Inspirations from cheese in a can. joey, kelly, danny, and charlie

Once, when I worked in the emergency room (as a registrar, nothing exciting or well-paid), one of the nurses would say when asked how he was doing: “I’m busier than a one-legged mule in an ass-kicking contest.” I think that pretty well sums up life around here with a lung-Olympian newborn and a wall-climbing toddler. But ain’t we cute?

Right along with the 73 thank you notes I have yet to write, Charlie’s unwritten birth story has been niggling at me (is that a racial slur? Oh, my stars, I hope not. Google SAYS (I hope you read that in your head with Richard Dawson’s voice a la Family Feud): not a racial slur.)). So, I wrote it. From the very first sign of labor. This account does not include anything I consider to be gory details, so if you’re a squeamish and/or male type, give it a whirl, if you want, and quit if you get grossed out. Oh, and p.s.: the fact that I got this written at all is pretty astounding to me, so I didn’t bother proofreading it. If you find a mistake, go get yourself a cookie. You earned it!

Saturday evening: As we walked around the square in Marietta, I noticed that walking sucked much more even than it had the day before, and that I had to pee every four minutes instead of every five. I visited the Krystal for just that purpose, and noted a symptom that can be an early, first sign of labor on the horizon. It’s gross, so I won’t mention exactly what. If you know you know, and if you don’t, you don’t want to. Suffice it to say it was enough to make me nervous that my hospital bag wasn’t packed. So, we went to Publix, went home, and put Danny to bed. I packed my hospital bag and passed out on the sofa, “watching” Dancing with the Stars on tv. When I woke up to stumble to bed, Joey told me that my favorite uncle, Jack, had passed away (expectedly, though still devastatingly, of cancer). I felt very sad, but tired won out over sad, and I went back to sleep.

Sunday morning: I began agonizing about whether or not we would go to the funeral, which I figured would be on Tuesday or so. I decided that if no developments happened with labor between then and the day of the funeral, we would go.

Sunday evening: I miserably attended book club. A friend there mentioned that when she had been threatened with an induction, she went and jogged for a mile. She went into labor that night.

Monday morning: I started a poll of friends and family to help me decide whether I was being ridiculous trying to go, or selfish if I didn’t. Survey said: ridiculous trying to go. Finally, when Joey mentioned (not in any way related to this decision), that I was 40 weeks pregnant, it hit me: I was being ridiculous trying to go. I decided not to go.

Monday afternoon: We took Danny to the soccer park. I jogged about 5 steps, but it sucked, so I stopped.

Tuesday morning, 4 a.m.: I woke up restless, nothing new there. I got up to write an email and try to clear my mind so I could go back to sleep. My water broke. That sounds dramatic. It wasn’t, really. It took quite a while to determine that such was the case, and I’ll spare you all those details, but my water had broken, in fact. Calls were made to those taking care of Danny (my friend Megan came right away, and Joey’s mom came a little later), mild contractions were noted, and Joey and I went to the hospital. We stopped at Chick-fil-a on the way so he could be human in case I needed him. The triage nurse concurred with my assessment that my water had broken, and I was admitted.

Tuesday, noon: Whole lotta nothin. I had been giving Cervidil soon after my admission to “ripen my cervix” and maybe, hopefully kick off labor. Not so much. I was given another one. The second one seemed to work a little better, and by four or five, I was mis-er-a-ble, begging for an epidural. Which they would not give me, because I was not sufficiently dilated. Instead, I was given Nubain, a narcotic which had the following effect: I was only lucid for the brutally painful contractions.

Tuesday evening: So I continued begging for the epidural, which I was finally given at around 7:45 p.m. Finally and blissfully pain-free, I dismissed Joey to go get some dinner, and I passed out. I was awakened a short time later and notified that I was going to have the baby right then. Her heart rate had dropped in a way the staff did not appreciate, and my body (according to them, and I took their word for it), was ready to push the baby out. Joey, as I mentioned, was not there. They called him and he took off running (with a full belly, he just had time to eat) from the Chick-fil-a across the street. They all stood around and waited for him, and as soon as he got there, they had me push. I pushed two (or three? can’t say, I was still half asleep) times, and out she came. They handed her to me, and she punched me in the eye with a bloody fist. My beautiful baby girl, Charlene Elizabeth Rutledge, born at 9:07 p.m., Tuesday, March 24, 2009, weighing 8 lbs, 5 oz, and 20 inches long.

My super-extra-psycho-hormonal phase has kicked in…. but it’s the good one that makes me feel like my heart and head might explode with love at any minute, every time I so much as look at either one of my children. And that makes this video too much, much too much to bear. So you’ll have to do it for me. I didn’t even know he knew this song. I’ll leave you to it…..I have to go cry for half an hour while watching Dancing with the Stars with a lap full of children and chocolate.

That’s my new favorite thing to say. Cracks me up every time. I’m easily amused. Anyway, sorry, Charlie, that it’s taken us this long to notify the world via blog that you exist. You do! We love you!

Charlene Elizabeth joined our family last Tuesday, March 24 at 9:07 p.m. More words and more pictures later, but the guilt was driving me nuts, so I had to put something up now….one-handed, with a sick toddler and a hiccuping baby in my lap.

(Eh-YO baby sister!)

And hello to you, internet. Excuses for blogging absences bore me, so I won’t subject you to any. In case you didn’t get the memo, read the posts, read it on Facebook or Twitter, or get a rare phone call: we are expecting another child. A girl one, and very soon. Sometime between now and 17 days from now, we will become a family of four. We have a name, but it’s top secret, hush-hush. That’s mainly because of the abundance of opinions where names are concerned, and the ease with which my feelings are hurt and/or my own opinion is influenced. Also, some element of surprise adds to the joy of a new person’s arrival, right?

So, before I pass from the realm of the enormously pregnant, I wanted to share with you all some photographs that my quite talented friend Martine took a few weeks ago. This was me at 35 weeks (I think? Who can keep up?), when I just thought I couldn’t be any more emotional, volatile, or miserable than I already was. Yeah. You might want to ask Joey about that. I have recently semi-quarantined myself from the outside world, so toxic is my aura. There is something of a history of mental issues in my family, that I have seen peek out here and there from my own person, over the years. I think the hormones and stress of pregnancy and the post-partum period bring out the worst in me. But, eh. Could be better, could be worse, I’m sure. In any case, thanks to you all who put up with me no matter how obnoxious I become. And here, again, mostly this means Joey. And the dogs. God bless the dogs. Someone needs to.

All that said, you wouldn’t suspect such a spiteful, malevolent woman to be lurking under the surface of these portraits of maternal bliss, would ya? Thanks, Martine, you are a magician! I can’t wait to see how you can make me look human with the newborn pictures….I’m not sure which will be the more Herculean task.

That’s about where her feet really live. Thankfully, she is much less brutal than her brother, who will one day be an incredible soccer player.

This is my favorite.

And finally, the legendary sofa corner….where much of the gestational magic happens.

Dearest Danny Bobby,

Your days as an only child are numbered. All of us at the Rutledge Ranch have mixed emotions about this, I’m sure. Well, not you, at the moment, probably, but I think you will. We’ve been trying to explain to you about baby sister for a few months, but since you still lift your own shirt in response to the question: “Where is your baby sister?” we’re thinking perhaps you haven’t entirely grasped the concept. These last weeks have been and will continue to be tricky for me, because I want you to have full benefit of your last days as our one and only, but I am usually cranky, often uncomfortable, and usually sleep-deprived. I thank you for the fact that the sleep deprivation has little to do with you; the blame for that can be placed squarely at the feet of your baby sister, where it will remain for at least another year, I’m sure.

In the last few weeks, you have shown off the dazzling results of your language explosion. You make sentences that sometimes people that don’t live here can even understand. You’ve just about mastered “pwease,” “thank YEW,” “yessum” and “yessuh.” These phrases will get you far. They have already earned you far more chocolate than is appropriate for a child your age. And when answer a question with: “Yessum, mama,” it is very difficult not to pick you up and squeeze your little guts out while gnawing your ears off, but so far I have resisted.

Your favorite activities include: disassembling the sectional sofa, harassing the shit out of the dogs (sorry, Emmett), climbing and then jumping off of things, riding the scooter with Daddy, drinking my coffee, and anything at all that happens outside. Except maybe snow…..apparently you were not very impressed with the white, wet mess that disrupted our adorably southern state this past weekend. You love to have a friend over, so you can say to them: “Fah me!” which is how you invite them to trail along behind you. In the absence of a friend, you invite the dogs, or me or your father. When we’re playing, you’ll often be taken by a inspiration, hold up your hand, and say “Back, mama!” meaning that I’m to stay and wait for you to return with something that suddenly has become critical to our play.

Not to put too fine a point on your bathroom habits for the world at large, but last week, you hit a milestone for which you were rewarded with an obscene amount of M&M’s, or the amount that your grammy normally gives you for blinking. I stopped just short of calling everyone I know and announcing it on all my social networks, but I definitely recognized the pride and hope that leads people to do that.

I think that right now you are destroying something in my and Daddy’s bedroom, so I’ll close for now. You are adorable; thanks for being you.

Love,
Mama

The other day, when I made this post (the one in which an advice columnist describes what stay-at-home moms do, to a woman with no children), I addressed it to those who didn’t know what we do all day, and those who do know, for a smile.  There is another group of people that I did not think of, and should have.  That group is those who know exactly what we do all day, and if they had their druthers, they would, too.  To those mothers, the job description such as the one included in that article could very easily be seen as a list of complaints.  And if it were me, reading a list of complaints about something I wish I could be doing, but can’t, I wouldn’t care for it either.

The friends I mentioned that have sent me that article (that I was too lazy to link to in the post, sorry, Sara and Martine) had the sensitivity to mention in their posts how grateful they are to have their jobs and how much they enjoy them.  Me, I figured everybody knows by now that I just complain about everything, so nothing different here.  However.  This would have been a good time to follow their lead not only in blatantly copying their content, but also in proclaiming publicly that they love what they do.

So:  I love what I do.  I do it by choice.  I am frequently offered (generally when I complain too much) the opportunity to do something else if it would make me happier.  Nothing else would.  That said, some days (yesterday comes to mind), when the other grown-up who lives here gets in his car and drives away, leaving me in a pile of needy humanity and never-ending housework and chores, I cry.  Because some days, I would like to get in the car and drive away, too.  Since it doesn’t really work that, way, though, I will take my end of the deal and consider myself damn lucky.

I have one more disclaimer/retraction to address.  I hate the war between stay-at-home moms and working moms.  It is easy for both sides (and extremely easy for people who are neither) to make judgments about both kinds of mothers.  I want to say, for the record (if we can call my blog “the record”), that I want no part of this war, and I make no judgment about any family’s decisions about what is best for their particular situation.  When I was growing up, I failed to realize that one day I would have to decide between doing what my mother did for me and my sisters and having a career.  I was always told I could be whatever I wanted to be.  I believed that, and I did very well in school.  So mostly people (self included) were just waiting to see if, for me, that would be doctor or lawyer.  To the surprise of many (self included) I never could pick a course and stick to it.  I now think that in my indecision, I was making a choice.  I was setting it up to get what I wanted, in a way such that I never had to say:  “I want my primary job to be raising my children.”  (I don’t think many people wanted to hear that from me, and unfortunately what other people want influences what I do much more than I like.)  If I had had a successful career, I know it would have been very hard to give that up to do what I do now, for lots of reasons.  Giving up a random string of jobs was not hard at all.  I do not miss many of them much.

My point….I know I had one.  I admire mothers.  Those who work.  Those who stay at home.  I do not admire those who pit us against each other, and I want no part of it.  To participate in that conflict was not my intention in the post I made the other day.  And now that I have, I’m sure, done nothing like what I intended to when I named this post, I will resume my normal insomniac activities (I think TMZ will be my lullabye this time).  Thank you and goodnight.

I’ve seen this from a few of my friends recently, and I read it every time. This advice writer has captured the central essence of my lifestyle with admirable precision and eloquence. So, if you would like either: an answer to the question “What do you heifers DO all day?” or a smile if you KNOW what we heifers do all day, then read on.

>>>TELL ME ABOUT IT ®
By Carolyn Hax
Wednesday, May 23, 2007; Page C10
The Washington Post

Carolyn:

Best friend has child. Her: exhausted, busy, no time for self, no time for me, etc. Me (no kids): Wow. Sorry. What’d you do today? Her: Park, play group . . .

Okay. I’ve done Internet searches, I’ve talked to parents. I don’t get it. What do stay-at-home moms do all day? Please no lists of library, grocery store, dry cleaners . . . I do all those things, too, and I don’t do them EVERY DAY. I guess what I’m asking is: What is a typical day and why don’t moms have time for a call or e-mail? I work and am away from home nine hours a day (plus a few late work events) and I manage to get it all done. I’m feeling like the kid is an excuse to relax and enjoy — not a bad thing at all — but if so, why won’t my friend tell me the truth? Is this a peeing contest (”My life is so much harder than yours”)? What’s the deal? I’ve got friends with and without kids and all us child-free folks get the same story and have the same questions.

Tacoma, Wash.

Answer:
“Relax and enjoy. You’re funny.

Or you’re lying about having friends with kids.

Or you’re taking them at their word that they actually have kids, because you haven’t personally been in the same room with them.

Internet searches?

I keep wavering between giving you a straight answer and giving my forehead some keyboard. To claim you want to understand, while in the same breath implying that the only logical conclusions are that your mom-friends are either lying or competing with you, is disingenuous indeed.

So, since it’s validation you seem to want, the real answer is what you get. In list form. When you have young kids, your typical day is: constant attention, from getting them out of bed, fed, clean, dressed; to keeping them out of harm’s way; to answering their coos, cries, questions; to having two arms and carrying one kid, one set of car keys, and supplies for even the quickest trips, including the latest-to-be-declared-essential piece of molded plastic gear; to keeping them from unshelving books at the library; to enforcing rest times; to staying one step ahead of them lest they get too hungry, tired or bored, any one of which produces the kind of checkout-line screaming that gets the checkout line shaking its head.

It’s needing 45 minutes to do what takes others 15.

It’s constant vigilance, constant touch, constant use of your voice, constant relegation of your needs to the second tier.

It’s constant scrutiny and second-guessing from family and friends, well-meaning and otherwise. It’s resisting constant temptation to seek short-term relief at everyone’s long-term expense.

It’s doing all this while concurrently teaching virtually everything — language, manners, safety, resourcefulness, discipline, curiosity, creativity. Empathy. Everything.

It’s also a choice, yes. And a joy. But if you spent all day, every day, with this brand of joy, and then, when you got your first 10 minutes to yourself, wanted to be alone with your thoughts instead of calling a good friend, a good friend wouldn’t judge you, complain about you to mutual friends, or marvel how much more productively she uses her time. Either make a sincere effort to understand or keep your snit to yourself.”<<<

The original idea of this post was to put some pictures online for my mom to see. Then it occurred to me that while she is a proud member of the cheese audience, making a post of boring pictures that only she would care about, could end up being wasteful for others reading the site.

So here’s some pictures for all of ya even though you rarely comment and let us know you are checking us out.

Mom here’s the other pics that might interest you: click here

Something about the impending arrival of a new and permanent human in your house can really get you pensive.  Or maybe it’s the hormones.  Anyway, the list of things to get done before the baby comes seems to keep growing, despite our working steadily.  The baby doesn’t exactly have a functioning room yet, but Danny has a new one.  That seems to be a common thread.  The smallish human that already lives here is taking full advantage of his presence on the outside to commandeer the to-do list.  Hey, use what you got, I guess.

So, over the past couple of weeks, we have corrected some great wrongs against our little boy.

ONE:  His father and I took him to Waffle House.  He’s been before, but not when he was both capable of registering the fact and with his father.   So, here they are:

TWO:  His Nana demonstrated the patience necessary to teach him to blow bubbles.  My attempts have fallen short, I always just pray for him to spill the whole bottle after about 10 minutes of “I HOLE IT.  I HOLE IT.  I HOLE IT.” and his ensuing frustration at lacking the coordination to hold the bottle, hold the wand, and blow.  Nana made it work.

And THREE:  We took him to Krispy Kreme.  I know, I know, and there’s no excuse.  And yes, we took him to the one downtown where you can watch them make the donuts that you’re about to eat.  Though he preferred the ones with sprinkles.  He just stuck his finger in a hot one, and called that enough.  He’s pink in these pictures because the hot light is about two feet from his face.