[June 3, 2010]
That night Carey left the light on in the bathroom again. I hate it when she does that. I’m not that deep of a sleeper and quite sensitive to light. So when I woke up at 3:17 in the morning to see the stupid bathroom light on again, I was irritated. When I realized Carey was awake too, I spoke up.
“Why is the light on in the bathroom?” I groused. She looked kind of spaced out lying on her side staring at the light in the bathroom. “Are you alright?”
“Earlier my stomach hurt and woke me up and I think my water broke.” Here we go. Even if that was what happened, we learned in just about every birthing class and birthing book and video on birthing that only 20% of labors start with the water breaking. It’s not like it is in the movies or TV. I’m so sure.
“I’m going back to sleep-"
“Ugh! You have horrible breath! Go brush your teeth or something.” AND she’s back.
I ignored her request and turned over to go back to sleep. I gave up on having that obnoxious light turned off. She on the other hand got out of bed and went to the bathroom.
“I stopped peeing,” she shouted from the toilet “but liquid is still coming out. Should I call the doctor?”
“No…” I almost always say no when she asks this question and inevitably she always calls. After hanging up she gave me the scoop.
“The nurse practitioner said I should go back to sleep until 8am. Then call back and make an appointment.” Finally some sense. I thought I was going to be able to go back to sleep. But then Carey had a tiny contraction. “Oh. This is different. It’s lower.” She started rubbing the underside of her belly, an area she hadn’t seen in months. Fine. Now I’m awake.
“Well let’s just monitor them. If you have more than five in an hour-”
“Ow! I’m having another one.” Carey phoned back the on-call nurse.
“She said we should come in just to check on me. I’m gonna call the doula.” After a few minutes she reported “The doula says to go ahead and go in. We’ll probably just go in and they’ll give me steroids and I’ll come home. But there is a chance that I’m going in to labor.” 34 weeks and 3 days. It was actually further along than we initially thought possible considering her bicornuate uterus. But we weren’t convinced this was the time. Carey, however, had one of two bags already packed for the hospital. She had also filled out our birth plan form, according to our previous discussions, which we were going to go over with our doula the following Sunday. It had a bunch of areas highlighted because we weren’t sure what they meant. I printed it out anyway along with the Google document of the list of things to bring to the hospital. While doing this Carey called her mom and dad in Connecticut letting them know they might want to think about buying a plane ticket. We kept going back and forth about only taking one bag since we knew we were most likely coming back. We threw a load of baby clothes in the laundry so they’d be clean of brand new chemicals just in case. We grabbed our crap (including a brand new unattached car seat) and drove four blocks to Swedish Hospital. Fortunately we had kept a folder with all the papers, pamphlets, and forms concerning birthing at Swedish. We couldn’t remember where to park, though. The folder was behind me in the car and Carey couldn’t reach it. In a huff I stopped the car, got out of my seat, opened the back door and grabbed the stupid folder and threw it on Carey’s lap. I’m a little bitch at 5 in the morning. It’s old news. Get over it… She found the paper with directions/instructions for after hours parking and we proceeded. We parked and then deliberated again about whether we should bring the second bag in with us. It had an iHome so we could play music with our iPods and a small video camera. Junk like that. We erred on the side of bringing it. Onward to the birthing center triage!
We signed in and got our special room. In a room nearby a woman was wailing. It sounded like something out of a National Geographic video depicting a more primitive culture when they morn. Long painful groans that were really unpleasant to hear. While giving the intake with the receptionist, Carey quipped, “That doesn’t sound fun. Don’t worry. I’m not that far along!” They put Carey in a robe in order to do some exams all the while she continued to leak. They tested it and sure enough, Carey’s water had totally broken. Dr. Young N Handsome did a speculum check which just about popped Carey’s head off. After he left the room she was upset for not thinking to bring her make-up kit and hairdryer. She began trying to schedule a time when I could go home and pick those things up. Also, she felt she was a little jungley down there. I tried to persuade her that she didn’t need to worry about it. But in Carey’s natural fashion, first she’s embarrassed and then she embarrasses others. The next few nurses and doctors she saw she apologized for her supposedly unkempt nether regions. The range of responses included “I’ve seen all types, honey,” to “…”. But no one was going to see down there for awhile anyway because they gave her these King Kong-sized pads to compliment the hospital grade planet-sized underwear they had her wear. Lots of leaking occurs during this event, we discovered. From the speculum check Dr. Handsome couldn’t help but notice that Judah had already dropped down and Carey was already two centimeters dilated. Dr. Handsome explained the predicament we were in. In the olden days they used to induce labor at 34 weeks no problem, he explained. But nowadays they’ve discovered that it’s better to wait because this is the time when the lungs are still finalizing development. On the other hand, if the water was broken and he was on his way out, they won’t stop the labor by artificial means. Now there was concern as to why Carey’s water broke 5 ½ weeks early. One of the guesses was that it could be some sort of an infection had made the water break in order to not have Judah swimming around in the muck or whatever. So what to do, what to do… The solution – bed rest at the hospital until he arrives. So they put us in a room they didn’t have a name for. It wasn’t a labor room or a pre-labor room (we asked) because they didn’t officially use that as a title. It was more for bed rest only. We quickly learned that it was more like a storage room without any supplies. Finally our on-call physician (Dr. Good-looking India Doogie Howser) from the Obsetrix Pediatrix group came for a visit. He confirmed what Dr. Handsome (also in the room) thought was the best plan of action and that was to do an amniocentesis. This is a horrible procedure where they force a harpoon-sized needle into Carey’s stomach and draw amnio fluid out of the sack to determine if Judah’s lungs were up to snuff and if there was in fact an infection. Oh, and we were told the baby might not come for days. Days! Possibly not until Monday. So Carey was supposed to lie in that stupid room as still as possible maybe for four days? That's gonna happen.
It was 7:30 in the am when they moved us to the supply closet, er, I mean storage room, I mean…hospital room? Enough time had passed since we arrived (at 5am) that we decided breakfast would be a good idea. Carey phoned up room service. I nibbled on her breakfast when no one was looking. Carey’s main course was a giant chocolate protein shake. In between bites Carey called and texted some peeps. I put on some tunes on the iHome. Things were mostly tranquil so far. Carey even suggested I go home and get some real food for breakfast (and don't forget the make-up and hair dryer). But settling Carey in the storage room consisted of a very frustrated nurse trying to get the fetal monitor Doppler to locate Judah’s heart beat. A second monitor was also added to track Carey’s contractions on one of those seismograph machines where the lines make those jaggedy mountain range scrawls and then spike when she’s actually going through the contraction. A number rating shows the intensity. Low 20’s is normal for minimal contraction hurting and 100 is blackout pain. Tracking that wasn’t an issue. The problem was they couldn’t locate Judah’s heartbeat. The nurse spent FOR-EV-ER trying to find that beat. She even blamed the equipment and got a new Doppler plug-in. The seismograph did show that he was moving around a lot, a good sign. The other issue was that these monitors were really constrictive. We’d been warned by doulas, and even the birthing classes Swedish taught us, that the monitors are, yes in fact meant to make sure the baby is okay, but also to keep a paper trail if anything goes bad. To protect the hospital. And here’s the other thing – there are other kinds of Doppler/readers that are mobile but the nurses don’t like them because it requires more work on their part . Carey and I were on our guard about this situation. The nurse got so frustrated at one point she started talking about getting an internal monitor. That we seriously did not want. Especially this early in the game. That would mean that if Carey were to go in to labor she would have to stay put, lay on her back, and barely move so that the tiny braided wires attached to Judah’s skull up inside her hoo-hoo would not come undone. Carey would have to suffer through contractions without being able to move to make sure that monitor stayed put. That’s where I stepped in and asked the nurse if Carey would be able to get in the bath if that was in her because the bath will be a priority once she actually goes into labor. The nurse was unsure and faltered. We started emailing, texting, and calling our doula who was being paid to advocate for us in this kind of situation. Thankfully, we had enough knowledge to dodge that bullet. Meanwhile Dr. Good-looking India Doogie Howser did a quick mini-ultrasound to find an area where he could needle Carey to pull out some amniotic fluid. No luck. There was none left. That idea flew out the window. Next plan: give Carey some antibiotics intravenously just in case there was an infection after all.
The nurse assigned to us began the process of sticking a needle into one of Carey’s veins. Carey told her it was going to be hard and that she should probably start with a butterfly needle. The nurse smugly dismissed this advice. She poked a bunch of times in one of Carey’s arms to no avail. She switched arms and numbed the area first this time and dug around some more. Nothin’. She actually gave up and had another nurse come in to do the job. This new nurse on the scene Carey would later refer to as Nurse Stupid-Bitch. That was maybe a bit unfair, but you get the idea of how Carey felt about her. Now while all of this stab, stab, stabbity stabbing was going on, Carey’s contractions were increasing. They were coming on about every seven to eleven minutes with varying degrees of intensity. And when I say intensity, I mean Carey goes bat shit crazy with pain. Contractions had lost their novelty about two hours previous. In our eyes they ceased having any sort of curios nature about them. They sucked. Sucked BAD. But Nurse S-B would just keep reminding Carey that it was a long haul and how she should conserve her energy blah, blah, blah.
From our birthing classes, we were instructed, in a gentle manner, about the three stages of labor. (For the full effect, whisper-talk, sing-song these next few sentences) “The first stage consist of 30-45 second contractions and only a few occur in an hour. The second stage contractions can last up to 90 seconds and they begin to grow closer together allowing less time for recovery. Finally, the mother uses the contractions in the final stage to push out baby.” Huh. Just like that. Nice. One of Carey’s first exclamations after surviving a rip-your-face-off-painful contraction was, “They lied! They lied in those classes!” At one point she actually had a ten freakin’ minute contraction. I know, because I was watching the clock. 8:55 to 9:05. “It’s not going away! Owwww!” I tried to help Carey through the pain. I breathed with her slowly using the “Inhale. (sucking sounds)…, exhale (blowing sounds)…” and that helped a few times. I rubbed her back, and massaged her shoulders and stood upright when she wanted to lean her head into something and push. And they still didn’t move us to the labor room. Nurse S-B was still trying to effectively find a vein (in Carey’s hand now) to get some antibiotics in there (just on the off chance there was an infection, may I remind you), but she kept getting interrupted because Carey was actually already in labor. During one of the meaner contractions, Nurse S-B thought it best to just have a conversation with Carey. It started out sounding like encouragement, “You’re doing great, honey. Yeah, just work through that pain.” Carey either ignored our loudly drowned out this truly unhelpful talk. Nurse S-B’s tactics weren’t working to her liking so she decided to blame us for Carey not handling her contractions appropriately. It sort of sounded like an accusation when she said “Didn’t you guys take any of our birthing classes?” That’s when Carey yelled at her “I NEED YOU TO STOP TALKING NOW.” That shut her up. Momentarily, at least.
We began to hate being in that storage room. It didn’t have any of the things that a typical hospital room should have. Things we needed. One of Carey’s freak outs occurred while she was in the bathroom. As soon as she was done she tried to get out of there in order to beat the contraction to the bed. But she couldn’t get her mondo panties up in time and the diaper-pad fell into the toilet. She just threw it away and bent over and walked like Igor out of the bathroom. After the contraction she yelled for something to replace the pad. I looked all over that stupid room and couldn’t find anything. She wanted something NOW! So I grabbed a wad of santi-wraps, those thinner than paper toilet seat guards, and shoved a wad in her underwear. This was only humorous for about two seconds. Nurse S-B was still trying to put a needle in Carey when the barfing started. Guess what? There was no bucket in that damn room to catch the puke! Carey didn’t really give a damn at this point and just yakked all over the floor next to the bed. Gallons of it! Mostly the chocolate protein shake from breakfast, but even more than that. There was stuff mixed in there from food she had consumed back in 1992. Apparently the nurse couldn’t find anything in there either so she just threw the blanket from the bed on the floor to sop up the mess. (I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t she use the bed sheet? Wouldn’t that have been a more logical choice for sopping up fresh vomit? By this point we’d actually already used up the bed sheet because those santi-wraps were irritating Carey during contractions [imagine that?] so she decided to ditch the whole undergarment business entirely and go straight for the bed sheets.) Round two of the heaves came on and the good nurse wanted to try another method. She instructed me to offer Carey one of those kidney-shaped hospital drool catchers to collect the torrential down pour of puke. Linda Blair, I mean Carey, batted the tiny thing away and finished soaking the blanket all the way through. At one point between rounds of hurling, the nurse was trying to clean it all up and Carey hacked again and sort of got a little on the nurse (not to mention my shoe) and that seemed to make Carey happy for a fleeting moment. Another common occurrence we learned about labor, in addition to the ralphing, was that it’s typical during contractions for the preggers to get burning up, sweating hot. But then just as quickly cool to freezing. My job then was to help regulate Carey’s temperature. I would fan her during the episode and blanket her afterwards. She’d rip off her robe during and beg for it after. Now if you know Carey in real life, then you’ve probably experienced how difficult it is for her to sit still. This translated in this situation to rocking in place, stomping around, leaning up against the bed, and getting away from whichever nurse was still trying to put that IV in her and/or keep her fetal monitor attached. It was like these nurses had been educated under the instruction of the Keystone Kops. Finally, they decided maybe, yes, we should think about moving Carey over to the labor/birthing room. This bright idea was probably prompted by Carey screaming through a contraction, “JESUS H CHRIST! THERE IS NOTHING IN THIS ROOM!” At that point we had pretty much gone through every sheet, blanket, and robe available in the supply-less storage room they had us in. We’d used up everything to sop up any and every liquid coming out of all of Carey’s orifices (well, just about). Funny thing is, right after Carey’s outburst, Nurse S-B quickly came in and argued the point, “Well, that’s not true. There are too supplies in here.” I paused from Carey’s exorcism and thought, “Really? You are a trained birthing nurse specialist or whatever, right? This is most likely not your first dealing with a woman in labor, I’m guessing. And you think it’s a good idea to disagree, to argue with a woman in the throes of crazy-ass contractions about whether or not there are supplies in the room? The same room where all you could come up with to catch the gushing river of vomit was a dish best suited for brushing teeth in bed? Really?” Maybe Carey’s name for this nurse did apply…
Finally got a hold of the Doula on the phone. She said she would be there in thirty minutes. The time we moved into the labor/birthing room was 10ish in the am. First thing Carey did was order up a bath. All the videos and books and classes said the bath was awesome in helping with the horror of labor. Because they had finally acknowledged that yes, maybe Carey was in labor someone had the bright idea of checking the diameter of her cervix. It was at five centimeters. Plenty of time to get to ten. Nurse S-B followed us in with a birthing ball with a towel on it (a towel? From where?) for Carey to sit on. When an onslaught of contractions came on, Nurse S-B kept trying to get Carey to sit on the ball. I really felt like this nurse just wanted to keep Carey quiet. Like Carey was a real bother. She didn’t seem to have that, “How can I help you with the pain of being totally destroyed on the inside?” It was more like “Sit on the ball and maybe that will finally shut your damn mouth up!” Moments later she showed up with an electric fan, which was an idea that had been abandoned about fifty years previous. A fan would have made Carey’s head explode. That noise and the constant air movement on her skin. No this is when Carey would, at the height of a freak-out, rip off all her clothes and rock, entirely naked, bent over the bed or on all fours on top of the bed while madly sweating and then go back to freezing. I suggested we keep the fan in the room and if we really need it, at least it will be close by. I continued to alternate fanning Carey with the Hospital Menu to rubbing her lower back to holding her bottle while she tried to keep hydrated. But it turned out that was just more fodder for regurgitating. She spewed a watery substance all over the bed and floor. Nurse S-B resumed trying to get an IV in to Carey’s arm. Yup. They were still on getting that needle in. Another contraction attacked when Nurse S-B’s cell phone went off. I kid you not. And she had it on a lanyard around her neck, dangling right in front of Carey’s face. Naturally it was a super annoying ringtone. Carey flipped. “OH COME ON! ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU’VE GOT TO GET THAT OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW! GET THAT OUT OF MY FACE.” Nurse S-B, living up to her name, couldn’t wait to answer the phone until she was outside the room and began talking as she left. “Yeah, I’m in one of the labor rooms right now…”
The bath was taking forever. It had been running for what felt like infinity times ten. A nurse checked on it and came back to report, “I’m running the jets now. After a few minutes we’ll drain it and fill it up again so it’ll all be ready for you.” What the what? Did someone just finish in here before us? Swedish Hospital was totally not living up to its reputation. So that bath had to be pre-prepared before use? Stupid.
The contractions turned even uglier and Carey alternated bewteen volcanic and trance-like. Eyes always closed. Monosyllabic communication. Primordial moaning. I had already overused all my breathing techniques. I was starting to feel useless. The room grew tight and suffocating. Where was the damn doula? It had been over thirty minutes by that point. The doula was more like a don’t-la! Or Do-less! I began to feel like I was coming apart at the seams. I was enduring perhaps one of the longest times stretches of my life. Finally at quarter to eleven our Doula arrived. She came in and kissed Carey on the sweaty brow. Talked to her explaining how the pain was a means to an end and other calming talk. I stepped back to let her do her magic. Or do-la her magic, I should say! (Sorry. I’ll stop with the doula puns now.) At this point, I realized that I was at any second going to lose my shit. During a quick second between contractions, our Doula asked me if I had eaten breakfast. Not really, was my answer. She told me I could go out in to the hall and eat something. That helped. I stood outside and ate a banana, some fruit leathers, paced and texted friends and family. I felt slightly better after that so I rejoined the show. I resumed my position in the corner while the doula helped Carey work through the pain. I occasionally fanned her, but I feared there was no way I was going to be able to keep it together any longer. Any second I was going to burst into bawling. I was fighting to keep it down by drinking from Carey’s water bottle every time I thought I was going to burst into weeping. Tears kept blurring my vision. I didn’t have an explanation. I didn’t feel sad or happy or any regular emotion involved with crying. I was just uniquely overwhelmed. I kept thinking, “I’m gonna lose my shit right this instant.” I knew that was a bad idea. I knew that if I started crying out loud like a wimpy wiener that I’d be asked to leave. “Get him out of here, now!” they’d say. “He’s only making things worse!” Carey looked at me a few times between the spells of madness and I was able to fake some assurance, but then I had to quickly turn away and drink some water stuffing my share of crying. After an excruciating contraction, Carey was sure the baby was ready to come out. It took some convincing, but Carey finally coaxed a nurse in to checking her cervix again. The nurse took a peak and announced, “The cervix is complete.” Which didn’t register for me. But then I got it. Carey’s cervix was totally dilated to 10 centimeters and Mr. Baby was ready to come out. It was happening. RIGHT FREAKIN’ NOW! Carey communicated that she needed to push and she needed to go to the bathroom. The nurses and our doula, almost in unison, shouted at her not to push. They needed to get the doctors there because it was time. Carey kept saying she had to push, she had to go to the bathroom. They found her request suspicious. They were afraid she was going to try and push the baby out into the toilet or that would happen if she tried to go numero two. She convinced them it was just pee so they let her go. I blinked and there were twelve people in the room. Nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors, interns, Neonatal Intensive Care people. After Carey's bathroom break, for some reason her latest contraction took place on the bed. This was good for the doctors. This is how they like to be – in the baseball catchers position with preggers on their back, legs up, pushing the baby out into the doc’s hands. One woman put on a clear plastic face apparatus that looked like a motorcycle wind shield attached to a mouth air filter. I guess she was expecting to get sprayed or something. After counting the heads, all I thought was, “Eleven people in here are going to see me lose my shit and humiliate myself like the pathetic weakling that I am.”(followed by drinking some more water). Okay. Now came the time for the pushing. We had officially entered stage three. Our doula had Carey positioned with her legs spread, grabbing underneath her knees, being ready to pull her legs to her chest when a contraction came on. I was given the role of supporting Carey’s neck when she rolled her body doubled over. “Alright. One’s coming,” Carey announced. The doctor explained that at the top of the peak of the contraction Carey should push with all her might down and out. Bearing down, they called it. Carey gritted her teeth and tensed all the muscles in her body, holding her breath, eyes squeezed shut, pushing from the inside outward. She gasped for air at the end. The doctor at the other end of Carey inserted an internal monitor (twisted up wires) through a tube up inside the birth canal. “What are you doing?! What is that?!” Carey had apparently forgotten what that little doohickey was. We learned all about it in one of our birthing classes. As I mentioned earlier, its braided wires attached at the end to this sharp metal piece that actually sticks into the skin of the baby’s head in order to monitor the heart rate as accurate as possible. All Carey saw was a foreign object being stuck up her hoohoo without any explanation. So the doctor started to explain, but Carey interrupted with another oncoming contraction and a giant push. After this one, Carey apologized to everyone in the room. Apparently, she had defecated during that last enormous push. Everybody consoled her telling her not to worry about it, that just means that she’s pushing using the right muscles. I guess she hadn’t up-chucked everything after all. Our nurse practitioner from the clinic spoke up with some advice. “Okay, Carey. This next time I want you to just push with your splicketybloo. Push through and into the pain only using your splicketybloo. Okay?” The word she used was not splicketybloo, obviously, but it sounded just as fake and a term I had no familiarity with whatsoever. I hoped Carey knew what she meant because on the next big push she kept shouting, “Splicketybloo!. Use your splicketybloo to push through. Splicketybloo! No! Not out your mouth. Don’t make any noises out of your mouth. The energy escapes that way. Push from within outward using your splicketybloo!” Carey must have dropped another deuce because she apologized again to everyone in the room. They all said the same thing. No problem. Everyone does that. It’s fine. You’re doing great. During the next push I actually saw the top of Judah’s head, with wisps of dark hair on it, starting to come out. At the high point of the contraction his head almost came through, but then it ended and his head went back inside a bit. Here’s where Carey started to hit the wall. The pain was too much. She was being stretched out with no relief. “I can’t do this ohhh. I need to push. Owww. I can't do this! I'm not gonna be able to do this!” Everyone yelled at her not to push until the next contraction came on. It didn’t take long. Her face was so scrunched up, she was exerting so much force, I thought she was going to rocket launch her own skeleton out of her vagina. All eyes were on Carey’s birthing canal. Everyone was loudly supportive. YOUR DOING GREAT! ALMOST THERE! PUSH!PUSH! And out he came. A frightening whitish-gray creature that looked like Gollum, but with better posture, slid out of Carey. World meet Judah. I don’t even know which one of the medical staff pulled him out. They were taking turns. It wasn’t the lady with the face shield, though. Whoever it was flipped him around and someone immediately scissored his umbilical cord. Blood squirted out the end up into the air. The doula had the camera and snapped a pic of him at one second old. Three NICU people took him over to a little table and wiped him down. Everybody was going at light speed. He immediately changed color while he cried. Beautiful. Now Judah, the new person Judah, was a purplish red. Carey lost it before I did. Carey was not done with her work, however. There was talk of forcibly removing the placenta, which our doula warned us about. Impatient and fearful doctors are often anxious for closure. They’ve got a golf game to get to or whatever. But it was only a matter of minutes before Carey pushed that out too. I only caught a glimpse of it through a small line of sight between two nurses’ bodies. It was very red, slippery, and had an odd shape like a deformed alien manta ray being. After a quick scrub down, they wrapped Judah man up and let us hold him for about 20 seconds. We were all teary and bewildered and in awe. The doula snapped another pic of our brand new family before they took him away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I followed and stood next to him hanging out in his crib and watched him. When I looked at my watch, I had been on my feet for an hour and a half just staring at him. I cupped his head in my palm or I gave him my finger and he wrapped his entire hand around it. There was an immediate connection that I have never experienced before in my life. A sudden and deep familiarity. Like I thought, I know this guy. I really know who this is. I know him better than anyone else save Carey. I was on the other side now. A father and not just a son. A parent and not just an offspring. Carey popped up to the NICU almost exactly two hours after Judah entered our world. A nurse wheeled her up and into the unit, but as soon as she entered the room she, too, was on her feet weeping and alongside me falling in love with our new person who had arrived.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Whiny
[May 10, 2010]
I'm sick and tired of doing all the work. This semi bedrest business is a bee-otch of the highest order. Carey is easily exhausted, irritable, whiny, and occasionally demanding. We tried to see Iron Man 2 with our friends Chad and Angie Friday night. Carey worked six hours that day and we had to hit the movie right after her work. She complained almost relentlessly before and after the movie. I think the problem was we didn't get a proper dinner. Fridays are stressful at her work anyway. We had some people save us places in line for the Imax experience. Carey sat down by the concession while we stood and waited for the doors to open. We got snacks (Carey insisted we pay for them since C & H bought our tickets) and she was there when the food was being ordered but when we got to our seats she asked where was her water. So I had to trudge back through the narrow row stepping on people's purses and feet to get the damn water. Then when I got back she said, "You missed the A-Team preview. Why are you so tense?" After the show she repeated over and over about how this was too much for her blah, blah blah. We won't be going out on weeknights, perhaps ever again. The first few weeks of doing everything I could deal with. And Carey was really grateful. Every meal I didn't ruin was a treat. But now she's getting nit-picky. And she doesn't communicate all the details of creating a multiple step dinner. Last night she laid on the couch (her downstairs station) while she instructed me on how to make a particular meal. I fucking hate cooking. But I've been good about it until lately. I'm back in the mental state where if it's up to me I inadvertently make the wrong choices. She said fry some garlic in a pan. Turned out I needed a large pan. I asked what I should prep before I cook. She left out the part about chopping up the sausage. I spent forever on that stupid meal. It sucked, took a long time to make, and then was over in like seven minutes. This morning I made her oatmeal with sliced up mangoes and maple syrup. In order to not accidentally mangle her breakfast, I brought her up all the different individual parts. Bowl of oatmeal, scored mango, soy milk, maple syrup. Apparently I had scored the mango into too big of chunks. And there was too much oatmeal in the bowl. She wanted only half the amount so that there could be some the next day. It's true she is a food snob of monumental proportions, but cut me some slack! That same day when I was trying to find the oatmeal she was lying in bed on the phone yakking it up with one of her mothers. I brought up this container with like an eighth of an inch of oatmeal in it with raisins. Are we out? I mouthed. She waved me off and told me the oatmeal is in the freezer. Which it was. Later she informed me, "You know that container you showed me that you thought was oatmeal with raisins?" I looked at her. "That was muesli!" I continued to look at her. She thought this was hysterical! How could anyone be so stupid as to mix up oatmeal with 18 remaining crumbs of muesli? I threw out the damn muesli. In her defense, as an independent person who excels at cooking, it must suck to have to rely on joe-dipshit-in-the-kitchen to prepare your food all the time. She likes her food a certain way. I don't blame her. I'm just tired of learning all nine billion different variations on ten trillion different dishes. I guess whiny is contagious.
I'm sick and tired of doing all the work. This semi bedrest business is a bee-otch of the highest order. Carey is easily exhausted, irritable, whiny, and occasionally demanding. We tried to see Iron Man 2 with our friends Chad and Angie Friday night. Carey worked six hours that day and we had to hit the movie right after her work. She complained almost relentlessly before and after the movie. I think the problem was we didn't get a proper dinner. Fridays are stressful at her work anyway. We had some people save us places in line for the Imax experience. Carey sat down by the concession while we stood and waited for the doors to open. We got snacks (Carey insisted we pay for them since C & H bought our tickets) and she was there when the food was being ordered but when we got to our seats she asked where was her water. So I had to trudge back through the narrow row stepping on people's purses and feet to get the damn water. Then when I got back she said, "You missed the A-Team preview. Why are you so tense?" After the show she repeated over and over about how this was too much for her blah, blah blah. We won't be going out on weeknights, perhaps ever again. The first few weeks of doing everything I could deal with. And Carey was really grateful. Every meal I didn't ruin was a treat. But now she's getting nit-picky. And she doesn't communicate all the details of creating a multiple step dinner. Last night she laid on the couch (her downstairs station) while she instructed me on how to make a particular meal. I fucking hate cooking. But I've been good about it until lately. I'm back in the mental state where if it's up to me I inadvertently make the wrong choices. She said fry some garlic in a pan. Turned out I needed a large pan. I asked what I should prep before I cook. She left out the part about chopping up the sausage. I spent forever on that stupid meal. It sucked, took a long time to make, and then was over in like seven minutes. This morning I made her oatmeal with sliced up mangoes and maple syrup. In order to not accidentally mangle her breakfast, I brought her up all the different individual parts. Bowl of oatmeal, scored mango, soy milk, maple syrup. Apparently I had scored the mango into too big of chunks. And there was too much oatmeal in the bowl. She wanted only half the amount so that there could be some the next day. It's true she is a food snob of monumental proportions, but cut me some slack! That same day when I was trying to find the oatmeal she was lying in bed on the phone yakking it up with one of her mothers. I brought up this container with like an eighth of an inch of oatmeal in it with raisins. Are we out? I mouthed. She waved me off and told me the oatmeal is in the freezer. Which it was. Later she informed me, "You know that container you showed me that you thought was oatmeal with raisins?" I looked at her. "That was muesli!" I continued to look at her. She thought this was hysterical! How could anyone be so stupid as to mix up oatmeal with 18 remaining crumbs of muesli? I threw out the damn muesli. In her defense, as an independent person who excels at cooking, it must suck to have to rely on joe-dipshit-in-the-kitchen to prepare your food all the time. She likes her food a certain way. I don't blame her. I'm just tired of learning all nine billion different variations on ten trillion different dishes. I guess whiny is contagious.
To Cut or Not to Cut
[May 5, 2010]
Since our baby has a penis we have had to hash out our position on circumcision. And what better place to do it then at a restaurant with our close friends celebrating Carey's birthday? Granted, that's not the only time we've discussed it. Over the last few weeks we've talked about it almost without ceasing. And since Carey is on bed rest, we've had several friends bring us dinner. While they eat with us having nowhere to run, we bring up the topic of baby penises (Peni?). JB and Rob brought us dinner the other night and we grilled them on the subject. Rob has two teenage sons. But he told us it was never an issue because even though he is a devout atheist, he and his first wife decided to raise their boys Jewish. Thanks for nothing. But I must say the lentil soup was unexpectedly delicious! Neel and Josie brought us dinner one night. Their Rowan will be two years this month. When it came time for themto make the call, they had a brief discussion and came to an immediate decision not to cut. Carey had recently read an article about the pros of circumcision. I guess for the very young and the very old and those who are developmentally challenged, keeping that uncircumcised wiener clean is a challenge. There's also some statistic about a higher chance of contracting STIs if you are uncut. Carey read that for old duff's junk, nursing home staff often skip that part of the bath. This was the pro-cut argument we were considering of late. Neel and Josie discussed how circumcision traced back to a religious and then cultural practice and since they, too, are practicing atheists, they found it a bit antiquated and barbaric to cut off part of their son's penis. Sure, but we also have parts of our body that are purposeless that we are no better for having or not having. Like an appendix, for example. What's a little skin removed gonna do? Neel brought up a comparison that didn't quite fit at first. Female circumcision is waaay more drastic and heinous and purely evil than male circumcision. Calling that circumcision is a diabolical understatement. It's removing the clitoris. It should have another name. One that when heard would make your ears and eyes bleed. Also, those men who did that/do that should have their balls ripped out and fed to them. Ahem. Moving right along. But then Neel reprised his argument and asked, "How would you feel about having some of your baby daughter's labia removed just because that was the order of the day?" Touché. That would be absolutely horrific. Food for thought.
Back to the restaurant scene where the original members of The Happy Lucky Insult Club (Dan, Toby, Becky, Eric, Carey, yours truly) discussed the issue at hand. We'd already talked to Becky. Her stance is she believes you shouldn't cut off part of someone's body without their permission (without a really good reason. For more on the gay perspective I interviewed Eric. He said, with a deeply concerned sigh and I quote, "I'm just really torn." To which I burst out laughing. Not just because of the imagery from his connecting statement, but because of how sincere and troubled he expressed those words. Dan, too, was on the fence. He saw the pros and cons to both as well as we did. He says he wishes he wasn't circumcised, but then is so used to the cut look... he goes back and forth. Toby shrugged his shoulders and the table behind us all got up and left.
Our friends just had a baby boy in April. They didn't circumcise. They read that it's only around 50% of male American births now that do the ol' snip. The new father said, "I think his penis looks fine just the way it is." Our new pediatrician says the number is more like 70%, but he's also very pro-circumcision.
Then Carey abandoned ship. She decided it was up to me since I, like my son, have a penis. I still talked it out with her. Considering that circumcision does come from a Judeo-Christian belief that neither Carey nor I adhere to and just because it has been traditionally done by Americans is not a significant argument to convince me that it should be done. The uncut look is not that attractive to me, but maybe that's just the social conditioning I've been programmed with. And the way my own junk has always looked. Also, I've only seen a few uncuts in Spain at that clothing-optional beach where that one guy was seriously super uncircumcised and yet he walked with pride. (Of course it didn't hurt that he was in stride with those Spanish foxes at his sides, sans clothes...Damn, I love that beach! )Ultimately, when he's old enough to wisely make those decision for himself, if he so chooses to get it cut then, be my guest. And if for some odd reason there's ever a time when he
notices that other boy's members differ from his own in the amount of skin at the top, I'll just give him Neel's line - "Yeah, when I was born that's what everybody did with their baby boys. Some people still do it. They cut off a part of the penis. Kinda weird, don't you think?"
Since our baby has a penis we have had to hash out our position on circumcision. And what better place to do it then at a restaurant with our close friends celebrating Carey's birthday? Granted, that's not the only time we've discussed it. Over the last few weeks we've talked about it almost without ceasing. And since Carey is on bed rest, we've had several friends bring us dinner. While they eat with us having nowhere to run, we bring up the topic of baby penises (Peni?). JB and Rob brought us dinner the other night and we grilled them on the subject. Rob has two teenage sons. But he told us it was never an issue because even though he is a devout atheist, he and his first wife decided to raise their boys Jewish. Thanks for nothing. But I must say the lentil soup was unexpectedly delicious! Neel and Josie brought us dinner one night. Their Rowan will be two years this month. When it came time for themto make the call, they had a brief discussion and came to an immediate decision not to cut. Carey had recently read an article about the pros of circumcision. I guess for the very young and the very old and those who are developmentally challenged, keeping that uncircumcised wiener clean is a challenge. There's also some statistic about a higher chance of contracting STIs if you are uncut. Carey read that for old duff's junk, nursing home staff often skip that part of the bath. This was the pro-cut argument we were considering of late. Neel and Josie discussed how circumcision traced back to a religious and then cultural practice and since they, too, are practicing atheists, they found it a bit antiquated and barbaric to cut off part of their son's penis. Sure, but we also have parts of our body that are purposeless that we are no better for having or not having. Like an appendix, for example. What's a little skin removed gonna do? Neel brought up a comparison that didn't quite fit at first. Female circumcision is waaay more drastic and heinous and purely evil than male circumcision. Calling that circumcision is a diabolical understatement. It's removing the clitoris. It should have another name. One that when heard would make your ears and eyes bleed. Also, those men who did that/do that should have their balls ripped out and fed to them. Ahem. Moving right along. But then Neel reprised his argument and asked, "How would you feel about having some of your baby daughter's labia removed just because that was the order of the day?" Touché. That would be absolutely horrific. Food for thought.
Back to the restaurant scene where the original members of The Happy Lucky Insult Club (Dan, Toby, Becky, Eric, Carey, yours truly) discussed the issue at hand. We'd already talked to Becky. Her stance is she believes you shouldn't cut off part of someone's body without their permission (without a really good reason. For more on the gay perspective I interviewed Eric. He said, with a deeply concerned sigh and I quote, "I'm just really torn." To which I burst out laughing. Not just because of the imagery from his connecting statement, but because of how sincere and troubled he expressed those words. Dan, too, was on the fence. He saw the pros and cons to both as well as we did. He says he wishes he wasn't circumcised, but then is so used to the cut look... he goes back and forth. Toby shrugged his shoulders and the table behind us all got up and left.
Our friends just had a baby boy in April. They didn't circumcise. They read that it's only around 50% of male American births now that do the ol' snip. The new father said, "I think his penis looks fine just the way it is." Our new pediatrician says the number is more like 70%, but he's also very pro-circumcision.
Then Carey abandoned ship. She decided it was up to me since I, like my son, have a penis. I still talked it out with her. Considering that circumcision does come from a Judeo-Christian belief that neither Carey nor I adhere to and just because it has been traditionally done by Americans is not a significant argument to convince me that it should be done. The uncut look is not that attractive to me, but maybe that's just the social conditioning I've been programmed with. And the way my own junk has always looked. Also, I've only seen a few uncuts in Spain at that clothing-optional beach where that one guy was seriously super uncircumcised and yet he walked with pride. (Of course it didn't hurt that he was in stride with those Spanish foxes at his sides, sans clothes...Damn, I love that beach! )Ultimately, when he's old enough to wisely make those decision for himself, if he so chooses to get it cut then, be my guest. And if for some odd reason there's ever a time when he
notices that other boy's members differ from his own in the amount of skin at the top, I'll just give him Neel's line - "Yeah, when I was born that's what everybody did with their baby boys. Some people still do it. They cut off a part of the penis. Kinda weird, don't you think?"
Birthing Classes Rated
[April 26, 2010]
Birth Class: INFANT CPR AND SAFETY
Props: Baby doll that you can breathe into and it's chest will expand. Rubber face wrapped around doll head reminded me of West World. Repeat after me, "Car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, CAR SEATS, CAR SEATS, CAR SEATs, Car Seats! Car Seats! CAAAR SEEEATS!"
Fellow Classmates: Jackass dude with his head in his iPhone playing games, laughing at inappropriate times during the video, no affection for pregnant partner or interest in being there. Probably drunk. One couple was 45 hundred years old with twins (how did THAT happen?). Everyone else was noticeably unattractive.
Instructor: Mildly entertaining. Suburban over-tanned, proud mom of two 20 something girls. Bubbly but not all that annoying.
Summary: How to give Cardio Respiratory Resuscitation to your baby when they choke on a hot dog (a food apparently designed to kill babies) or just stop breathing altogether. How to not kill your baby. Things that will kill your baby include blankets, crib bumpers, sleeping on stomach, parents looking away from their baby for one second.
Class grade: B-
Birth Class: BIRTHING (all day)
Props: A lot of DVDs, a black baby, birthing ball, bucket of ice (for putting your hand in to simulate a contraction to practice breathing techniques to get through the pain during 30, 45, and 90 second segments. It hurt like hell!)
Fellow Classmates: International Microsoft Suburbanites. We had lunch with a few of them. One guy had a thick accent, but looked like a tan American. His wife was definitely Indonesian. Some moron asked where he was from and he gave the dreaded, "Take a guess." She guessed Spain and he laughed at her. Then he asked me, an innocent bystander. Quickly thinking of a way to cover for my Amero-centric ignorance, I blurted out, "Microsoft?" Which was true and then he told us Israel and we all let out our breath.
Instructor(s): Old mommy first half, butch gym coach second half.
Summary: What happens when a baby is born. The horror of labor. Medications that speed up labor, kill the pain and all of the insane amounts of side effects that come from those interventions. The demon possession of contractions. "The placenta is huge!"
Class Grade: C+
Birth Class: BREASTFEEDING
Props: Fake babies, I mean dolls, chart of the variety of breasts/areola as well as the changes they take on during pregnancy/breastfeeding, a plush stuffed-animal-esque breast that turns inside-out to show how milk flows. (When the instructor first turned it inside-out the whole class almost went down like the interns in the opening credits to Quincy M.E.).
Fellow Classmates: Class consisted of four preggers only two of which brought their husbands. I was one of those poor bastards.
Instructor: Whisper-talker trying to make everything she said sound meaningful and serious.
Summary: Uncomfortable AND a waste of time. The awkwardness level was off the charts. At one point the instructor said, and I'm not making this up, "Areola comes in all sizes. Am I right, fellas?" (she looked at us for what felt like a 45 minute pause waiting for a reply) "Guys! You're supposed to say 'I don't know!'" For most of the class we watched a DVD narrated by the latest expert in the field, some Australian grandma. Also, it turns out breastfeeding is easy, dummies! Countless times the instructor tilted her head back, put her finger to her nose (indicating the nipple) and brought it down, "and baby will root around and latch on no problem." Yeah, right. It's not just that baby that sucks...
Class Grade:D+
Birth Class: CONSCIOUS FATHERING
Props: Asian baby girl doll, onesies, pajamas, diapers, swaddling blanket
Fellow Classmates: Jam-packed with about 27 dudes, several coming in late and not getting a practice baby and having to sit on the side. Oh, and one preggers too. One guy not only came in late, but he brought his wife! The instructor stopped the class and fake invited her to stay OR she could mill around outside until it was over. She decidedly said she'd stay taking up a seat so some other poor sap had to sit on the side by himself with no doll, blanket, or diapers. Yeah, we all knew who wielded the whip in their house. What a winner. The menfolk varied from indie-folk bearded guys to just-took-their-ties-off corporate drones to bewildered blue-collar macho types.
Instructor: A balding unbelievably average Joe whose voice sounded exactly like Juno's dad.
Summary: (This class I dreaded the most. The name alone was enough to make me wanna run for the hills. Carey suggested if I didn't like it I could leave at the break. Duh. So with fear and trepidation I took my seat and my doll and tried not to go into a panic attack out when the first order of business was to hold our doll-babies in a few different positions.) Pertinent information on infants' needs and practical skills on handling your newborn. Using the provided CPR baby, we learned how to clothe and disrobe a baby, change a diaper, appropriately burp the baby, swaddle, and best positions to not drop the baby. After the halfway point break, only two guys bailed. The class turned out to be very empowering and not anything like the name. In the end I evaluated the class with high marks, but asked that they change the name. Conscious Fathering sounds vague and wimpy not at all like the practical, informative class that it describes.
Class Grade: A-
Birth Class: INFANT CPR AND SAFETY
Props: Baby doll that you can breathe into and it's chest will expand. Rubber face wrapped around doll head reminded me of West World. Repeat after me, "Car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, car seats, CAR SEATS, CAR SEATS, CAR SEATs, Car Seats! Car Seats! CAAAR SEEEATS!"
Fellow Classmates: Jackass dude with his head in his iPhone playing games, laughing at inappropriate times during the video, no affection for pregnant partner or interest in being there. Probably drunk. One couple was 45 hundred years old with twins (how did THAT happen?). Everyone else was noticeably unattractive.
Instructor: Mildly entertaining. Suburban over-tanned, proud mom of two 20 something girls. Bubbly but not all that annoying.
Summary: How to give Cardio Respiratory Resuscitation to your baby when they choke on a hot dog (a food apparently designed to kill babies) or just stop breathing altogether. How to not kill your baby. Things that will kill your baby include blankets, crib bumpers, sleeping on stomach, parents looking away from their baby for one second.
Class grade: B-
Birth Class: BIRTHING (all day)
Props: A lot of DVDs, a black baby, birthing ball, bucket of ice (for putting your hand in to simulate a contraction to practice breathing techniques to get through the pain during 30, 45, and 90 second segments. It hurt like hell!)
Fellow Classmates: International Microsoft Suburbanites. We had lunch with a few of them. One guy had a thick accent, but looked like a tan American. His wife was definitely Indonesian. Some moron asked where he was from and he gave the dreaded, "Take a guess." She guessed Spain and he laughed at her. Then he asked me, an innocent bystander. Quickly thinking of a way to cover for my Amero-centric ignorance, I blurted out, "Microsoft?" Which was true and then he told us Israel and we all let out our breath.
Instructor(s): Old mommy first half, butch gym coach second half.
Summary: What happens when a baby is born. The horror of labor. Medications that speed up labor, kill the pain and all of the insane amounts of side effects that come from those interventions. The demon possession of contractions. "The placenta is huge!"
Class Grade: C+
Birth Class: BREASTFEEDING
Props: Fake babies, I mean dolls, chart of the variety of breasts/areola as well as the changes they take on during pregnancy/breastfeeding, a plush stuffed-animal-esque breast that turns inside-out to show how milk flows. (When the instructor first turned it inside-out the whole class almost went down like the interns in the opening credits to Quincy M.E.).
Fellow Classmates: Class consisted of four preggers only two of which brought their husbands. I was one of those poor bastards.
Instructor: Whisper-talker trying to make everything she said sound meaningful and serious.
Summary: Uncomfortable AND a waste of time. The awkwardness level was off the charts. At one point the instructor said, and I'm not making this up, "Areola comes in all sizes. Am I right, fellas?" (she looked at us for what felt like a 45 minute pause waiting for a reply) "Guys! You're supposed to say 'I don't know!'" For most of the class we watched a DVD narrated by the latest expert in the field, some Australian grandma. Also, it turns out breastfeeding is easy, dummies! Countless times the instructor tilted her head back, put her finger to her nose (indicating the nipple) and brought it down, "and baby will root around and latch on no problem." Yeah, right. It's not just that baby that sucks...
Class Grade:D+
Birth Class: CONSCIOUS FATHERING
Props: Asian baby girl doll, onesies, pajamas, diapers, swaddling blanket
Fellow Classmates: Jam-packed with about 27 dudes, several coming in late and not getting a practice baby and having to sit on the side. Oh, and one preggers too. One guy not only came in late, but he brought his wife! The instructor stopped the class and fake invited her to stay OR she could mill around outside until it was over. She decidedly said she'd stay taking up a seat so some other poor sap had to sit on the side by himself with no doll, blanket, or diapers. Yeah, we all knew who wielded the whip in their house. What a winner. The menfolk varied from indie-folk bearded guys to just-took-their-ties-off corporate drones to bewildered blue-collar macho types.
Instructor: A balding unbelievably average Joe whose voice sounded exactly like Juno's dad.
Summary: (This class I dreaded the most. The name alone was enough to make me wanna run for the hills. Carey suggested if I didn't like it I could leave at the break. Duh. So with fear and trepidation I took my seat and my doll and tried not to go into a panic attack out when the first order of business was to hold our doll-babies in a few different positions.) Pertinent information on infants' needs and practical skills on handling your newborn. Using the provided CPR baby, we learned how to clothe and disrobe a baby, change a diaper, appropriately burp the baby, swaddle, and best positions to not drop the baby. After the halfway point break, only two guys bailed. The class turned out to be very empowering and not anything like the name. In the end I evaluated the class with high marks, but asked that they change the name. Conscious Fathering sounds vague and wimpy not at all like the practical, informative class that it describes.
Class Grade: A-
Prenatal Clinic of Maladies
[April 20, 2010]
Well. It turns out that the second trimester is all the peace we're going to get. Now that's over. Seriously, like three days into the third trimester where we were ready to let out a sigh of relief a new turmoil reared its ugly head. The last six weeks of doctor visits the news kept getting better and better. The last Dr. even predicted a possibility of a full-term natural birth. That's out. Wednesday Carey started having contractions. Not painful going into labor contractions, but just the top of her uterus started flexing and becoming hard for a bit and then softening again. Thursday she attended an OT conference and while sitting there downloaded a contractions app for her iPhone. She started having tons of them. She left the conference early and I picked her up down town to go see the nurse practitioner for an immediate visit. As soon as Carey pulled herself up onto the exam table she started crying. The Nurse Practitioner waddled in and took a seat where she would remain, barely moving during the entire examination/consultation. SHE WAS ENOURMOUS. Like one step away from being one of those immobile, sticky-seated to a couch people in a trailer park making her dirty-faced kids sponge bathe her in between soap operas and various five course dinners. She had cool shoes, though. They were this kind of Velcro ninja pair. But maybe they just looked cool because her calves were covered in some space-age wrap that also gave a ninja look. But come on! How am I supposed to trust a health professional that is clearly so unhealthy? Also, her voice sounded like a cross between Carol Channing and over the top southern baby-talk. Imagine that voice repeating "vagina" over and over. I mean for the most part, she was well-informed, but she mostly told us all of the awful horrible things that could happen i.e. contractions increasing in frequency, they become painful, labor starts, and a major premature baby and all the horror that goes along with that. This crap we already knew! The baby's heart rate was good. The Doppler microphone and amplifier thingy proved that. Ninja-Tubs checked the cervix to see if Judah had dropped into the canal ready to get out of there. But she couldn't feel it. She kept going in deeper and deeper until her whole arm was practically up there making Carey her own personal muppet. That was a good sign, though. Strong cervix and still way up there. But Carey kept going back to the crying. Baby-talk Carole Channing even at one point said, "Oh I wish there's something I could say to make you feel better... vagGIna." The solution was for Carey to go on modified bed rest for the weekend popping Ibuprofen every six hours and if the contractions increased to over four an hour, some pill with a name that sounded macabre would be administrated. Carey and I called it Nightshade. Also, the Nurse Practitioner was adamant about no sex and to "rest the pelvic floor" (no intrusions in the vaGIna area...oh Hello Dolly!). Also, orgasms cause contractions. Not really a big deal at this point. That area of our lives has been mostly on hold lately anyway. What's one more weekend, right? Carey worked a half-day Friday and then chilled Saturday while I worked. Sunday morning I furiously prepared for our house warming party. Pretty much straight until Jen C and Bex came to help us out. Dan and Toby were over Friday night to watch Gentlemen Broncos (good!) and Fantastic Mr. Fox (awesome!) and to cut meats, cheeses and veggies for the party. Being on "bed rest" meant that during the party Carey had to sit on the couch while I replenished the food and gave the house tours. The whole thing was kind of a blur to me, but overall good. People dug our house and really liked the dining room table I made. I joked probably one too many times that the the house party was actually a ruse to mask the real reason for inviting people over: the opening exhibit for my hand-crafted table.
Oh, back to Fatty Channing, jumbo nurse. After we got the Rx and got home from the doctor's, we were pretty bummed. Nervous that at any minute the baby could drop. Scared that the end result of these contractions would result in an early baby and therefore a child with life-long physical and developmental issues. Carey had a question about how often to take Ibuprofen and so she called back the clinic and got the fabulous enormo lady again. While on the phone, the good nurse informed Carey not to worry so much about having a premie baby anytime soon. If the contractions got worse they'd just have her be on full bed rest, give her medications and just wait until week 36 when all medications needed to be stopped. Really? Is that so? Why the mother effin F didn't she tell us this when we were in the office? You know, when we were all worried and Carey was crying. STUPID! Let me ask you this. A couple comes in with early (super early) contractions. They are truly distraught. What is it exactly, do you think, they are worried about, fatty genius? Un-freakin-believable. How did she miss telling us this in the first place? Carey kept defending her (I still don't know why). Carey thinks that this might have been explained throughout the consultation. Bits and pieces here and there that would end up with a single idea. Yeah, I don't think so. Still we were relieved to hear that. A follow up doctor's visit was scheduled for Monday. And here's where the pattern of maladies continued (if you include the chub-a-lub nurse).
The nurse who checked us in (who've we've seen several times) was all sniffly, plugged-up nose with a cold. She also informed us she was on a new diet (Carey brought chocolates for everyone which she refused one when offered.) She was all spacey probably from either cold medicine or lack of energy from the new diet. She did the Doppler thing to check Judah's heartbeat. This wasn't the first time, by the way. She had the microphone dealy on Carey's right side. She couldn't find a heartbeat. Carey and I gave each other a knowing look. There's no baby over there, is what we should have said. Judah, being attached to the left side of the bicornuate uterus hung out on the left side of Carey's abdomen. She finally figured it remembering all the other times she'd done it. Next came fangoria doctor.
The doctor assigned to us that day was a middle-aged, nearly tanorexic, trim blondie-mom. At first she appeared perfectly fine. Free of injury like what we'd come to expect of our physicians. Then she looked at us head on. It appeared that quite recently someone had stabbed her 52 times with an ice pic in the left eye! Blood red everywhere. There was a yellow circle surrounding the cornea, which looked like it could fall out any second leaving behind just a bloody ball in her eye socket. It was truly horrifying. Like if she made a scary face to go along with her evil eye, we would have screamed and fled the premises pulling fire alarms along the way out. Unhealthiest health clinic I've ever been to. Anywho, the doctor came to the same conclusions as Samurai Blimp. But she also gave some concrete guidelines. These contractions aren't going away. Carey could either spend her energy seeing six clients a day or stay home all day and be domestic. With Carey already going on unpaid maternity leave when Mr. Baby arrives, we need all the money we can get right now. And Dr. Bloody Eye was very explicit about non-activities, as well. No sex. Orgasms cause contractions. Hmmm. Let me repeat that because I'm not sure I'm properly communicating the gravity of this situation. ORGASMS CAUSE CONTRACTIONS! NO ORGASMS! Shut it down, people! It's over! All my grand hopes for the third trimester preggers horniness are not only gone, but the whole thing is shut down. Orgasms cause contractions. If only it were the other way around - Contractions cause orgasms. If that were the case, she could finally catch up to me. So not only do I have to wait on her hand and foot mornings before work, evenings after work, and weekends in their entirety, but I also don't get any reward for being so nice. Because, as it turns out, I'm not actually all that nice. I expect to be reimbursed for my generosity. It's true that I prefer a clean house, but let's be honest here. It's always in the back of my mind when I do something nice for Carey. It's not only to keep her happy, but to get me a little sumpin-sumpin, you know what I'm sayin? Basically, I'm being forced into being nice for nice sakes only. And that sucks. I feel like I've heard somewhere that pregnancy is this wonderful thing. Why am I being lied to all the time?
Well. It turns out that the second trimester is all the peace we're going to get. Now that's over. Seriously, like three days into the third trimester where we were ready to let out a sigh of relief a new turmoil reared its ugly head. The last six weeks of doctor visits the news kept getting better and better. The last Dr. even predicted a possibility of a full-term natural birth. That's out. Wednesday Carey started having contractions. Not painful going into labor contractions, but just the top of her uterus started flexing and becoming hard for a bit and then softening again. Thursday she attended an OT conference and while sitting there downloaded a contractions app for her iPhone. She started having tons of them. She left the conference early and I picked her up down town to go see the nurse practitioner for an immediate visit. As soon as Carey pulled herself up onto the exam table she started crying. The Nurse Practitioner waddled in and took a seat where she would remain, barely moving during the entire examination/consultation. SHE WAS ENOURMOUS. Like one step away from being one of those immobile, sticky-seated to a couch people in a trailer park making her dirty-faced kids sponge bathe her in between soap operas and various five course dinners. She had cool shoes, though. They were this kind of Velcro ninja pair. But maybe they just looked cool because her calves were covered in some space-age wrap that also gave a ninja look. But come on! How am I supposed to trust a health professional that is clearly so unhealthy? Also, her voice sounded like a cross between Carol Channing and over the top southern baby-talk. Imagine that voice repeating "vagina" over and over. I mean for the most part, she was well-informed, but she mostly told us all of the awful horrible things that could happen i.e. contractions increasing in frequency, they become painful, labor starts, and a major premature baby and all the horror that goes along with that. This crap we already knew! The baby's heart rate was good. The Doppler microphone and amplifier thingy proved that. Ninja-Tubs checked the cervix to see if Judah had dropped into the canal ready to get out of there. But she couldn't feel it. She kept going in deeper and deeper until her whole arm was practically up there making Carey her own personal muppet. That was a good sign, though. Strong cervix and still way up there. But Carey kept going back to the crying. Baby-talk Carole Channing even at one point said, "Oh I wish there's something I could say to make you feel better... vagGIna." The solution was for Carey to go on modified bed rest for the weekend popping Ibuprofen every six hours and if the contractions increased to over four an hour, some pill with a name that sounded macabre would be administrated. Carey and I called it Nightshade. Also, the Nurse Practitioner was adamant about no sex and to "rest the pelvic floor" (no intrusions in the vaGIna area...oh Hello Dolly!). Also, orgasms cause contractions. Not really a big deal at this point. That area of our lives has been mostly on hold lately anyway. What's one more weekend, right? Carey worked a half-day Friday and then chilled Saturday while I worked. Sunday morning I furiously prepared for our house warming party. Pretty much straight until Jen C and Bex came to help us out. Dan and Toby were over Friday night to watch Gentlemen Broncos (good!) and Fantastic Mr. Fox (awesome!) and to cut meats, cheeses and veggies for the party. Being on "bed rest" meant that during the party Carey had to sit on the couch while I replenished the food and gave the house tours. The whole thing was kind of a blur to me, but overall good. People dug our house and really liked the dining room table I made. I joked probably one too many times that the the house party was actually a ruse to mask the real reason for inviting people over: the opening exhibit for my hand-crafted table.
Oh, back to Fatty Channing, jumbo nurse. After we got the Rx and got home from the doctor's, we were pretty bummed. Nervous that at any minute the baby could drop. Scared that the end result of these contractions would result in an early baby and therefore a child with life-long physical and developmental issues. Carey had a question about how often to take Ibuprofen and so she called back the clinic and got the fabulous enormo lady again. While on the phone, the good nurse informed Carey not to worry so much about having a premie baby anytime soon. If the contractions got worse they'd just have her be on full bed rest, give her medications and just wait until week 36 when all medications needed to be stopped. Really? Is that so? Why the mother effin F didn't she tell us this when we were in the office? You know, when we were all worried and Carey was crying. STUPID! Let me ask you this. A couple comes in with early (super early) contractions. They are truly distraught. What is it exactly, do you think, they are worried about, fatty genius? Un-freakin-believable. How did she miss telling us this in the first place? Carey kept defending her (I still don't know why). Carey thinks that this might have been explained throughout the consultation. Bits and pieces here and there that would end up with a single idea. Yeah, I don't think so. Still we were relieved to hear that. A follow up doctor's visit was scheduled for Monday. And here's where the pattern of maladies continued (if you include the chub-a-lub nurse).
The nurse who checked us in (who've we've seen several times) was all sniffly, plugged-up nose with a cold. She also informed us she was on a new diet (Carey brought chocolates for everyone which she refused one when offered.) She was all spacey probably from either cold medicine or lack of energy from the new diet. She did the Doppler thing to check Judah's heartbeat. This wasn't the first time, by the way. She had the microphone dealy on Carey's right side. She couldn't find a heartbeat. Carey and I gave each other a knowing look. There's no baby over there, is what we should have said. Judah, being attached to the left side of the bicornuate uterus hung out on the left side of Carey's abdomen. She finally figured it remembering all the other times she'd done it. Next came fangoria doctor.
The doctor assigned to us that day was a middle-aged, nearly tanorexic, trim blondie-mom. At first she appeared perfectly fine. Free of injury like what we'd come to expect of our physicians. Then she looked at us head on. It appeared that quite recently someone had stabbed her 52 times with an ice pic in the left eye! Blood red everywhere. There was a yellow circle surrounding the cornea, which looked like it could fall out any second leaving behind just a bloody ball in her eye socket. It was truly horrifying. Like if she made a scary face to go along with her evil eye, we would have screamed and fled the premises pulling fire alarms along the way out. Unhealthiest health clinic I've ever been to. Anywho, the doctor came to the same conclusions as Samurai Blimp. But she also gave some concrete guidelines. These contractions aren't going away. Carey could either spend her energy seeing six clients a day or stay home all day and be domestic. With Carey already going on unpaid maternity leave when Mr. Baby arrives, we need all the money we can get right now. And Dr. Bloody Eye was very explicit about non-activities, as well. No sex. Orgasms cause contractions. Hmmm. Let me repeat that because I'm not sure I'm properly communicating the gravity of this situation. ORGASMS CAUSE CONTRACTIONS! NO ORGASMS! Shut it down, people! It's over! All my grand hopes for the third trimester preggers horniness are not only gone, but the whole thing is shut down. Orgasms cause contractions. If only it were the other way around - Contractions cause orgasms. If that were the case, she could finally catch up to me. So not only do I have to wait on her hand and foot mornings before work, evenings after work, and weekends in their entirety, but I also don't get any reward for being so nice. Because, as it turns out, I'm not actually all that nice. I expect to be reimbursed for my generosity. It's true that I prefer a clean house, but let's be honest here. It's always in the back of my mind when I do something nice for Carey. It's not only to keep her happy, but to get me a little sumpin-sumpin, you know what I'm sayin? Basically, I'm being forced into being nice for nice sakes only. And that sucks. I feel like I've heard somewhere that pregnancy is this wonderful thing. Why am I being lied to all the time?
Allergies, Boy Epiphany, and an Unwanted Nickname
March 5, 2010
I feel like Carey has been a little bit whinier lately. And a little more defensive then usual. Like the kind of snappishness you get when your blood sugar is low and dinner is late and everything your partner says sets you off? Like that. But some times even AFTER dinner. She's definitely a lot sleepier. Maybe it's because Spring came early. Carey's allergies are pretty bad. She decided a while ago that all medications are bad for the baby. So she won't even think about Claritin. Even after we double checked with the doctor (Carey asked at least three different times if it was okay and all three times it was okayed) she is still hesitant to take anything. So she's had these sneezing, drippy nose and coughing fits. And frankly, they have begun to irritate me. She chooses really inopportune times to have these fits, ya know? It's so annoying! Like the other night she fell asleep on the couch. I had to wake her up to bring her to bed. After I shut down the house and met her upstairs, oh time for an allergy attack. She was peacefully sleeping just seconds ago! I'm already under the covers when she decides to have this ridiculously long and involved asthma freak out. She was all gagging and choking and coughing up death. And it went on and on and on and on and on. Coughing and gagging and choking and spitting up into the toilet. On and on. She asked me for a tissue after it was winding down. I'm like, your standing right by the toilet paper! Why should I have to get out of bed to fetch facial tissue when her hand is less than eight inches away from the TP. As I said before, I was already under the covers. It's eleven o'clock at night. I'm tired! Sheesh. I guess it was so bad that the next day her abdominal muscles were sore. Of course she was worried this negatively affected Mr. Baby. She was also worried at the rock show we went to last night. The last song of Erik Blood's set had this pounding drum machine beat heavy on the kick drum. She hid behind me placing her belly right up against my lower back to protect Mr. Baby from the rhythmic onslaught. I think it was a good idea.
My central creative focus right now is on recording The Glasses next album. I really only have until June/July before I have to be done. I imagine the baby will be all-consuming of my energies. The mix of baby and music will be an interesting one. As it is, I'm being kicked out of the upstairs room in April. I'll have to take all my gear to the guest room. But I'm trying not to think about that right now. Presently I'm in the best stage of making a new album - the writing/recording of demos.
So I'm still adjusting to our baby being a boy. I mean I'm totally over it and fine that it's a boy. What helped was someone gave me a new perspective. I don't remember who it was, but when this person found out it's a boy, they said, "Oh. So you'll have a little Will running around, huh?" I never thought about it that way. This epiphany is making a huge difference in how I feel about Judah. Because, hey! If there's one person I really like, it's me! I mean, I knew all along that I'd be dressing him up like me. But then I took it further. Of how I want to be. Do they have baby ascots? What about infant-sized smoking jackets? I could mark his upper lip to give him a pencil mustache. Baby John Waters! Or really, the best would be like a Frenchman. With the red and white striped long-sleeve sailor shirt and the beret. Will's better dressed miniature-sized person, Judah. Carey has no sense of humor about this at all. She doesn't want me "dressing up" the baby. I think it would be cool. Regardless of her complaints, he will have a Frenchman outfit. I can guarantee you that! He can wear it when he plays with his unicorn.
I tried to express to Carey how much I have been enjoying her pregnant body. I kind of stumbled on my words trying to be careful to not make her feel self-conscious. Instead, with accusation in her voice she proclaimed, "That's because you like big bottom girls." Just because of the tone she used I started to get defensive and then quickly remembered that it's absolutely true. Why would anyone think this is a bad thing?
Getting Carey riled up these days is suuuper easy. All I have to do is lean over to her protruding belly and say, "How's our little Ju?" She HATES that. Sounds too much like I'm saying "jew". So what? It's not a curse word. It'd be like if I said, "How's our little Russian?" And Ju is definitely short for Judah. She wants it to be Jude, which I'm not too keen on. I really do think that he will eventually go by the nickname Ju. It just sounds cool. But I'll probably call him Judah. I know two syllables is a lot to ask of someone, but I think I can manage.
I feel like Carey has been a little bit whinier lately. And a little more defensive then usual. Like the kind of snappishness you get when your blood sugar is low and dinner is late and everything your partner says sets you off? Like that. But some times even AFTER dinner. She's definitely a lot sleepier. Maybe it's because Spring came early. Carey's allergies are pretty bad. She decided a while ago that all medications are bad for the baby. So she won't even think about Claritin. Even after we double checked with the doctor (Carey asked at least three different times if it was okay and all three times it was okayed) she is still hesitant to take anything. So she's had these sneezing, drippy nose and coughing fits. And frankly, they have begun to irritate me. She chooses really inopportune times to have these fits, ya know? It's so annoying! Like the other night she fell asleep on the couch. I had to wake her up to bring her to bed. After I shut down the house and met her upstairs, oh time for an allergy attack. She was peacefully sleeping just seconds ago! I'm already under the covers when she decides to have this ridiculously long and involved asthma freak out. She was all gagging and choking and coughing up death. And it went on and on and on and on and on. Coughing and gagging and choking and spitting up into the toilet. On and on. She asked me for a tissue after it was winding down. I'm like, your standing right by the toilet paper! Why should I have to get out of bed to fetch facial tissue when her hand is less than eight inches away from the TP. As I said before, I was already under the covers. It's eleven o'clock at night. I'm tired! Sheesh. I guess it was so bad that the next day her abdominal muscles were sore. Of course she was worried this negatively affected Mr. Baby. She was also worried at the rock show we went to last night. The last song of Erik Blood's set had this pounding drum machine beat heavy on the kick drum. She hid behind me placing her belly right up against my lower back to protect Mr. Baby from the rhythmic onslaught. I think it was a good idea.
My central creative focus right now is on recording The Glasses next album. I really only have until June/July before I have to be done. I imagine the baby will be all-consuming of my energies. The mix of baby and music will be an interesting one. As it is, I'm being kicked out of the upstairs room in April. I'll have to take all my gear to the guest room. But I'm trying not to think about that right now. Presently I'm in the best stage of making a new album - the writing/recording of demos.
So I'm still adjusting to our baby being a boy. I mean I'm totally over it and fine that it's a boy. What helped was someone gave me a new perspective. I don't remember who it was, but when this person found out it's a boy, they said, "Oh. So you'll have a little Will running around, huh?" I never thought about it that way. This epiphany is making a huge difference in how I feel about Judah. Because, hey! If there's one person I really like, it's me! I mean, I knew all along that I'd be dressing him up like me. But then I took it further. Of how I want to be. Do they have baby ascots? What about infant-sized smoking jackets? I could mark his upper lip to give him a pencil mustache. Baby John Waters! Or really, the best would be like a Frenchman. With the red and white striped long-sleeve sailor shirt and the beret. Will's better dressed miniature-sized person, Judah. Carey has no sense of humor about this at all. She doesn't want me "dressing up" the baby. I think it would be cool. Regardless of her complaints, he will have a Frenchman outfit. I can guarantee you that! He can wear it when he plays with his unicorn.
I tried to express to Carey how much I have been enjoying her pregnant body. I kind of stumbled on my words trying to be careful to not make her feel self-conscious. Instead, with accusation in her voice she proclaimed, "That's because you like big bottom girls." Just because of the tone she used I started to get defensive and then quickly remembered that it's absolutely true. Why would anyone think this is a bad thing?
Getting Carey riled up these days is suuuper easy. All I have to do is lean over to her protruding belly and say, "How's our little Ju?" She HATES that. Sounds too much like I'm saying "jew". So what? It's not a curse word. It'd be like if I said, "How's our little Russian?" And Ju is definitely short for Judah. She wants it to be Jude, which I'm not too keen on. I really do think that he will eventually go by the nickname Ju. It just sounds cool. But I'll probably call him Judah. I know two syllables is a lot to ask of someone, but I think I can manage.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Unicorns: Only for Girls
[February 22-23, 2010]
Like the wedding industry, the baby stuff empire is a total racket. There is so much ridiculous crap out there that nobody needs. Baby wipe warmers? COME ON! And another thing, the genderizing of babies is infuriating. Colors, toys, and even animals have already been violently divided into what's for boy babies and what's for girls. Boys can't have cats. They have to have dogs. Cats are for girl babies. A baby girl's room CANNOT be decorated with anything having to do with transportation like planes, trains or automobiles. Girls don't like transportation, I guess. It's so stupid. I asked Carey what about unicorns? She laughed in my face. "Are you serious? Unicorns are only for girls!" I disagreed. You are telling me that ALL unicorns are ONLY for girls? On our way to a baby shower we carpooled with Toby and Bex. Carey couldn't wait to ask them their take on the issue. Sure enough, they both sided with unicorns are for girls. Toby pointed out that though they were for girls, there still were boy and girl unicorns not to mention the gay ones. But Carey didn't stop there. She interviewed every single person she came in contact with at the shower to prove her point. "Unicorns are associated with princesses and rainbows and magical fairy tales," she explained with Rush Limbaugh smugness. I don't know. A unicorn by itself seems pretty gender neutral to me. I think I'll buy Judah a unicorn right now off the Internet. Stand by...
While I'm waiting for Judah's new toy to arrive (see picture below) I thought I'd mention a few new developments. First off the baby is kicking now quite a bit. It only started in the last week. I guess it feels like a little flutter or something.
, Carey is very happy whenever it occurs because it assures her that the baby is still alive. Sunday morning she shouted from the upstairs bedroom, "Bring me some orange juice!" As the dutiful husband/pop-to-be I brought her a small glass. She wanted to rile up the baby so I could feel a kick. She downed the juice, placed my two hands at the ideal spot but nothing happened. She tried going to the bathroom to wake him up. Afterward she laid down and he did kick. That is, until I got there waiting to feel. "That evasive little shit!" she said. But now that she's become accustomed to feeling kicks all the time when nothing happens she works herself into a panic. Even the consulting nurse didn't make her feel any better. She made an appointment with the clinic. Before visiting the doctor she asked me if I thought she was crazy. Of course I answered in the affirmative. I told her they'd say just what I've been saying (baby's only kick some of the time and that no kicking did not equal dead), but that she wouldn't be able to calm herself down unless she hears it from a medical professional. After the visit she texted me with poor spelling, "Worry was for nothing (smiley face emoticon) hes afine little boy." The other new thing is Carey has started to have severe back pain. It's one of two things: the baby is probably just sitting on a nerve or it's just typical for all the new added weight of the pregnancy. Her body has to compensate for those gargantuan breasts alone not to mention the cute little protruding belly that is really starting to grow. But it is still a bummer. Her job is so physical. Now when she gets home she has to lay down and put her feet up. Carey feels bad that I have to do everything now, wait on her hand and foot. I told her that she should continue to feel bad as it makes what I'm doing all the more admirable.
Between all this baby kicking and never-ending back pain I was able to slip in a love-making session. One time at least. I can't wait for the alleged spike in libido that's supposed to come to the pregnant lady later on. My big brother, Wayne, informed me that the third trimester horniness does not happen to everybody. That it's kind of a myth. Obviously I'm hoping it happens to Carey. Between puffs off his cigar my brother quipped, "You need to keep your little 30-something boner in check."
Like the wedding industry, the baby stuff empire is a total racket. There is so much ridiculous crap out there that nobody needs. Baby wipe warmers? COME ON! And another thing, the genderizing of babies is infuriating. Colors, toys, and even animals have already been violently divided into what's for boy babies and what's for girls. Boys can't have cats. They have to have dogs. Cats are for girl babies. A baby girl's room CANNOT be decorated with anything having to do with transportation like planes, trains or automobiles. Girls don't like transportation, I guess. It's so stupid. I asked Carey what about unicorns? She laughed in my face. "Are you serious? Unicorns are only for girls!" I disagreed. You are telling me that ALL unicorns are ONLY for girls? On our way to a baby shower we carpooled with Toby and Bex. Carey couldn't wait to ask them their take on the issue. Sure enough, they both sided with unicorns are for girls. Toby pointed out that though they were for girls, there still were boy and girl unicorns not to mention the gay ones. But Carey didn't stop there. She interviewed every single person she came in contact with at the shower to prove her point. "Unicorns are associated with princesses and rainbows and magical fairy tales," she explained with Rush Limbaugh smugness. I don't know. A unicorn by itself seems pretty gender neutral to me. I think I'll buy Judah a unicorn right now off the Internet. Stand by...
While I'm waiting for Judah's new toy to arrive (see picture below) I thought I'd mention a few new developments. First off the baby is kicking now quite a bit. It only started in the last week. I guess it feels like a little flutter or something.
, Carey is very happy whenever it occurs because it assures her that the baby is still alive. Sunday morning she shouted from the upstairs bedroom, "Bring me some orange juice!" As the dutiful husband/pop-to-be I brought her a small glass. She wanted to rile up the baby so I could feel a kick. She downed the juice, placed my two hands at the ideal spot but nothing happened. She tried going to the bathroom to wake him up. Afterward she laid down and he did kick. That is, until I got there waiting to feel. "That evasive little shit!" she said. But now that she's become accustomed to feeling kicks all the time when nothing happens she works herself into a panic. Even the consulting nurse didn't make her feel any better. She made an appointment with the clinic. Before visiting the doctor she asked me if I thought she was crazy. Of course I answered in the affirmative. I told her they'd say just what I've been saying (baby's only kick some of the time and that no kicking did not equal dead), but that she wouldn't be able to calm herself down unless she hears it from a medical professional. After the visit she texted me with poor spelling, "Worry was for nothing (smiley face emoticon) hes afine little boy." The other new thing is Carey has started to have severe back pain. It's one of two things: the baby is probably just sitting on a nerve or it's just typical for all the new added weight of the pregnancy. Her body has to compensate for those gargantuan breasts alone not to mention the cute little protruding belly that is really starting to grow. But it is still a bummer. Her job is so physical. Now when she gets home she has to lay down and put her feet up. Carey feels bad that I have to do everything now, wait on her hand and foot. I told her that she should continue to feel bad as it makes what I'm doing all the more admirable.Between all this baby kicking and never-ending back pain I was able to slip in a love-making session. One time at least. I can't wait for the alleged spike in libido that's supposed to come to the pregnant lady later on. My big brother, Wayne, informed me that the third trimester horniness does not happen to everybody. That it's kind of a myth. Obviously I'm hoping it happens to Carey. Between puffs off his cigar my brother quipped, "You need to keep your little 30-something boner in check."
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