Stella came home from school yesterday with her first ever arts and crafts project:
What a cute little reindeer. I think she did a great job, especially with cutting the head and nose and drawing the eyelashes. I am going to keep it forever and ever and ever.
I can’t stop thinking about this. It’s a blog about a woman who got a septic streptococcal pneumoniae infection when she was pregnant.
The blog is a little hard to follow, but here is the rundown: Carol had to have an emergency c-section back in June because she got really sick. Then, her blood started clotting uncontrollably, I think due to the drugs she was on to help her blood pressure stabilize, and it basically made parts of her body die.
Her skin died and started sloughing off, necessitating skin grafts.
Her legs had to be amputated below the knee.
Her left arm was amputated below the elbow.
Her right ring finger was amputated.
The nerves in her eyes died and now she is also blind.
All because she got a strep infection.
Can you even imagine? You are pregnant, looking forward to the birth of your child. The next thing you know, you wake up in the hospital and your life has completely flipped the fuck out. Like your worst nightmare.
To be in that state, and not be able to feed, nurture, cuddle or kiss your newborn baby. The baby not even knowing its mother. And, the woman also has an older daughter–it looks like she’s a toddler, maybe two or three years old. The family seems to have a great support system, and the baby is now thriving. But still. The husband always seems to have a positive attitude when he writes updates.
My heart goes out to them. Get well, Carol.
All of the talk about BPA has really muddled my brain. BPA, short for Bisphenol A, is a compound used to make water bottles, CDs, sports equipment, and other common consumer goods. Oh, and did I mention baby bottles?
The controversy, in a nutshell, is some reports say that BPA causes hyperactivity, fertility problems, cancer, autism, growth problems, ETC ETC ETC. Just your run-of-the-mill toxic element wreaking havoc on your body. Some countries, such as Germany and Canada, are even trying to ban BPA.
Just a few weeks ago, the FDA issued a final report on it’s study of BPA, concluding that there is “no direct evidence for health effects in people.” The report says that similar conclusions have been reached by other government agencies such as the European Food Safety Authority.
Then another report was released that said BPA causes heart disease.
So I really don’t know what to think anymore, except maybe stick to my theory that pretty much anything can kill you, so moderation is best.
But I also like the creed “better safe than sorry”, so I took advantage of the little-known Babies R Us policy that allows you to exchange your bottles for BPA-free bottles. You don’t need receipts, packages, or boxes–just the bottles. (Don’t forget the little bottle brushes, or they’ll subtract a dollar. Unless you distract the cashier and they forget to subtract a dollar, which also works.) They will give you store credit for new bottles. It also comes in handy when you aren’t so fond of the bottles you already have, like if you have Doctor Browns bottles with those eleventy billion gazillion little parts.
So return your bottles, be worry free about BPA in your baby, and try out a new brand of bottles!
I think that Stella LOOKS LIKE A GIRL. She’s not one of those androgynous babies that could go either way. And practically every day I dress her in girly outfits. She looks like a cute blob of pink. Oozing girlishness. She has a pink pacifier. She wears pink socks. She has her name, STELLA, pimped out in stickers on her stroller. So why do people ask me if it’s a boy or a girl? Do people really dress second-born boys in frilly pink dresses and stick pink pacifiers in their mouths? Is it not completely obvious that she’s a girl?
My old self would say that people are just being polite, and don’t want to offend me and say the wrong thing. (”Oh, your little boy has such broad shoulders, he’s going to make a great football player, and with those giant feet, he’ll be a fast runner too!”) But having heard every sort of rude, intrusive comment when I was pregnant, I now know that people are NOT that polite. (”Your nose is so huge! You look like a lush!” “You’re about to pop!”)
We’ve managed to avoid the kidnappers thus far. But, we’ve found that there’s another downside to having the world’s cutest baby–the Paparazzi. The cameras. The fans. They follow us everywhere.
On Monday, Stella and I ate lunch at the Dominion Deli at Arlington Boulevard and Gallows Road with seven fabulous mommy and baby friends (which is always a sight-eight women, eight babies, eight strollers, and several gratuitous flashes of breasts as we feed our babies. I try to tip the servers well). We sat in the corner of the patio and managed to avoid the paparazzi all through lunch, although this was probably because I had Stella in a sling and no one could see her face. When I put her in her stroller and put her sunglasses over her eyes, it was ALL OVER. CUTENESS OVERLOAD. BRING ON THE PAPS.
We walked to the Starbucks for an after-lunch grande Lite Mocha Mint Frappuccino with chocolate whipped cream. The paparazzi, made up of three women, spotted us. They followed us to our car. They oohed and aahhhed over Stella, saying things like:
“Oh My GAWD she is the CUTEST BABY EVER!”
“I didn’t know they made sunglasses for babies!”
“Are you on maternity leave?”
“That sure is a nice car seat!”
and my favorite…”CAN I TAKE HER PICTURE?”
The youngest woman pulls out her fancy blackberry/camera phone/MP3/GPS/whatever and takes a picture of Stella. Because she is the cutest freaking thing she’s ever seen. Oh well, at least she asked.
Stella LOVES her bee mobile, as displayed in this video (in spite of the fact that she lets out a little cry at the end. I think she was mad because she thought it was stopping). When it’s on, she stares at it intently. The only problem is that it requires someone with full control over their hands and fingers (i.e. Mommy or Daddy) to wind it for her every minute or so. Over. And Over. And Over. But it keeps her happy, so I love it too.
Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. NO Baby. Not yet.
We’re all ready to go–we put the final touches on the nursery, installed the car seat, and packed the hospital bag. Now we just wait.
I’m feeling huge and a bit uncomfortable. I can put socks on, but I can’t really cross my legs anymore. I’ve given up putting lotion on my legs because bending over makes my back hurt. My feet and ankles are so swollen they look like butternut squashes. And OOOOOHHHHH the pressure. The baby is head down, on my bladder. I can feel her little butt wiggling at the top of my stomach. My back aches.
Enough complaining. The pregnancy hasn’t been bad at all, and I really do like being pregnant. I love feeling the baby move inside me. And lucky me, I never got nausea, heartburn, indigestion, or any other of those symptoms. Some stretch marks and swelling, and that’s about it. Oh yeah, and my PREGNANT NOSE.
People still say that I’m “glowing” and that I look like “the happiest pregnant woman they’ve ever seen.” I think they are mistaking a pregnant glow with my permanently flushed face and gigantic red nose. A cashier at the grocery store asked me when I was due, and then she told me she knew I was having a girl. When I asked how she knew that, she said she could tell by my nose. AAAHHH. Yes, it’s swollen and red. How does that mean I’m having a girl?
I’ve discovered that people have no qualms about what they say to me. Adults, not kids, say the darnedest things. Some of my favorites include:
Dressed up for Amy’s wedding, 38 1/2 weeks pregnant
The nursery
Last weekend was a whirlwind of activity, eating and emotions. My brother Eric was visiting from Indianapolis, and we managed to do some fun junk outdoors, eat way too much food and laugh a lot, in spite of some other really awful things that happened. (I’m still processing how to even write about one of them, it’s so intense and extreme and scary, so right now I’m going to stick to happy thoughts.)
One highlight of last weekend was our trip to the National Zoo on Friday-we spent eight hours walking around, and I think we managed to see every single animal there except the elusive liger baby anteater. However, by the end of the day, we were all so physically worn out, and my legs hurt so bad that I could barely walk back to the car. I did manage to get some pretty cool shots of animals with my nifty zoom lens:
Panda!
Gharial–sort of like a crocodile with a really funny mouth
unidentified mammal with the speed of a liger and the wit of a mongoose.
We ate SO MUCH FOOD this past weekend. I am sure I gained 11 pounds. There were too many good meals to review them all, but a few of the highlights were: Fogo de Chao (again–we cashed in one of our free lunches), Mannequin Pis–an amazing Belgian restaurant that was an instant favorite, and Jaleo, which is always a winner. I am still full. (Okay, not really.)
Come back anytime, Eric!
Larry and I went to see Sunshine this afternoon at the Bethesda Landmark Row cinema. We walked there (only a 20-25 minute walk), even though it was extremely humid and it looked like it was going to rain. And because someone said it would be “an adventure.” I was already sick of walking in muggy, hot, humid conditions after yesterday’s trip to the zoo (I suffered from a serious case of swamp-ass after that little adventure.) But I obliged.
The movie was really interesting, and I recommend it highly if you like sci-fi and/or apocalyptic future stories like I do. But when we left the theater, a mere two hours later, it was POURING. Great idea to walk to the movie. So what do you do when you are stuck at Bethesda Row and it is pouring?
Go to Austin Grill and drink margaritas.
Austin Grill is certainly not my favorite tex-mex restaurant, not by a long shot. But the wet trip home was a little better with tequila.
Yeah, what an adventure.
Let me preface this post by saying that I really do love animals, especially dogs. My whole family loves animals. We love our dogs. My parents and brother spoil the dogs, and they get more treats than most dogs, I’m sure. So really, there’s no need to call Pet Protective Services, or the Humane Society, or the Dog Abuse Hotline. Really. Don’t. Call. Accidents happen. And as I learned last week, they are more likely to happen when you’ve got a bonfire, tiki torches and two big, fluffy Siberian Huskies.
It’s kind of my fault. Last Thursday night, at my parents’ house in Indiana, the guys started a bonfire in the fire pit down by the creek. And we fired up some citronella tiki torches to keep the pesky mosquitoes from eating us and injecting us with their ugly west nile virus.
We let Kody, the old ornery husky, join us without a leash because he’s too much of a sissy to run away. But Kita, the younger, fiercer, strong-willed dog cannot be trusted outside. She runs away the instant she can. In fact, she’s sort of like those Velociraptors in Jurrasic Park, constantly testing the electric fence for any breach in the system so that she can break free. She had to stay inside.
With the fire roaring, I went inside to get the s’more ingredients, because duh, you can’t have a bonfire without s’mores. And poor Kita looked so lonely inside, all by herself, while we were swatting insects having a grand ol’ time down by the bonfire. So I said “Kita, want to come outside? Where’s your leash? Com’on, let’s go outside!” And of course, she was thrilled to join us, even though she was on a leash.
Do you see where this is going? Dog. Leash. Tiki torch. The poor dog was so excited to be outside, she was prancing all over the place, smelling all the bug spray-cintronella-bonfire-rabbit poop smells. She pranced to the left, in front of the tiki torch. Then she pranced to the right, behind the tiki torch. And she wrapped her leash around the blazing tiki torch and pulled it down. With all the darting and prancing, it nearly missed hitting her…but not quite.
In all the commotion, Eric dropped the leash, and the dog started running away. I saw that she had a glowing red line of fire on her back. I scream “Mom! Mom! The dog’s on fire! Put her out!!”
Poor Kita. What do you when the dog is on fire? She didn’t really understand the whole stop, drop and roll thing. She was just running. On fire. And she didn’t even know she was on fire–she has so much fur that she couldn’t feel it. My mom caught her quickly, and did some crazy mom-magic trick to make her stop burning while not burning her own hands. She may have shoved her onto the ground, but I’m not sure. I followed up by dumping a bottle of water on Kita for good measure.
So my advice is that anyone who has a dog should not keep it on a leash when lit tiki torches are in the vicinity. Because trust me, burning dog fur does not smell that good. And you will feel very bad.
Luckily it only got the very tip of her neck-fur. She was surprisingly non-flammable. Singed a bit, were you?
This is Kita. We were kind of mean to dress her up like a reindeer last December. But the fire was a complete accident, I swear.