out on the color printer. Don't care. Black and white it is. Make Zo's lunch. Change Max. (Thank god Zoe is extremely capable of getting herself dressed. She's wearing my favorite yellow dress with yellow pants outfit. Thanks Z). I look up Publishers Weekly address. I also write, "in lieu of galleys" since these are homemade and I could do it after the copying and the binding but I'm afraid that this day will be a day where I spent 12 minutes trying to decide whether it's spelled leiu or lieu in the car at the post office.
Then, into the car we go: one of us with binkie, one of us with a water bottle, one of us with a manuscript, a lunch box, a diaper bag, a purse, and an array of re-usable grocery bags.

On the way to school, I describe to Zoe Max's doctor's appointment. He's going to get circumcised. I explained about the delicate removal of the foreskin from the penis. She said, I know what Max is thinking. I said, what. She said, Max is thinking "Doctor, don't cut off my penis." I said, he probably is thinking that.

I drop Zoe off at school, carrying Max in his baby bucket (relevant only later, and relevant only to my shoulders), go to Office Max for the copying and binding (with baby bucket), go to grocery store (with baby in bucket), I come home, bring in groceries, put away the groceries and feed the baby. I remember to eat a yogurt. Check email. Respond to a few. Friend calls to discuss Kindergarten, ballet, and piano lessons for Z. I have to cut her off because it's 11:49 and we are already late for the foreskin removal service scheduled for 12:10

Arrive at sad place. I have second and third thoughts. Think of springing the poor 3 week old from the medieval torture. Fortunately, the doctor ushers us in quickly, laughs at the medieval jokes AND Zoe's joke about don't cut off Max's penis. Funny doctors are rare and reassuring. They give Max sugar water. He's so enamored I'm afraid he'll never go back to breast milk. He cries when they anesthetize the area--the stick the lidocaine into his actual penis! but after that, no crying. Even when the take something that looks like a bottle topper or wire cutter right to the tip. The doctor successfully does not remove the penis. Zoe will be so happy which is good because we have to go!

Off to the post office to drop off PW package. Then, to meet Erik and Z at the dentist at 1:30. Arrive early. Eat Zoe's almonds from her lunch.

Z's first dentist appointment. Great teeth! Yay! We're not neglectful, horrible parents for waiting this long for the dentist (although we did just purposefully and intentionally torture our son but hey, life is pain, princess...). And then, come home. Eat chips. Eat cookies. (What happens when you don't eat lunch). Set a better example: Eat strawberries, grapes, celery. Feed Max (man, we're close to the 2, 5, 8, 11 schedule and yet it's 2:32). Played fish (I draw some fish.) Play Princess (again. As usual. What does the snow princess where? Whatever you're wearing Z). Play hide and seek (really? But I have to get up for that!). Write blog post for the new Essay Daily Website. Send novel to novel contest. Feed Max. Feel bad for Max who seems to be in a little pain. Worry he was just putting up a strong face for the doctors. Poor Max.

But, work! Send: flurry of emails about certificate program--3.0 gpa required? Everyone gets back to me so quickly that I fear I've neglected them lo these many weeks off. Won't my colleagues be thrilled when I'm officially back and emailing daily? (Not daily. I promise). Help Z wash lettuce for tacos. Find onions for Erik for tacos. Feed Max. Update blog. Type one-handed. Play pretend dinner with Z. Hope the table cleans itself off.
Looking forward to tonight, a multiple choice quiz.
a) shovel snow
b) read student (295 page!) thesis
c) finish thank you notes
d) send manuscript to other review places
e) play princess
f) feel bad for Max. Worry. Infection, bleeding, pain. Oh what have I done for the sake of not Max not having his penile region called pigs in a blanket (and other reasons. I promise. Also, the dentist supported the circumcision and had just read new studies about the preventative powers of the circ. So good then.
g) watch the state of the union.
h) want to watch Modern Family.

I say all of the above except A. But A sucks particularly when there's nowhere new to put the new snow. But I have an excuse. I have to feed Max. 9 lbs 7 oz a mere three weeks after his birth (including a first few day loss of 10 oz.).


Next blog: OK. This is all well and good but I go back to work next week.

Goes so well, until...

For all the fretting I did about having two kids, these first weeks have been surprisingly easy, thanks mostly to Zoe's enthusiasm for Max and her willingness to give him a binkie no matter what else she's doing. As Erik says, she shows no fear in giving him it--she knows he'll resist at first but she just patiently holds it against his mouth until he realizes she's a force for good not evil. There was quite a bit of competition when Erik's mom was here to hold him, but now that she's gone, we've even had moments where we've put Max in his swing. Z likes the music. I do not. Right now, as I type, he started crying and Z popped up to check on him/give him his binkie. I'm against binkies. Until I'm not. That dude likes to suck.
Things would be even more smooth-going were it not for the minor disasters of the week. First, the toilet upstairs stopped working--the flange in the works cracked, and even though we have two bathrooms, with guests, one is just not enough. So Erik spent last weekend replacing the upstairs toilet which led, as it always does, to Erik designing whole new bands of swear words. Z was like, woah, I can't wait to memorize those for most surprising/embarrassing use later.
But then Z got a cold and, although it was nothing like the horrible croup of early December, I knew it would lead to late-night albuterol and possibly infecting the babe whom we were told to make sure did not get sick those first two months home.
But once again, Z proved her mettle. Her immune system might actually be beginning to function. Albuterol only in the morning and the night. And she was so careful not to get Max sick--hand sanitizer and coughing into her elbow--she has, thus far, kept him from getting the cold.
But then the snow storm of 2010 hit. 56.5 inches of snow down here. 92 inches up at the Snowbowl. More snow in this system since 1967. This meant Erik shoveled pretty much from 9 a.m to 6 p.m. with some breaks in the middle but also some shoveling in the night. I shoveled a tiny bit too but mostly I exercised my ability to be a stay-at-home-mom. I did OK. Only one or two breakdowns--once at Z because really, Z, I can't play princess anymore. I can't remember if you're princess Rose or Princess Mirabella or the Snow Princess and you never like how I'm being the witch and if I say, princess, give me your strawberries, you just say no and then the story is pretty much over. So I broke down and told her I couldn't play princess any more. I made it up to her by playing princess some more.
We also played trains.
Did I mention Z has been home for 3 days in a row now--no school?
Erik colored with her.
I colored with her.
She painted.
She danced (thanks maestra for the ballet clothes).
And she played princess for 23 of the 24 hours a day. Yes, even in her sleep. In her sleep, she's the teeth-grinding, coughing princess.
Erik shoveled the roof this morning. He wanted to sled off it. So far, he hasn't.
I'm not very good at being a stay at home mom. I get nervous when I'm playing trains, like I should be doing something else. I'm also a bad working mom since when I'm working on my syllabus, I feel like I should be playing trains. The nice thing is, blogging and being on Facebook and IMing are all guilt free because I should be doing none of them. Everyone is being equally neglected.
So, if Erik weren't so otherwise busy, things would be super easy. But as they are, they're still pretty manageable. Manageable enough that we're even having company tonight! I'm so excited for in-person interaction with the outside world. Turkey breast and roasted root vegetables with Chardonnay gravy. Should I make mashed potatoes too? Is the answer to that question ever "no"?

For Lis and Lisa B.

Because of my own proclivity for complaint, I emphasize the hard parts of this whole "labor" thing (remember, that's why they call it "labor"). The truth is, things have gone so easily that I worry whatever positive thing I say here will send us all jinxily back to the hospital. But the truth is, it's only been a week and I'm already feeling almost good. It sucked having to recover and breastfeed all at once but now, there's this disturbing normalcy. With Z, everything was so traumatic at first. The only good thing was the first couple days to recover and sleep and the slow-entree into breastfeeding. It 100% sucked sitting in the lactation room off the NICU, pumping, while Z had an IV line needled into her scalp. Now, it's like a week of sharp pain and, I hope and knock on wood, another two weeks of mellowness to get ready to go back to work.

Also, Lis, you probably don't suffer from my many weaknesses: a tendency toward week-long headaches, insomnia, and an inability to sit down for more than 20 minutes at a time. Really, 2-3 hours of pain before the epidural, some hurts everywhere pain for 2-3 days, and then the nipples of doom for a week. Really, considering the whole extra person who now lives with us, it's not too much to suffer. And, as Lisa B. said in the comments here, there is some sort of pride in the whole thing. No matter if you have a c-section or an epidural or no drugs and no matter if you breastfeed or not, the whole fact of producing so much well-organized matter out of almost nothing. It's awesome even though difficult.

The truth is, I'm spinningly happy, even at 5 a.m. The right breast hurts very little and the left one only hurts upon latch. I'm cleaning the house today! How scrubbingly delicious.

My sisters are up in Salt Lake and doing Iron Chef pig without me which I am desperately sad too miss. Also, I seem to have picked up an attachment to adverbs. First order of business: how to exorcise the adverbs.

Next week: write a little. And get ready for my semester, dynamically dated to begin February 2nd.

A difficult species

Let me preface this by saying how very glad I am that Max was born very near his due date and that I feel supremely grateful and lucky that he got to come home with us instead of staying in the NICU like Zoe had to for three weeks. However, that experience made me totally unprepared for the bringing-the-baby-home-with-you one. With Z, I went home from the hospital, sad and tired. But then I slept all the night through and was, the next day, just sad, not tired. It's easier to heal sad than tired. Then, when we lived 4 blocks from the hospital, I walked over to bring her milk (Erik tended to skateboarded rather than walk the breastmilk over) the next day. Today, I walked 3/4 miles. It took almost an hour. Last night, I slept intermittently between the 1 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. feeding and was poking the baby awake by 6:45 since I was up anyway. So, happy but tired and more sore and slowly-healing than I was with Z.

But the worst part is the breastfeeding. With Z, she couldn't eat the minute she was born. The suck, swallow, breathe talent takes a few weeks to learn when you're as preemie as she was. Max was born knowing how to do all three at once. Which is great for eating. Not so great for the nipples. There's a sharp shock of pain every time he eats that is getting better, but again, only slowly.

I'm surprised anyone breastfeeds. I don't think our species, and particularly me, is very good at weighing long-term benefits versus short-term ones. The short term benefits of bottle feeding are that it doesn't hurt your boobs. Also, babies sleep longer through the night. Sleep! At night! Directly home from the hospital, these benefits are pretty glaring. It takes a lot of commitment to keep it up.

Plus, the whole manner of convincing you to breastfeed is lame. Breast is best? Annoying, easy rhyme. The long list of health benefits is so obvious. Of course, I'll breastfeed! But at 2 a.m., when you think you're dying of the pain that stabs from nipple to to spine, you think your immediate survival would probably outweigh those nebulous immunological benefits.

Then, there's the whole "is the baby latching correctly" element to the breastfeeding campaign. Look La Leche people, it takes more than two hands to get the baby to open his mouth wide, hold him, and "make a sandwich with your nipple." Plus, no matter how you manage to juggle all these things, it seems the baby readjusts his mouth to suit him anyway. Holding the head "right", not crouching over, relaxing are really impossible tasks when you're not breathing from pain. I think the best campaign would be: Brestfeeding hurts for the first two weeks, pretty much no matter what. Suck it up. The female human species has suffered thusly for millions (right? millions? Lucy was 3 million years old) of years. You can do it too without the help of Enfamil or Similac.

Still, I'm surprised (and happy for those who can) that as many people breastfeed as they do. Although, when I really think about it, the stabby pain isn't so bad after a minute. And only I get to hold the baby for those eating minutes. And it's really kind of fun, in this life-sustaining, baby-connecting kind of way.

But still I wonder, do opossums' nipples hurt?

The Gory Details

I'll spare you most of the gory details of the birth and try to hit only the high points--of which there were at least 7.

That night I was to be induced was hella boring. I was like, why not just induce me and then send me home? But apparently, any second a drug is introduced, the fetal monitors are attached. Argh! Would I have agreed to this had I known? I don't know. I hate being tied down to the bed. I did tell them that I have to pee every 9 minutes so not to panic when I unplug myself from the computers. They seemed OK with that. The hep-lock (an IV ready for anything!) hurt like they always do. I'm allergic to metal. I imagine my veins getting itchy from the inside. But really, it just makes me sore. Erik brought his computer and we watched Man versus Wild until midnight. They gave me an Ambien. 10 mgs. Now I know why Ambien hasn't worked for me in the past. I've only taken 5 borrowed milligrams before. I slept and slept. Poor Erik slept on one of those horrible fold out beds. This one came separate planes--one for each vertebrae. Erik though was born with Ambien-like substance in his veins that he just turns on at night and sleeps for 8 hours no matter what.

In the morning, induction part 2. Same goal, different, stronger induction drugs. This is all an attempt to do things gently so things don't get overwhelming and I end up needing a c-section. I sense some contractions building but nothing so different from what I'd been experiencing for the past month or so. Same with the second dose.

But then they hit me with the third dose and that was too much. Contractions one on top of the other and no space to rest. Nurse Nikki/Ratchet and Erik's job was to yell at me and to tell me not to push. I explained to them that I was not the one in fact pushing. My uterus was pushing all by itself. Nurse Nikki was the same ill-serving nurse who had earlier said, when I said, "it hurts," "that's why they call it labor." I, in great restraint, did not punch her. She explained that pushing too early can cause the cervix to swell. The swelling then means it can't dilate and thereby blocks any baby-removal activity. It was very important not to push. I somehow managed to wrap my brain around my uterus (that's how I imagined it) and, whilst calling for the epidural, was able to convince my body not to push.

I had already asked for Fentynal which Nurse Mean said they don't offer there. Oh, sorry. I mean narcotics. Give me some. She said, Nubain. OK. They gave me some. It did nothing. Zero. Like less than an aspirin.

So, the epidural. I had no further questions about whether or not I wanted one. But then, the anesthesiologist wanted new labs! Why? They took labs last night. That's one of the reasons for the hep-lock I'd been wearing for almost 24 hours now.
But no, so more blood is drawn from the other arm because the Nubain was busy doing nothing in my left arm where now I sport a delicious looking bruise. Then, an hour for the labs to come back. And hour of contraction upon contraction, of uterus pushing, of talking body into not doing what the body wanted naturally to do, of Erik and Nurse Mean saying in unison "don't push," while I sang some I'm going to die songs with my breath that tried to do what they said.

Dr. Toi, the anesthesiologist, finally arrived. According to Erik, Nurse Nikki have a deep and troubled history. Dr. Toi asked for the stickers on my chart. She said the computers were down. He said, other nurses were able to get the stickers. She said, the stickers are right next to you. Get them yourself. Then, he complained about the computers being down and she said, I guess we should shut the hospital then. I heard none of this because I'm humming the I'm going to die song.

Finally, Dr. Toi explains the pros and cons of the epidural. The epidural goes in below the end of your spinal cord--you can't get paralyzed from an epidural! I don't know if I knew that or not and that's not why I wanted to resist one (I wanted to resist because I'm an idiot and thought that would make a "better" (read: me look tough) birth. In retrospect, living through it/not wanting to die made the birth better. He said one of the cons was that I might get a headache. I was born with a headache. Living with headaches didn't make my life any better either.

Somehow, I managed not to move while he inserted the needle and then, gradually, the pain subsided. I fell asleep.

So did the labor.

A little pitocin added to the IV fluids (thank god for the hep-lock!)

And then a little more pitocin.

And finally, at 10:00 p.m. (25 hours since we'd checked in) time to push.

Analogies to my strategy that the doctor liked:
Squeezing the baby out like toothpaste through a tube.
Keeping the baby's head from slipping backwards in a kegel-lock.
Analogy the doctor did not like:
Imagining the baby's head collapsing like a mouse's as he squeezes under a tightly-shut door. She tried to convince me to substitute the word "molded." Either way, it was important for me, knowing that this baby's head was already measuring off the charts, that heads are indeed malleable.

40 minutes of analogies, metaphors and pushing later, Max was born!


I find out later that the doctors have a theory for the number of pounds of baby a woman can reasonably give birth to. They think that the shoe size of a woman corresponds to those pounds. All along, I'd been imagining my mother-in-law who gave birth to a 10 pound baby. Based on that success, I can do a big baby, I always thought. But then, if you think of her and know her shoe size, the doctor's theory is confirmed. My MIL wears size ten shoes.
I wear a size 6.
Max was 8.6 pounds.

Still. He's out. I'm sore in every muscle. My diaphragm seems to be broken. I forgot how much breastfeeding hurts at first. But overall, things are pretty freaking happy around here. Zoe, who has many emotions, still seems to like him. She wants him to sit on her lap nonstop. She was a little mad when she woke up last night and saw he was still up (he was sleeping on my lap). We'll make sure tonight we put him, the little brother, in his crib before she goes to bed.

Induction

They're inducing me tonight at 8:30 for a gentle, overnight labor-bringing-on. There's a reason for the nighttime induction: things could go faster and I may as well be there. Also, the high blood pressure is the reason for the induction so I'm sure they'll want to measure that every 15 minutes. This doesn't bode well for sleeping but it does almost guarantee a birth sometime tomorrow. I fear inducing will lead to a c-section but I'm pretty sure anything at this point may lead to one--and both Dr. Write and Mary Anne said the c-section isn't so horrid.
The thing I'm most afraid of is the hep-lock. That's when the put an iv-ready needle into your arm. Like that's conducive to sleep or restfulness. Also, I'm allergic to metal.

Still, I'll be glad this phase of the baby-having is over. Bring on the pain. Or, as Fellner tells me, think release, release. Because he's good with labor if not necessarily the baby-having kind. I will also imagine a tube of toothpaste and how my body should squeeze from the end, down. I will also think of otters because their heads can collapse like mice and they're slippery.

2010? Really?

Apparently, it's December 31st. The past month has just disappeared like maybe it always does when you're waiting and waiting and waiting. It's good for my psyche--learning to be patient. There's really not much I can do to make this baby show up. It should remind me in general to be remember there's only so much control I have over anything time-dependent.

So to remember what 2000 looked like and see if ten years is a good, patience-rewarding kind of time, I compare.

In 1999, Erik and I were dating but not married. We spent Y2K New Year's hiding out from the electronic apocalypse in Torrey. In June 2000, Erik and I went on a pre-honeymoon to England and Ireland (also, the James Joyce conference). In August, we got married. Friends and family came from all over the country and from all over the valley. I never new family could be so big. Thank you friends and family! For our regular honeymoon, we went backpacking in the Wind Rivers where we saw a black bear and a moose (it takes patience to hike far enough to see a bear, and to wait out the bear. We probably should have waited out the dangerous thunderstorm too). In 2001, my nephew Cam was born--he, like getting married, enbiggened my sense of family I would sometimes cry after babysitting having to leave him to go home. I hosted a writing retreat in Torrey for thirty of my grad school friends. I had lived in Utah my whole life and spent almost no time in the red rock desert. In the 2000's, thanks to Erik, I made up for that.

I also took my PhD exams. That was painful and an agony the opposite of patience.

In 2002, against my always-protestations, we got Cleo the dog. When we found out she had hip dysplasia and had to have two surgeries to fix the hips and she had to wait three weeks to walk, I got a better sense of patience through her. Of course, now, she just tries that patience by needing to be let out in the middle of the night. Plus, the Olympics. Yay.

In 2003 we went to Hawaii. This marked the beginning of my fear of flying which has now just morphed into my hatred of flying. I used to think I was afraid the plane would crash; now I think it was just a matter of fear of being trapped on the plane, not being allowed to get up to use the bathroom. I'm glad to see that that fear has been, in 2009 with the newest, inane TSA regulations, fully realized. We also went to New York for a ten day extravaganza with my sisters and then with my fellow grad students for the Salt Lake 8 reading.

2004. My niece Lily was born in September. Perhaps, if I love my niece and nephew so much, I should get on this baby-having plan. Start thinking about actually finishing PhD.

2005. Patience: Pregnant! Impatience: Zoe born almost two months early. Patience: Zoe in NICU for 20 days. Still. Best year ever. Plus, patience: finally graduating, finally getting a job. Go on job market.

2006. Craziest year ever: I went on three campus interviews. Took Zoe for some. I'm not sure if I attribute this to impatience but I did sneak Z and Erik on one job interview. I still fear that she got the dreaded RSV from my inability to be parted from her from another 4-5 days. Much patience: Zoe in hospital for 8 days. In terms of now, I must remember I'd rather be home waiting for the baby than in the hospital waiting for the baby.
Then, I crazily got a job. In Michigan. Leaving friends and family and niece and nephew. Far far from home. Good job. I made many, many friends there fast. I miss them but I don't miss the airplane ride with its several connections and the crazy hard weather. I don't mind snow but ice freaks me out.
Also, NEA. 2006: Big, if crazy, year.

2007. Niagara Falls. Hmm. Some years are a little limited. Patience? Had a good time anyway, whatever I was waiting for. Did apply for new job, impatient to get back west.

2008. Got a new job. Sad to leave my friends in Michigan. Glad to be heading back to the desert and my family.

2009. Crazy year. Who gets pregnant in 2009 and stays pregnant until 2010? I've been pregnant for some of all four seasons. Enmaddening. Patience. Working on it.
Also, Book. This Noisy Egg. Due to come out in early 2010. It took awhile for my book to be published, but I'm so excited. The anticipation, for both the baby and the book, as I wait for them to arrive, are worth, (and are not too trying since I'm now confident in their eventual arrival,) the wait. 2010 bodes well.

Gifts: The order

The stages of gift opening.
I first noticed it in my nephew and now that Z is older, I see it in her too. The Christmas calculation. As she opens toy upon toy each one registers in her head in some sort of hierarchy. The hierarchy goes:
1. I must play with now and abandon opening all other presents.
2. I will register this toy and ask for it by brand name after presents are opened.
3. I will set aside but later require in order to play make toys 1 and 2 more enjoyable.
4. This toy is cute but I’m way too old for it.
5. This toy is cool but too old for me.
6. When are my parents going to quit buying me this kind of crap?
7. Clothes. I will wear this after I step on them trying to get to toy numbers, 1, 2, or 3.
8. Clothes. I will never wear that.
9. Jammies. Did you really need to wrap these?
10. Gloves. My hands are plenty warm thank you, playing with these many presents.

Every week

Every week that I'm still pregnant past Zoe's preterm birth another superstition falls by the wayside. Most every possible reason I could come up with as to why Z was born early has fallen victim to logic.

The superstitions, erased:

Stress doesn't do it. Then: the lit mag's budget was cut in half. As editor, it was to be my primary source of income for the next year. Egg worked 60 hour weeks. I was finishing my dissertation. I'd never been pregnant before. Now: tenure-track, program director, furlough, Egg tries his hand at freelancing, Z coughs, book needs fine-tuning, book needs rewriting, book is coming out! but needs serious proofreading and marketing, economy, H1n1, Z's cough cough cough all fall long. (Maybe stress is the antidote to preterm labor. They don't call me Dr. for nothing.)

Lifting stuff doesn't do it. Then: garage sale, baby showers, gardening, nephew. Now: laundry, Christmas presents, ridiculously heavy school bag, daughter. (Admittedly, I gave lifting a rest between weeks 28-35 but now, I lift and lift on the off chance something will kick off this party. No avail.)

Exercise doesn't do it. Then: hiked the foothills behind the capitol. Now: ran, then walked, the forest (now not so much walking with the snow and the laziness. Not exercising also doesn't do it.)

Baby gifts don't do it. Then: several massive baby showers. Now: several individual gifts, still amounting massively.

Falling down doesn't do it. Then: didn't fall. Now: fell on Friday. Scraped my knee. Tore the one of two pair of maternity pants I like. Still, nothing.

Visiting the hospital doesn't do it. Then: never had opportunity to go on the tour before Z was born. Now: went on tour. Had a little PTSD. Hate the hospital. Asked about wireless. Felt a little better when I heard I could indeed be online whilst giving birth.

Altitude doesn't do it. Then: 4,400 feet elevation. Now: 7,000 feet elevation. Nope. Not so much.

There are a few other possibilities but whenever I ask the doctors (then and now) what might have happened with Z, they shrug. No one really knows. With this pregnancy, we could have started weekly progesterone shots when I began my first trimester but no one really knew how much that would help. It helps for babies born before 32 weeks but maybe not so much for water-breaking, 33 weekers. When I asked if we should start them, the doctors shrugged and asked me what I thought. I told them they only call me Dr. for fun. Egg thinks Z was just impatient. That thought makes me imagine Z in there with some really sharp fingernails stabbing the amniotic sac until she got her way. Possibly, but then what would make this one any more patient? Same genes. Same stubborn way. Maybe this one stubbornly wants to stay in.

This is good. Really good. I didn't even mention that I'd gotten past the Z date here because that too would have been superstitious and jinxy. But now I'm afraid of full term. Big babies. C-Sections. Only three weeks off before the whole thing (see stress) starts again.

Still. I'm mostly on break as of tonight. Maybe I can write this week. The last week. Ever. I wrote a lot during Z's first year but that was absent my current, very good but very full, (see stress) life. I'm going to write about the other possibilities of how these things work. And how they don't.

Long night

It snowed all day. There was an inch on the ground when I woke up. By ten, Erik had shoveled the first six off the driveway. It went on like that all day. Z went to school for a couple hours but E picked her, after stopping by the store for snacks, up by lunchtime. They closed campus. I didn't have to go anywhere. Classes are over. I just have portfolios to grade. If there was a good time to be snowed in, it was this week. Except that I'm 35.5 weeks pregnant and possibly prone to early labor. Two feet of snow and the road hadn't been plowed yet.

So Erik kept the driveway clear and I made hollandaise sauce for the salmon while counting Braxton-Hicks contractions. I seem to always get contractions when I cook. They usually go away. And they did. Z went to bed at 8. We watched the Closer and the new Men of a Certain Age (sidenote: Eh. Maybe the show will make it. Not quite convinced).

Something made me wake up at midnight. I went to the living to look out at the streetlight. It was still snowing. Sideways. The Ponderosa Trees, which are made for this weather (one hopes) were bending over like I'd never seen them. I moved away from the living room--the room surrounded by the tallest trees--in case this wind and snow was too extreme, even for them. 35 mph winds and a dry, dry summer. Maybe the dryness had loosened their roots from the ground.

I went back to bed only to hear the barking seal cough of the croupy child. By the time I got to Z's room, she couldn't stop coughing and couldn't catch her breath. Her vocal cords were inflamed and snake-like mucus had wrapped itself around them. Hospital or no? I thought of our friend's kid Tyler, who, with the croup, had truly stopped breathing and turned blue. They lived 2 minutes from the hospital. We were, in the snow, at least 20 minutes away.

Still. She'd had it before. I, unlike Tyler's parents, had albuteral and a breathing machine. I plugged it in and sat her up. She hacked and pressed the mask to her face as if the machine was producing oxygen. It wasn't. Just medicine. But it worked a little. I was sitting there, thinking how lucky we were to have a nebulizer, electricity, heat, medicine and a big bed we could all fit in. And then the power started to flicker. There was no way we could stay here without electricity. The nebulizer was the only thing that kept us from the ER. The lights flickered and the pine needles bent to brush the windows. The wind was louder than the machine. Z's cough was louder than both. The albuterol helped a little but we needed to get the swelling down. We had both children's ibuprofen and tylenol. I gave her some of both and then took her into the bathroom and ran a hot shower. I sat with Z in my arms on the toilet until the steam opened her throat and she could inhale all the way to the bottom of her lungs.

The ibuprofen/tylenol combo seemed reduce the swelling. The power stayed on. I gave her another half an albuterol. I lay down with her until she said I was making her too hot. That was a sign she would probably make it without going to the hospital. I went back to my bed. She coughed again at 5 but not like before. The trees were still bending in the wind but not breaking. I fell back asleep.

This morning, the road is plowed, Erik is halfway done shoveling the new foot of snow, Z is outside helping him in her snow pants and boots. We're still here. The sun is shining which means one is really not snowed in. Which is too bad. Because in the daytime, being snowed in is a comforting luxury.

December

I'm behind. It's December 3rd. Today is the last class of what shouldn't have been such a grueling semester. I figured out what a good part of the complaining has been about. I'm about 13 times less efficient than usual. Or at least I've convinced myself that's what's happening. It's not facebook; it's pregnancy. We will continue to believe that until January. And then we will blame "the unknown," as my sister and her kids call incoming baby, for further lack of productivity.
I talked to my doctor yesterday. I've never been this pregnant before, I said. It's weird. It's kind of OK. I like seeing weird alien-like movement underneath my stomach skin. But I'm also pretty done. It's been stressful trying to make it past Zoe's over-early birth date. Now that I'm two weeks past, I'm like really? It takes this long to make a full-size baby. I'm at 37 weeks on the solstice. That seems sufficient to me (and to the doctors. That's what they consider fully full term). Did I mention the unknown's head measures two weeks ahead of schedule. So if I'm 35 weeks on Sunday, his head measures 37? Is this efficient, Mr. Unknown? I think not.

So for boring reminders mainly for me so I can continue in my inefficient efficiency, I must make a list of things to do before I forget and fall back into the hole that is facebook. I'll have to do this weekly, at least, since my short-term memory is not what it once was. And once, it was composed of sieves and sand.

Before December 11:

1. Contact College of Arts and Letters PR person about Spring events by Dec. 11 Include book signing? Can I have two signings in Flagstaff? Is that over-reaching?
2. Rewrite foundation grant letter. Apparently, I did it all wrong.
3. Grade portfolios.
   
4. Go by office at 5 p.m. on Tuesday and Thursday to pick up said portfolios.
5. Make meeting with Sustainability Masters student for prospectus meeting.
6. Explain Creative Writing assessment plan to chair and Administrative Assistants.
7. Finalize recruitment letter.
   
8. Write 3 more critiques.
9. Organize these 8 letters of rec into their myriad forms, folders, envelopes, independent online stations, Interfolio. Try to get right student's letter in right envelope. Proofread one more time?
   
10. Order books for Spring. Book orders were due Oct. 15. but I still haven't settled on the books.
    
11. Send contract for American West poems.
12. Visit hospital.
    
13. Address labels for review copies of poetry book!
14. Take Z to see Where the Wild Things Are. It can't be more scary than the Christmas Carol we saw thanks to our real estate agent.
    

OK. That's not too much as long as I'm not forgetting anything. It's the forgetting and then remember at the wrong time and then forgetting again part that fails me. Dear blog, don't fail me now. Maybe I can get this dude to send little taser-like messages to me every 15 minutes that I'm not working on one of these listeds. The internet/blogs are made of electrons. They should do more than suck my brain in.

Competency vs. Incompetency

*
The first job I had after I graduated from Reed was at OWA. I was a good administrative assistant when I worked at a small trade association for Oregon Wines. I could run a mail merge, layout a newsletter, sell ads in our association’s directory, draft business letters, balance the books. I wasn’t great. I neglected to file. I made typographical errors. But I was OK at it. I could host in-office wine tastings, plan a three-day conference, design formal invitations for big fund raising events. The fact that I got paid half as much as my predecessor helped my boss be patient while I learned the ropes. I must have done well enough because when my boss left to be a lobbyist for the American Winery Association, I was promoted—not to executive director, the position my boss left, but to Administrator which meant I did all the stuff I did before, plus organized the monthly board meetings, attended lobbying meetings, corresponded with members and made sure members paid their dues and advertisers paid their invoices. I wasn’t great at it. I was 22. I was the only person left in the office. It wasn’t easy to have no one to go to for help but I lasted for another year and now I have mad mail merge skills and can desktop publish four-color, full-bleed brochures.
*
Today, over at Dean Dad, Dean Dad has embarked on a fight with Michael Berube over tenure. I get some of Dean Dad’s points. Tenure, when you end up with tenured shirkers, does kind of suck. But I mostly agree with the comments from anonymous comment #7—that tenure is a trade off for a more reasonable salary. My dad in 1987 made as much as I do in now. The idea that in an economic slump, I would be one of the last to let go gives me some extra kind of compensation when, especially at this point in the semester, I can’t imagine how I’ll get it all done—the letters of rec, the grant proposals, the recruitment campaign, nominations for contests and awards, portfolio grading. The promise of tenure is an economic one—if I do all this, then maybe, even probably, it will be worth a sustained, even though non-monetary, reward.
*
But the problem isn’t just this immediate economy. It isn’t just tenure as an additional, separate carrot as salary. As Ivory said, also in the comments, “The real issue is that academics can't kick the dust of a place of their heels and go elsewhere to work. It puts them at a terrible disadvantage in negotiating with their employer. As long as people keep going to grad school vastly in excess of the number of jobs available at the end of the pipeline, this will continue. The real remedy is for folks to make sure they have marketable skills so that the alternative to starvation is something other than endless adjuncting or postdocing. Knowing that you could tell your department chair to shove off for a job you would really enjoy is enormously freeing - it helps mentally deal with the slings and arrows of academic life because you know you're there by choice, not because you don't have any other choice.”
The economic problem isn’t really with the tenure system. It’s the idea that there are so few jobs and so many of us applying for them that lets the university value us so little. There are 300 people who could do my job. More. 1000. I’m lucky to have a job. I’m lucky.
*
It makes it hard to ask for much when the mantra running in the back of your mind is always “I’m lucky to have a job. I’m lucky to have this job.” So while I have competent, marketable skills like desktop publishing and mail-merging, I am completely incompetent to ask for anything more. I employ my desktop publishing, mail merge skills and even my budget-making skills for my job. I teach and advise and recruit. I go to meetings and organize meetings and think, if I would do the administrative part at 22 for $14,000 a year, certainly I can do it for what I make now. The eight years that went into teacher-training and writing make up for the rest of my salary. I am lucky to have a job. And yet, even in the mid-nineties that salary was still half a joke. When I took over for my boss, I did his work and my work for a fraction of the executive director’s former salary. My negotiation skills were as bad then as they are now.
*
I’ve never wanted to make a ton of money. That wasn’t the point. I wanted to be a professor. I wanted to write and teach. I wanted my SOE to be clear and the rewards for fulfilling it obvious. I wanted tenure not necessarily because it meant security or even academic freedom but because it was something I could work toward that wasn’t money, that I didn’t have to negotiate for. The rules for reward were established. They weren’t tucked into the folds of your negotiating skills bag of tricks. Since I have none, I end up better off in a “here’s what you came for, here’s what you get” kind of situation. If I knew jobs existed that said in 7 years, if you work your butt off, we’ll increase your salary by x-amount, I would have liked it too. I liked the idea of established reward. The world of negotiating is foreign to me. I read the Chronicle Forums and get freaked out by the general sentiment there that if you don’t ask for it when negotiating your contract, you’ve lost your chance at negotiating at all. The problem with negotiating at contract time is that you want the job. You played your hand pretty openly when you went ahead and applied for the job and came for the interview. There are 300 people who applied for my job. You don’t feel a lot of negotiating power when you can feel that crowd of people rolling their eyes at you, saying, I could do that job. As well as you. Better than you.
*
Conceivably, I could take my mail merge and desktop publishing skills (and now, with web-design!) skills and go (not that these skills are in such high demand). I’d flush 8 years of PhD school down the drain but I’m sure I could, as Ivory says, go elsewhere to work. My mom’s always reminding me that they’re always hiring technical writers at her work. But I don’t want to. I like the chair of the department. I like my colleagues. I like my students. And, when everything seems right in the world, I like the ratio of teaching to service to research. But even with the promise of tenure, when the service becomes, at the almost-end of the semester becomes almost 80% of the job and when the appreciation for the research and the teaching dips to nearly zero, I feel like I’m 22 again and mail merging and desktop publishing for $14,000 a year. I would like to ask for a little sign that I’ve gone above and beyond—a tenure plus something else kind of reward, something that would indicate that they would like me, not just the 300 others who could do the job but me in particular to stay. But that would send me to the negotiating table where I know, in the back of my head, that I’m just lucky to have a job.

Someone's Head

Someone's head, I'm not naming names, measured 35 weeks yesterday. Since that someone is only thirty-two weeks and two days old, that makes the head extra large. Zoe's head is very big. Her head is bigger than mine. Back in GR, the doctor thought her head so big, she should have an MRI. The MRI showed that Zoe has a big head. It is now known that big heads are the norm for Zoes and certain someones. The big head is fine. Good news even. Big heads are just great, once they're on the outside. Those of us who bear the big heads wish that perhaps the heads would grow big only once they're on the outside.

Not writing

I was writing, maybe, once. Earlier in the semester. But then the we had company. And then the swine flu. Zoe was out of school for seven full days. She also seems to have given up her nap. Erik is in the midst of scraping the cottage cheese ceilings (don't worry. No asbestos. We had it checked by a lovely lab in Sacramento). He's retaping and remudding and sanding and it will look lovely but the whole house is awash in a fine mist of drywall sand. Especially the living room where I usually write.
Did I mention Zoe gave up her naps? That means Saturday and Sunday afternoons are no longer dedicated writing days. Also, Mondays are now reserved for prep for Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, the line of advisees is so long that I have stayed an extra hour or worked to get someone's transcript fixed on a Friday. Wednesdays are meetings and special recruitment days. The summer program I'm in charge of needs me to begin to plan it. John D'Agata is coming in February and since I'm taking off three weeks in January for the baby, I need to get a jump start on that now. And I have 7 letters of recommendation to write.
But the worst part is, I'm starting to drop balls, which makes it hard to write. What was I thinking? How is this book supposed to work? Did I want to talk about my grandmother or how much bacon I ate for breakfast? I did something stupid on Sunday that resulted in me looking like a complete idiot. I also am literally dropping things like salt and woodchips and grapes and pieces of drywall mud all over the floor. I have 32 emails in my inbox (and, because of Sunday's error, I've tried to be very careful about my emails) and a research proposal due. Plus, Sunday morning, before I made this massive email screw up, I edited the book one last time. I caught some things. I'm sure, in my mental state, I missed a few more. Zoe's cough returned. I knew it would. The rumor about the swine flu is that it keeps on coming back in new and more intriguing forms. When she coughs, there's no sleep. So when I go to write, even for the hour I have today when Erik took Z to the park (she's off for Veteran's Day), instead of writing, I forget even what my project is and check my email which I'm not allowed to check. Food. The Apocalypse. So why do I end up writing about my doctor's visit? Or blogging? If nothing else, blogging counts as writing. Perhaps this post isn't entirely blithering. Perhaps I can take that confidence over to the Word doc over there, waiting for me.
And yet, I come into the living room, turn on the gas fireplace and realize, my lap top no longer fits on my lap.

H1N1--at least I hope it was

The pathology of the H1N1 progressed like this at our house:
On Monday, Zoe’s nose runs. It runs all the way through Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday, she was grumpy and feverish. On Friday, I call the doctor’s office. The nurses say to watch for lethargy and for respiratory distress. I tell the nurse that the doctor promised to prescribe Tamiflu. The nurse says no. There is a nationwide shortage. And Tamiflu comes with side effects. If she turns blue, take her to the ER, they say.
On the one hand, I feel better. They have confidence that my kid, even with her Reactive Airway Disorder, could kick this thing. On the other hand, if they aren’t giving Tamiflu to my asthmatic kid, who were they saving it for?
I sniff and hung up. I have had a stuffy nose for days. To sleep, or rather, to not sleep, I have to turn onto one side, let my sinuses drain into one nostril and then turn to my other to drain the other side. I imagine white blood cells attacking, attacking and then succumbing, succumbing. My mother- and sister-in-law are coming to town. I hate the idea of inviting them to come and take a dip in the flu germ bath that is our house. I turn and turn and don’t sleep. As if not sleeping is a vaccine. As if worry acts as some kind of Lysol.
Is insomnia a symptom of the H1N1? Are insomnia, worry, and overzealous phone-calling underlying conditions? If so, perhaps that’s why pregnant women succumb more than others. Or is it just that it’s already so hard to breathe. Insomnia, worry and phone calling are each conditions of struggling breath.
Saturday, Sunday and Monday—rebound! Zoe is up and around and not collapsing in my arms. We go to get our 8:10 and 8:15 o’clock shots. The nurse said as long as she wasn’t wheezing or didn’t have a fever, Zoe could get her shot. She was not wheezing between 8:00 and 8:30. I hope wheezing or fevering at the exact moment of the shot is what the nurses meant.
That night, Erik and I have to go to Phoenix for the Regional Emmy’s. Have to go might be overstating it a bit, but Erik bought a tuxedo. After the vaccine, I feel slightly less frantic about the swirling, imminent flu of death. I write directions to the hospital on a yellow notepad. I also include directions to the Thai restaurant to mark my sense of perspective and balance. She’s on the mend. I couldn’t have written directions for Thai if I thought she was still that sick.
We return on Sunday. Zoe has survived the night. No one else has as much as a sniffle. I thought this thing was the contagion to end all contagions. Apparently not, as we go to the brew pub for dinner and then return to drink wine and watch Madmen.
On Monday, the fever returns. Her grandmother leaves and she is bereft. So bereft that she sleeps for two days. By Tuesday night, she’s all cough and shivers. A relapse. Is this lethargy? Is it my lethargy that lets her sleep and can’t bring myself to panic. Perhaps this is how the flu kills. After seven days of worrying about it, you find you can’t any more. Tuesday night, I finally sleep. In the morning, Zoe is coughing but no more than with a usual cold. We have albuterol and a nebulizer. A cough I’m used to. Thursday night, she has an ear ache. She’s never had an ear ache in her life. Maybe this is how the flu kills. By confounding me.
By Friday, she’s back to her normal, ear ache free cough. By Saturday, she’s dressed for Halloween. I want to dress up as the swine flu but I don’t want to tempt the fates. Instead, I go as a Volkswagen bug since I’m big as a car. “Bug” is as close as I want to get to “germ.” Erik wears his tux and takes Zoe’s floaty tube with him to go as a Titanic survivor. Swine flu survivor to boot. So far. I knock on wood. Although we didn’t win the Emmy, the tux gets double use. And Zoe goes as a witch—perhaps it was some kind of Wiccan magic that kept the flu from taking her down. Or maybe we’re just waiting for relapse number three. Apparently, the vaccine can manage only so much protection. At night, I still turn, drain one nostril, turn, drain the other but in between the turning, I sleep.

Name change

OK. Barrow Street will begin advertising for This Noisy Egg on November 5th. This leads me to believe I need to professionalize up my blog title. How sad for Otterbutt. I'm not sure about nikwalk. I also like Otterbutter but still, not particularly professional. Since all my email addresses are nikwalk AT something or the other, I thought this would make the blog findable but not overly so.

Blog abuse

I like how when I go write a new post, up around the Blogger login, there's a button to push to "report abuse." Blog abuse. What is it? It's certainly not posting enough. It's also potentially posting too often. In my case, the blog is the repository for all manner of complaining--whining abuse. But, as previously noted, when I rejoice and have nice things to say about the world on the blog, the world slaps me down for acting with such hubris. It's better that I abuse the blog thusly. Report me if you must.

This week is no different in the complainy department. The complaints are different but the gist remains the same. One good bit of news--I resolved some of the tension in the class of sensitive and insensitives by handing out midterm grades. Nothing seems as dorky as handing out grades to graduate students in a workshop but I think the students appreciated knowing that I was keeping tabs on everyone. As long as I could confirm I was overseeing, they seemed less stressed out about their workshop ego and could worry about their grade ego. Oh how the world loves a grade.

In bad news, I haven't slept in 3 days. 1 day, I awakened (p.s. I like to say woke up but perhaps that's incorrect or too informal? An editor I knew once went through all my woke ups in a novel and changed them to awaken.) I was worried that Zoe's runny nose would turn into the swine flu. I also was cold and worried that I couldn't write a positive, uplifting poem but mostly I was worried about the flu. In the morning, who woke up with the flu? Zoe. As if ny not sleeping could have prevented it. Not only did I have to think about (brief complaining interruption: oooh Deer! 4 adults and 3 babies. I want to give them an apple. I won't.) all the various consequences I'd read about the flu--pneumonia, pulmonary embolisms, constricted airways--and revisit Z's previous scary respiratory run-ins, I had to think about my mother-in-law and sister-in-law who were coming to town. Hey everybody, come visit! Catch the swine flu! We're hosting a two for one deal--respiratory distress and insomnia!

And I had to think about the story in the NY Times about a pregnant woman's desperate bout with the flu.

I was desperate about getting the vaccine. I had woken up (awakened) at 7 on Monday morning when the county opened appointment lines for the vaccine for Saturday. I called and called. Busy signal. Dial tone. Voice mail. Finally I got through. Two appointments for Saturday at 8:10 and 8:15 a.m.

Whenever I have an appointment before 9 a.m. I really can't sleep.

Apparently, not for two nights because I slept little both Thursday and Friday nights.
I fretted all Thursday night that Z couldn't get her vaccine because she would have a fever or would be wheezing. I was afraid I'd have the flu before I could get the shot. And it doesn't matter anyway. It takes 2 weeks for the vaccine to really take effect.
I woke up (awakened. Man that sounds pretentious) at 4. I really almost fell back asleep. And then I didn't.

Now, I'm going to see if I can wake Z up and, if she's not wheezing and has no fever, will put her in the car and take her to the County Health Department for a vaccine for a thing she probably already has.

I knew better than to complain that the vaccines were going to be given on a Saturday. The Saturday of the Emmy's. I will have to sleep through the show but at least the regional Emmy event is in the valley. I'm not looking forward to 90 degree weather in October but I am looking forward to the oxygen. It's hard enough to sleep up here, let alone breathe.

Not that nice

I had a sense that posting a non-complaining post would result in a turn of events. Usually, when I see a hawk, I take that as a good sign, that today will be a great day, maybe even something great will happen. Yesterday though, the hawk I saw was being tailed by 5 ravens. Ravens trump hawks in the high altitude desert. They gang up, harass the hawk away from his meat.
Somewhat like students.
The day started off bad with a student complaining of meanness in workshop. The day is already unsalvagable. I bounce between being mad at the student for complaining and not developing a thick, workshop resistant skin to being frustrated at the student(s) in the class who are making me have to deal with this. I didn't see anything disrespectful go down but if I don't nip it in the bud, I'll get low evals on "created a respectful learning environment." And yet, if I do say something to the students (one of whom, I guess, rolled his eyes at something someone else said), this student will dig in harder, thinking the class is full of over-sensitives. If I don't say something, I run the risk of being cited for not looking out for all students. When you raise students behavior as an issue in class, the class seems to begin to break apart. Sides are taken. In this case, it will be the sensitives against the insensitives. The insensitives, upon my instruction, will try to be more sensitive. The sensitives will start being insensitive. The insensitives, better at insensitivity, will return to their insensitive ways and shut the sensitives down. Now, instead of class being a fruitful exchange of ideas, it will be a class where I say, "that's enough, student" and "if you can't say anything constructive, don't say anything at all." This isn't how a grad class should go.
So, as I spent two hours trying to decide if I should intervene, knowing that this might make the rest of the semester a long and painful one, I held my advising hours in the advising center. I advised: one grad student who had her own student problems, one student who I asked if she was feeling in anyway disrespected (since the sensitive student had claimed it was this student who had someone's eyes rolled in her general direction), one student who wanted to further explain his anti-abortion poem, and one I-would-graduate-if-I-take-six-classes-next-semester undergraduate. In between, a campus tour arrived and said they were told I'd give them a tour of the English Department. Never having given one and not sure what they were expecting, I listed the program requirements and made a long list of career options for the English Major off the top of my head. Advertising, publishing, nonprofit administration and computer management--all jobs I'd had. One of the parents asked, so you teach graphic design? I argued, it wasn't so much the graphic design that I learned as an English major but how to think critically and learn on my own. I knew that's what I was supposed to say. I've been trained will in the promotion of the liberal arts. I did not mention that it wasnt' so much the 14 persuasive papers I wrote on Jany Eyre that taught me how to think critically but the way I could convince people that my ability to read Jane Eyre allowed me to think critically. The advertising and self-promotion aspect of the English BA is what I learned to sell. And was selling it here.
Afterward, I decided to talk to the students in their office about the eye rolling. They of course apologized but then didn't talk much during class. The senstive did not show up to class. Having become, over time, an insensitve in workshop, I'm trying very hard to manage the senstivies but classroom management is an exhausting and not particularly rewarding task. Everyone's on edge and now have to sell the class on how this is a "respectful learning environment" even if it feels more like Kindergarten. I'd rather sell them on the many-job opportunities that await them with their English BA.
Egg made delicious soup for dinner. That was the highpoint. The day ended, or rather wouldn't end, on a low point because I couldn't sleep. I think I carry all my stress in my back and with a baby in my front, I couldn't get comfortable. I felt stretchy and broken and chagrined for ever writing anything nice about October.

October is nice

Although there have been a few moments of lameness--exhaustion and a flotilla of failed festivals, primarily--October is good. I like the fall best. I still am finding about 12 hours a week to write which, considering we're mid-semester, is pretty decent. Nothing like the impending noise machine that an infant brings to keep you typing, I suppose. I need some readers though and haven't had much luck finding a writing group here. I think a long distance group must be coordinated but, as I'm a little spacey as of now, I'm not making much progress.

I went for my 27th week OB appointment today. So far, so good, knock on wood. I'm still freaking out about the swine flu but I can't get anyone in the health care field to freak out with me so I guess I'll freak out on my own, with the help of Yahoo. Except for a slightly low hematocrit, all my blood tests look good--no signs of preeclampsia and my blood pressure is hanging in there. I also passed my gestational diabetes test which is good news because I'm already having a hard time finding enough food that's interesting to eat--I'd have a hard time cutting down carbs, although they're not my primary staple. So far, this baby will be made from mostly almonds, yogurt, bananas and peaches. And bacon.

Erik's mom and sister are coming down for a few days so we can leave Zoe up here and go down to the Regional Emmy's Festival. This better be better than the other festivals we've attended this year. The Apple Fest, the October Fest (actually canceled) and the Autumn Fest were all a big fail. Z got to jump in a bouncy machine for one of them but otherwise, $5 pumpkins, no apples, $6 brats and bands covering James Taylor do not a festival make. The Emmy event will be more expensive--$150 for me and Erik plus a room at the Sheraton but at least I won't have to stand in line for the port-a-potty.

The book is still making it's way out. We've got blurbs, cover. Now the manuscript is in copyediting for a potential release date of December 1st. If it weren't for my low hematocrit/exhaustion, the 12 hours a week of writing I don't want to give up, the bad festivals and impending Emmy's, I would start up some sort of publicity machine. Self-promotion sucks worse than an Arizonian festival.

Yahoo--the late-night panic-inducer

Every night, one last time before I go to bed, I check the headlines on Yahoo. I don’t know why I do this. Obviously to guarantee fitful sleep. It works. Last night, I checked again the “White house administration to campaign for H1N1 vaccinations.” As usual, when I click on any link related to health, the story indicates my imminent death. This time, the story read that pregnant women are especially encouraged to get vaccinated. They are the highest priority since they die at exponentially higher rates than others. 6 times as often. Only 28 pregnant women have died of H1N1 from April to August but still, the 6 times as often as others who contracted the swine flu freaked me out.

I went to bed. I couldn’t breathe well because we’d had the wood-burning stove going all day and there were woody particulates in the air. I kept having to change sides to use a clear nostril. It’s hard enough to breathe when you’re pregnant, let alone, when you have a stuffy nose. I suppose it's nearly impossibly if you have the swine flu. I imagine Z with her lungs' asthma-type response to colds breathing even less well than my doubly-demanded ones. I think of ways I can prevent me or Z from succumbing. I can teach online. I’ll take Zoe out of school on extreme flu days (that would be Tuesdays and Fridays right?). We can start mainlining Tamiflu now.


I can already tell the whole vaccination attempt will be a disaster. Z has been 3 times to get her regular flu shot and has been turned away by her doctor (for wheezing), by a nurse (for a high temperature), and by the pharmacy (for not being 18). Then, she was scheduled for a shot this coming Tuesday and they canceled that appointment because they’re out of that vaccine. This doesn’t bode well. I called the county health people who are supposedly in charge of distributing the H1N1 vaccine. I asked them what their distribution plan was. They weren’t sure yet. I should call back next week. Um. You have no plan yet? I’ve been waiting for the vaccine since July and you have no plan? I would like to be on a list. Some list. Any list for my pregnant self and asthma-prone kid. I asked my ob/gyn. She said, hmm. Yeah. I don’t know if we’re getting any vaccine.


Perhaps I can make my own batch of vaccine. Find a kid whose had the flu. Borrow a little blood for some home-grown inoculation serum.


I have started stalking the county health building. I call every day to see if the shipment has come in yet. I write a letter to the editor but that would have to be succinct and to the point but sometimes I think the most healthful thing to do is to stop reading Yahoo headlines before bed.

Guest Post

Guest posting today over at Pansy Poetics.