Halala Mama

My New Year’s resolution is that I’m going to stop waiting for my husband to make fun plans for us.

If I continue to wait, my hair will turn gray and my bones to dust.

So I’m making plans for our family and IF he doesn’t like them, then by ALL MEANS, he is welcome to jump right in and start making arrangements of fun things for us to do.  And by fun, I do not mean sitting in this apartment staring at the four walls listening to CNN.

When he got home from the mosque this afternoon, he found Adam and I ready to go…

“It’s too far…” he protested.  I.do.not.care.  Get in the car.

We went to Monkey Joe’s, which was the best $4.99 that I have ever in my life spent on Adam (except maybe for those pre-natal vitamins, which I am certain are going to give him Einstein like abilities).

From the moment we entered the place, Adam was wide eyed.  Bright colors!  Running kids!  Nothing like our dull apartment!  He was ready to go!  We barely got the security bracelet on him and he was writhing in my arms.

I placed him in the entrance to the toddler bounce house and he bounded in.  And sat down.  On a crab. At the entrance.  For about fifteen minutes.

“I don’t think he’s gonna move,” remarked my ever observant husband who refused to get in there and help matters  along.

This boy sat.  This boy who was laying along the wall on top of the loveseat inching along toward the end table and certain disaster when I yanked him from his perch this afternoon.

He slowly found his courage and footing.  He made his way among the inflatable animals and caught sight of a little girl who became the object of his affection for the rest of our visit.

We sat, chatted, and watched him from a short distance.  I recalled a blog post I read on Spawnocalypse in which she described herself as a “periscope parent,” one who lurks a safe distance away allowing her children freedom to entertain themselves without constant parental involvement.  I like that idea of parenting.  Close enough to guide and instruct when necessary but allowing Adam some space to be on his own.

Today that meant finding him on the back of the loveseat and snatching him to what I call safety and he calls boring.

It meant chatting with Ismael while Adam roared through the bounce house playing with other toddlers and thankfully not pulling their hair or sticking his fingers in their mouths.

It meant not totally ignoring him like the people at the table next to us did with their children.

It meant not taking off our shoes and climbing into the bounce house WITH him when he didn’t immediately think it was the most awesome thing ever.

It meant letting him work out his adjustment to a new place in his little bitty world in safety and at his own pace.

Of course, my new found pride in our parenting skills melted as he thrashed, kicked, and threw a fit when he figured out that our putting his coat and shoes on meant we were leaving.

You win some and you lose some.

I am so not qualified to cut hair.

Lorie and I cut Adam’s hair once and it worked out swimmingly.  He went from mad scientist to dapper young man with just a few swipes of the clippers.

Of course we didn’t use MY clippers and therein lies the problem.

I don’t know where Ismael bought these clippers…he’s a bit famous in my circle of friends for buying things from people in gas station parking lots.  Chess sets.  Tennis shoes.  Probably hair clippers.

Adam’s birthday party is tomorrow and wanting him to look nice, I got all inspired to finally use our clippers today.

I did everything right.  I put him in his high chair on the kitchen linoleum.  Combed his hair out into a too long fro.  Wrapped a towel around him to catch the hair.

I did everything right, except stop that nonsense and drive him straight to Cookie Cutters.

Ten minutes later I had a wailing hair coated boy, an irritated husband, a messy kitchen, and a total lack of patience.

Adam looked like a stray dog.  Patchy tufts of hair in places.  Shorn close in others.

What a mess.

Thirty minutes later – bathed, dressed, and in the car on the way to Cookie Cutters.

I don’t remember the hairdresser’s name, but as far as I’m concerned it’s preceded with the title Saint.

She didn’t judge me or laugh in my face.  She studied his head carefully and apologetically said, “it’s probably going to be short.”

“Yeah,” I pointed, “as short as that nasty little place right there.  I’m fine with that.”

Her magical pink clippers removed the stray dog look and transformed him into a cute little boy.

I heart Cookie Cutters.

….

Exactly 52 weeks ago today, I gave birth to our son.  However, due to the fact that a year takes 365 days to revolve around the sun instead of 364, his birthday isn’t until tomorrow.  Whatever!

Today feels like his birthday to me for two reasons.

I’ve marked every week of his first fifty-two with pictures starting on Saturday so that I can make a week by week scrapbook of his first year.  This is the beginning of that last week!

And I have absolutely no memory.  I was induced on the 10th so I always think his birthday is on the 10th.  Inconsiderate child was not born until 12:16 AM on the 11th.  Psh.

So anyway!

We headed to the hospital that morning and started the long, long process of inducing labor.  For the first five hours, the nurse ramped up my pitocin until it seemed I was in a good labor pattern.  The doctor checked me at 11:30 and I expected great things.

Nothing.

I had not changed / dialated one bit.  He broke my water and  inserted an internal fetal monitor to check the strength of my contractions and the baby’s vitals.

My contraction level went off the charts.  Almost every one was at full strength.  I laid there, talking to the doctor nonchalently.

“WOW!  You must really be feeling these!”

Truth was, they just weren’t that bad.  I must have a high tolerance for pain because really, it was uncomfortable but not worthy of really complaining about.

Four hours later, still no change.  No change = no epidural.

At that point, I decided that maybe having drugs would be a good thing so that I could get some sleep since delivery was hours away.  The nurse put something absolutely magical in my IV and I was OUT cold for hours.  We repeated the cycle of checking my progress, disappointment, and drugs until 11:30 PM.

At that point, I realized all my uterus was doing was massaging Adam and not going to actually deliver him.

The doctor knew it too and we discussed a c-section.  He kept asking me what I wanted to do and in my drugged haze I think I finally said, “Well, YOU’re the doctor!”

Next thing I knew, I was in the operating room, sitting on the table, with the least skilled anesthesiologist in the world digging around in my spine, hitting every nerve there, and trying not to scream in pain as electrical jolts shot down my legs.  I swear, if I met that guy in a dark alley, I might just do him damage.

FINALLY, he found a good spot and everything went mercifully numb.

Ismael appeared out of nowhere and stroked my arm.

I felt a lot of tugging.

I heard, “Remember to breathe.”  Suddenly the anesthesiologist who tried to kill me was interested in keeping me alive.  Ironic.

I heard, “Wow.  That’s a LOT of hair.”

All I could think was, “Please, let him cry.  Please.”

After what felt like years, Adam Joel let loose a howl that calmed all of my fears.

I wish I had been more present for the experience, but in reality I was so drugged that I now remember it, but I didn’t feel any of it.

The nurses brought me my baby.  A picture was taken.  I held him on the way back to the room and Ismael took over from there with the help of Lorie and the nurses.

I sunk mercifully into the darkness.

…