The lighter side of 4am

My mother lit automatic candles in the stairwell and living room to illuminate late-night wanderings, but the timers all flicker off by the time I creep down with a wakeful baby. She doesn't cry in the small hours - she makes small murmurs and creaky sounds and stares around with big dark eyes, and I stare back until I remember the box of Canadian tea in the kitchen. Sleep has never been easy for me - or much missed - and after 4am there isn't any point to waiting out the dawn. So I roll her up in the blanket my great-grandmother crocheted for me when I was born, step in all the least squeaky spots down the wood stairs, and put the kettle on with the whistle open so nobody wakes to a beeping microwave. Zenny gets her toe stuck in the eyelets of the blanket, and suddenly I can remember my own toes tangling in them - the brain's litter of deep old memory fragments is something to marvel at. I shoo a cat out of the bouncy seat and put it by the bathroom door with the baby in it. The glimpse of myself in the mirror is like seeing someone I don't really want to say hi to - the Teletubbie figure and round face I have spent so many years running away from, because fat-me was naive and self-conscious and lovesick, and thin-me can laugh over a beer and pretend not to be those things.

At 5:30, my mom comes downstairs. Still dark, still raining, and she sits in the rocking chair and sings to the baby while I make her a cup of coffee and refill my tea.

I'm a sentimental creature in the early mornings.

Zenny's birth story

Posterity post. Warning: these kind of posts are gross.

My birth experiences have been pretty consistent: due date, water breaks, labor through the night, dragged off the toilet by busybodies, push push push for half an hour or so, OWFUCKINGOW, baby!

That did not happen so much.

To start with, I was late. Each day that passed was heavier and slower and more riddled with erratic contractions, which did nothing but keep me up counting all night and walking obstinately on inflated ham-feet all day. I tried primrose oil and harassed my bosoms and ate spicy food, but by Day 4 I was crying in the Safeway parking lot because WAAH FAT, and on Day 5 I just huffed along dejectedly around Ala Moana after my family. My dad had come to visit for the week, and it was looking like the baby wouldn't make an appearance before he had to fly back to Indiana, which was so depressing I started scoping pharmacies for the ever-dreaded castor oil. Beaver ass-gland excretions do not appear to be a popular option this far from Canadaland, however, so I gave up and just spent the evening tapping listlessly at my contraction timer on my phone, wishing with each tap for it to be followed by a pop that never came.

At 2:30am on St. Patrick's Day, I drowsed awake and realized I had been pressing my phone for several hours, and the ragged list of sleep-recorded contractions was surprising enough to get me out of bed. I spent half an hour in the bathroom timing; 4 min. 4 min. 4min. 4min. They didn't hurt particularly, but at 3:30am I tugged on Mike's toe until he climbed out of bed. We sat in the bathroom for another half an hour, until they started hurting just a bit, and he called my doctor. "4 minutes? Hurting? Third baby? Yeah, I'll see you at the hospital." I felt bad getting him out of bed for another round of phantom contractions, but we whispered updates to my mom and dad, left the kids in bed, and got into the car at 4:30am. I wondered if I should have changed out of my mangy sock monkey pajamas.

They didn't send us home, though, because I was at 4cm. The parking lot was full, and our nurse tucked us into the last available birthing room, which was the very same room Gavin was born in 10 years ago. This time, the couch folded out into a bed for a companion, and the bed was a Transformer. I let them jam an IV into my contrary vein and then lunged for the bed controls. Put the back up. Put the legs down. Discovered that contractions still hurt even if you're playing with a remote-controlled bed.

BETRAYAL

We put up a birthing bar and I dangled over it by the armpits while emailing updates to the ex-manfriend and texting demands for my mom to bring egg sandwiches. A young man skidded in, dropped a tray of broth and hot tea, and hurried away without a sideways glance at the big naked butt hanging out the back of my gown.

YEAH gelatin

I sipped these while posting updates on Facecrack and kneeling against the bar, then Mike helped me stand and rock. When my legs began shaking, he eased me back onto the bed to get checked by the nurse. 8cm, in less than 3 hours. Contractions on your back are a hundred times worse than ones dangling off a birthing bar or large man, and when I flailed to get back up off the bed, GUSH -water broke. My mom and dad arrived, waving sandwiches, just as the first transitional contractions ripped through, and shit got real kind of fast.

My doctor strolled in while I was yelling against Mike's shoulder and standing on a towel. Back on the bed. 9cm. "I'll just go do some paperwork and be back in a bit," he said while I scrambled back off the bed. Fine, that gives me some time to use the bathrooOOOOOHNOOOOES. I was pushing, then bearing down, then couldn't stop, and then started pooing. In front of my visiting father. WTF IS  THIS INDIGNITY. I was still yelling about this new outrage when my legs went watery, the room became bright and crowded, and people helped hauled me back onto the bed before the baby could drop out on her head. The bed was still in my wonky kneeling configuration and there was no time to get the footholds up, so my mom and dad and Mike grabbed my legs while I screamed about poop and burning and NOPE NOPE NOPE, then with a burst of white pain she was out.

Zenia Rosemary, St. Patrick's Day 2013, 8lbs 4oz

A nurse plopped her up onto my chest while Dr. B carefully collected the cord blood we were donating, he caught the afterbirth when I went AUUGH WHOA, and then with a sudden shuffle of motion, the room went dim, people bundled up my bedding, someone draped a warm blanket over us, and everyone disappeared. In the clean, quiet room, the sun lit up the mountains outside our windows, Mike bent over and kissed our heads, my dad looked bemused, and my mom grinned and handed me a breakfast sandwich, still warm.

- - -

Now we are home. The boys are charmed and distracted by the new small person. Mike and I are figuring out how to use a co-sleeper pulled up to the bed with dubious results - we woke up this morning forming a human barrier around her on the bed, with Leif mashed up against the wall behind us. The milk fairy has visited, and my deflating figure has become even more comical.

We love her so much. She is studious, alert, and calm, with large dark eyes and long fingers and toes. I can't wait to know her more.

Baby Zenny

Everything went very fast after my water broke a few hours into labor. Decided it was more comfortable to stand and rock against mike, then almost dropped the baby out on the floor before getting hauled up on the bed. Much howling and screaming, but mom tells me I didn't swear at anyone this time.

She is quiet and sleepy and slightly smooshed. Perfect and beautiful.

Due

Still pregnant. Restoring to trickery; regiment of Thai food. Have been recommended castor oil, and am suspicious about the desirable qualities of beaver ass-gland oil. Can think of more enjoyable ways to poison myself.

This while sucking slurpees on the beach with my father. There are worse ways to wait out a baby.

flights, eyeliner, cat interventions

My father flies in today. The last time we saw each other was in Indiana when I was 19, which was 14 years ago. Jumping Jesus.

So I decided to get fancy with my mom's semi-permanent eyeliner. And I did it wrong. And now it will not come off now. Pretty sure the only way to correct this will be to slab on more layers of it. 

What's the big deal here? IT WILL NOT COME OFF.

Nobody will notice, though, because I can just yank up my shirt and make them clap their hands over their eyes with the cat's horrific attempt to carve my stomach open.

Kind of like this, except more like a couple of small cat scratches.

While driving to my doctor's office with lopsided eyes, I stopped at an intersection and saw our neighbor - the one who is maaaaybe dealing drugs to local school kids next to our mailbox - waiting for the pedestrian crossing. The light turned green, and he walked right across my path as I turned left. A brief and fierce internal battle erupted. I could run over him! And then get out and ask if he's ok while rummaging his pockets for drugs! Who needs sneaky detective shoes when you have vehicular manslaughter? He trudged toward the elementary school, and I drove on, huffing in disappointment.

Buttons and camels

The boys ran in with arms full of mail, dumping a shower of catalogs and letters onto me. Among them was a brown envelope from Canada. Sarah sent a little hand-knit vest for the impending baby, who has been contentedly stretching small feet into my ribs and making no signs of exit.

I love the little garment so much. The boys laid it on my belly and made d'awwwws over the little buttons.

I'm a bad snail-mail friend, having temporarily relinquished my income and being unable to reciprocate. But in this past hard year the packages and letters have come, flying in from Ontario and Santa Cruz and Bakersfield, and I feel so loved and ineptly grateful. I'm gathering myself, everything is falling into place in increments, and I'll be back up and sending good things back out into the world soon.

Robotaday recently sent a box of lung-friendly fiber, with a spindle and alpaca fleece so exciting that I haven't dared try them yet. I read articles about spinning and look at them greedily, waiting for the day I can sit outside with a tall cold beer and uninterrupted hours to make a studious attempt. Kids play. Babies sleep. It will happen. In the meantime, I wound the skein of camel and silk she had tucked into the box, and freestyled a small Lothlorien pullover. The baby stretched and still refused to come out.

I am feeling slow and quiet and anxious in these long last days, but I'm here.

Tender moments

We sprawled on the couch as a family, watching a movie. The boys were all young shoulders and curls. "Look at my handsome boys, mom," I said. "They're pretty nice," she agreed. Then Gavin reached over, poked his brother, and Leif whipped around, grabbed Gavin's hand, tried to hit him with it, and punched dad in the balls.

Warms the heart, it does.

kilt hose for the small-legged

When you can buy a good pair socks for $3, it doesn't make economical sense to knit your own at $8-20 a skein. Kilt hose, however, can run you $40-80 on the market, and suddenly it makes a whole hell of a lot more sense to just make your own. And while it can take me the better part of a year to make a damn pair of socks, I will inexplicably turn out hose inside of two weeks. A niche! I have found mine!

There are not a lot of patterns for kilt hose. I bought an old book about knitting kilt hose, and it was full of vague guidelines and uncharted, picture-less directions written in terms nobody uses anymore. I read it anyway, and thinking about making my own collection of kilt hose patterns. Traditional hose! Modern hose! Military hose! Flat knit and fancy and utilitarian hose!

 Hose hose hose hose

So I have written the first pattern and made up a pair of simple children's hose.

Children's hose need to be simple, quick enough to knock out before their limbs grow out of them, and durable. The trick is to use slightly thicker yarn on slightly smaller needles, to make a fabric that will hold up a bit and not puddle around the ankles. Here I used a dk weight yarn, worked out a simple cuff that looks fancier than it is, and used single instead of paired decreases to accommodate small sausagey legs.

Around here, the Highland Games come on the heels of Burns' Night, so there is the better part of a year to knit up some nice hose for the kilt season.

And I already need to get cracking on the next pair, because some aspiring RSCDS dance instructor already wore a hole in the ones I made him last year. Since he's bottling a batch of home-brewed hard cider for me this weekend, though, it's a fair trade.

moody

I used to worry a lot about the drive to kaaawa, which hosts the occasional smooshed jogger because of a bend in the road. Then I spent four years driving the long winding cliffs of Maui, and it put the 15 minute stretch of beachside highway in perspective a bit. I drove up to the beach, listening to music and feeling stupid about fussing all those years ago. There is a lot I would change, if I could go back and pry my hands loose before I strangled the things I was so scared to lose.

I discovered years ago that little soothes like sitting on a beach in the middle of the week in the longest part of winter. The same song has played on the radio during these drives for the past 6 years. A few weeks ago, we traded in the Chevy for a smaller car - a car so plain and functional as to be invisible to all speed traps - and its radio is just as possessed as the last one.

Near the infamous bend in the road, traffic halted, and I rubbernecked dutifully as we inched past three cop cars and a truckload of surfers. A too-young teen was slumped on the ground against the fence with plastic cuffs and a "well, shit" expression as he watched traffic go by. The cops were in jeans and body armor, clustered in the shade over paperwork on the hoods of their Chargers. Glimpses of lives I don't intersect.

I sat on the beach and read while Leif drew swirls in the beach with sticks. Tourists stood in the surf and jumped and flexed for cameras. I feel like a time traveler, watching happy moments become old vacation memories.

We ate an orange and I sunned my ham hocks.

Everything happens the only way it can, I tell myself. I don't believe myself, but it's a nice thought.

Busywork

I'm mad at my knitting, but it's doing ok despite me.

This productivity while I defer to a more patient math tutor than myself. Howling "rawr just do it!" and throwing star stickers in the air doesn't appear to have any educational benefits. Its gotten the floor pretty clean with all the sweeping time-outs I've given myself, though.

Still no crimes to solve, except for Who's Been Peeing on the Scale. It's down to one of the cats.