Forming Neural Pathways with Breaking Bad

...Is a current fact of Mizz McCrumpleface's existence that gives me pause when I consider the implications. Not the least of my worries is the fact that Jesse curses so poorly. For a little gang-banger, he sure does sound like an awkward tween grasping for attention every time he adds the word "bitch" superfluously to the end of a sentence. I want my daughter to know how to curse appropriately, dammit. And of course I'd rather she grew up to do something other than manufacture methamphetamine, but I wouldn't want to squelch her dreams when she's less than six weeks old, I suppose. I wouldn't blame her for getting bored with her current job, which is pretty much limited to laying around and being cute, acting as a conduit for various body fluids, and waiting for all the wires to hook themselves up in her brain and body. Emphasis on the "cute," as you can see.

I have been feeling mostly good, with day or two-long blips here and there. I had a somewhat stressful family visit in the middle of some sleepless nights, which made me more-than-average bitchy about the things I dislike about certain family members of mine. My aunt was in true form, representing the television-addicted, chain restaurant-preferring, Fox News-watching demographic. Even though she was being perfectly respectful, it was driving me a little unreasonably nuts. Andor and I were fighting a little too. Once all that stuff leveled out and we got some sleep and sex, things improved dramatically. I have been daydreaming rather nonstop about metalworking, and when I'm not doing that, I just watch this fine TV show on Netflix. I am glad for the little bit of stimulation.

I have a date tomorrow to begin my little apprenticeship with Mug Monsters. Will report later.

Peeing While Babywearing

Since I discovered experientially how wearing the baby is the answer to many of the complaints I have about Cora's existence on the outside of me, I have been re-learning how to do things with a real live baby strapped to my front. You would think it's just like being pregnant, but it's not. There are breakable little ankles dangling right where I would normally lean over the sink, for instance. There are things made of fabric that I would rather not accidentally pee on because Cora is perfectly capable of frequently soiling her clothes all by herself, because doing laundry twice a week is difficult for people who have no facilities at home, and most of all, because it would just be embarrassing to have to admit, when Andor asked why my carrier was in the dirty laundry bin, that I had peed on the baby.

Right now, it's 6:00 in the morning, and I feel rather amazingly energetic and awake after about six hours of non-continuous sleep because Cora decided not to fuss or squeak or ride her invisible bicycle between all her feedings last night. (I wish you could hear how many exclamation points I say that last sentence with in my head.) I'm going to accept this small gift from the universe enthusiastically in the hopes that the phenomenon will repeat itself.

Ol' Poop Smallsy Smalls is growing and changing so dramatically every day. I know, I know; all parents say that about their kids. But that doesn't mean that it isn't really exciting when it's MY kid. For instance, she's already strong enough that we often don't need to support her neck in certain positions. She pushes herself up on her hands and sortof wavers there, looking around like, "See? See?!" Yes Cora, I see. I can also pick her up under her armpits like a real baby without worrying that her head is going to fall off.

Her face is looking more human all the time too, but I still can't see much resemblance to either of us. She definitely has Andor's feet, poor thing. She might have my dad's ears. I can almost see evidence of a ski slope nose like mine, but her nostrils are very wide, and her facial features in general are prominent in a way that doesn't seem to indicate that she'll get my petite, angular face. Her eyes are enormous, but there was no way she could come from the two of us and not have big eyes. I have no idea where her perfect little Clara Bow mouth came from. It's sure to get her in trouble some day.

Alright, baby just went back to sleep, my pot roast just finished cooking, and my man is looking really juicy, so I think I'll go take a bite out of a couple of things.

A Day Much Improved

I am happy to report that a bit of sleep after a couple of beers last night, followed by a productive day today, has made the world seem like a brighter place. It also helps that Cora gave up on her 24-plus hour vigil and went the fuck to sleep. And for anyone who did not catch the reference, do yourself a favor and watch this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CseO1XRYs9I&feature=youtube_gdata_player

So, about smiling. I know that babies aren't supposed to smile for a while. However, I feel almost sure that I have seen a look on Cora's face that foreshadows her future smile.

The photo below shows her in full fabulous jazz hand formation. I remember feeling her little fingers moving around beside her face when she was still inside me. She still spends lots of her waking time making hand gestures that are as nonsensical as they are charismatic, and sometimes she even does it in her sleep. The Radical Faeries are sure to love that, even if she is a vagina-haver.

Three Hours of Sleep, Twelve Hours of Trying to Sleep.

I am stressed and tired beyond the point of really feeling it anymore. Since this apartment is almost lined with mirrors, however, I have plenty of opportunity to see the lines that are deepening on the skin of my face. It has been less than three weeks, but I am struggling not to begin filling this journal with the really dark thoughts that are starting to settle into the corners of my mind as if they plan to stay there, guarding the door against all the happiness and sweetness that motherhood is supposedly about. Sometimes it feels like all those images of idealized motherhood must be designed for the purpose of torturing people like me with evidence of my failure to get with the program.

Today I think I'll just try turning off my emotions as much as possible. Let's see how that works.

I am so envious of Andor for being more than just a vending machine to her. And for being able to sleep when she is attached to me for hours, keeping me awake and wandering lonely through the bleak landscapes of my sleep-deprived, hormone-riddled brain.  And for having meaningful work to do, and for having a creative life, and for being able to relieve his sexual frustration because his organs haven't been ripped apart.

But my baby is really cute.

Catch-up on Journals Since Cora's Arrival

Feb. 18

This is our fifth day home from the hospital, Cora's 12th day on Earth. We have not had a smooth run of things, but now that we are home, a sort of calm has set in. Cora's sleep still seems plagued with bad dreams, and I still occasionally feel faint when I remember certain parts of my 30 hour labor, but we all managed to come out of those horrific first few days relatively unscathed. Our daughter is clearly a tenacious creature, and I try to hold her bravery in mind as my inspiration to pull myself together each day. By the simple act of taking a breath, she became my hero.

I am sure that I will be telling our birth story in many different ways for months to come. Here is the basic gist.

Cora was already 3 weeks overdue by the time I went into labor. Although this is highly unusual, all of the medical professionals involved in my prenatal care agreed that we seemed healthy and that there was no reason to induce. So finally, at 43 weeks, I started having contractions.

We started out on course to birth at home as we had planned. I labored at home for most of the night with only my partner Andor, and our midwife and doula arrived early in the morning. After a few hours, I started to feel like something was seriously wrong. The pain seemed to be in the wrong place. When my pelvis began to open and I got the urge to bear down, I could tell that pushing was never going to work. Not only was the pressure on my rectum too intense for me to push through, but I felt no sign of the baby's head moving into my birth canal. Nevertheless, I tried to push for several hours. We were getting nowhere, and I was desperate for some pain relief. I had not slept in over 30 hours, and I felt like my asshole was going to tear open. My sounds had shifted from guttural growls to high pitched screams. The contractions were rolling relentlessly, only 2 minutes apart. I told my birth team that I couldn't do it anymore. Finally we gave up and decided to transport to the hospital.

Long story short, Cora was born 12 hours later in a flood of black meconium with only a week heartbeat to prove that she was still alive.

After a week in the neonatal ICU, she had made almost a full recovery. I am sure that later I will have more to say about our stay in the hospital.

Right now she is stretched out against my leg as I am sitting up in bed. She is heartbreakingly beautiful. I wish I could say that she looks peaceful. I wonder if she will always have that determined furrow in her brow when she sleeps.

Feb. 22

Cora is a little over 2 weeks old today. Currently she is asleep against my chest in her carrier. She has been very fussy for the last 24 hours, and the only cure has been to keep her next to someone's skin at all times. She has also been feeding at half hour intervals for long stretches of time, and her sleep has been light and fitful. Once I decided that today was the day that my sanity demanded I find a way to free up my hands, we pulled out all 9 baby carriers we had been given and picked out the best ones. I feel much less annoyed now.

Feb. 24

Cora's cord stump finally fell off today. It had been getting especially gross and smelly. Having a baby makes one get excited about the silliest things.

Last night, on the other hand, was a bit of a defeat. I took her out to a clothing swap and left Andor at home. I figured it was as good a thing as any for a trial run. Of the hour and a half total that elapsed between the time when I got her into the car until when we arrived back home, I spent maybe ten minutes actually looking at clothes. The rest of the time I was either feeding her, soothing her, changing her diaper, or trying to figure out how much clothing she needed on (because my hormone-addled body can't gauge temperature well at all). My patience was almost completely unraveled by the time I gave up and packed my things to leave amid seemingly desperate infant cries, and then a few more mishaps decided to fall in my lap just to make sure I was thoroughly witless by the time I got home, shoved the baby into Andor's arms, and shut myself in the bathroom for half an hour. Luckily, my partner is an intelligent man and knows when to swoop in and be a hero. He took over feeding duty for the next six hours or so, and I tried to pretend, even in my sleep, that I am no one's mother, no one's vending machine, no one's ass wiper. I was much better off by early this morning. Once again, the baby looked like my beautiful little daughter instead of a tiny monster bent on breaking my body and spirit to her ruthless will.

This is Bound to be Personal in a Tacky, Not-So-Interesting Way.

Feel free to ignore this one. It may not stay up for long.

What a strange few weeks. Not that it's over or anything. We still don't know what we're doing this weekend--Athens, Georgia, or a farm outside Roanoke, Virginia? Blacksburg? Franklin, NC perhaps?

It seems like almost everyone I know is in transition and rather unavailable. I myself am moving into my new house and somewhat away from our little womb of love. Only five blocks away, sure, but it will certainly mean a change, even if I mostly sleep in the same bed where I've slept for the past four months or so. The new house is shaping up to become a radical public school teachers' affinity house.

When we went up to Asheville to try to retrieve my things the first time, we couldn't get the truck because we had both somehow forgotten (duh) to renew our expired licenses. The guys at Penske in Weaverville were really nice about letting us reschedule, which I know they didn't have to do. I felt sure that if we had been in Asheville or Greensboro, we would have gotten a self-satisfied, not-sorry-at-all "Sorry. That's Penske policy."

Foiled master plans aside, we had an interesting weekend.

My list of mini-trip highlights:

- Despite multiple potentially volatile run-ins, the only word creepy ex said to me was "No," and this was solicited by a question: "May I come in?" Furthermore, I have received no psychotic text messages since then. This is a first.
- David being perfectly supportive and making everything better.
- Being magically given a place to stay by Ms. Magical Erin, and then cuddling with her magical cat.
- When asked why he had responded to my question about a Haruki Murakami novel instead of telling me where to turn, Aaron saying, "You asked me two questions at once. I answered the more important one." Also, Aaron saying, "It's my life, isn't it?" when I tried to convince him to stay somewhere he didn't want to stay. I was flushed with affection for him right then, especially after the "Do you think I treat every woman like my girlfriend?" thing. What a rad guy.
- Hanging out at Gaining Ground Farm, where there was a booty dance party in the house (complete with several children under three) and an old-time and gypsy jazz pickin' session by the fire. Nice people.
- Seeing Ken and Ziggy at Broadway's.

Lowlights:
 
- Realizing how utterly terrified I still get when confronted with the possibility of meeting creepy ex face-to-face. I still feel spine prickles of imminent danger when he is near, or even when he might be near.
- Creepy ex not letting me into a 70's African music DJ party I really wanted to attend (hey, but at least...see above), since apparently he is somehow the bouncer? Boo. But I tried.
- Having horrible dreams about creepy ex doing terrible things to me.
- Not sleeping at all and freezing my arse off when we crawled into our tent at the aforementioned farm, and then having to spend the rest of Sunday sleeping instead of getting things done, and then being ill-prepared for class today.
- Not seeing some people, and spending too little time with others.

Just weird:

- Watching the conflict in people's faces as they try to decide whether to talk to me, seeing the embarrassment in their eyes as they fumble to make a choice: Recognize this person's humanity, with which I am very familiar, or be cowed by the inevitable wrath and "betrayal" rhetoric of someone who never gives up a grudge, and who is watching very, very closely?

People can be disappointing. I'm not sure what the difference is between a friend and an acquaintance anymore. I have been unsure for a while now who my friends are. I am inclined to think, from evidence I can gather so far, that Greensboro may be a better place to make them.

Off to sleeping and voting and renewing licenses and teaching. Hum drum dee-dum.  

Not a Robot

Written December 2008.

A wall of B minor in reverberating synth: inscrutable, oblique, obsessively restrained. Motion suggesting itself first in the tension of the lower back, rolling up the spine and over, around the shoulders, barely a shudder before the sound rolls off the fingers. A tilt of the cheek aligns the cave of his ear with the monitor and he freezes in his sneakers, toes rolled under, white-knuckled and lock-kneed, the only movement a twitch of a taut shoulderblade careening down through arm-gristle to a trembling hand on the keys.

A Tiny Nightmare

Written December 2008.

Some god of bitter ironies has laid Charlotte over Fort Lauderdale like velcro. Two of my private hells occupy the same dimension. Painted rich bitches with Long Island accents stroll by me forever, chattering about the new condos they’ve just bought in Asheville, where I can never go again.

Frydaddy

Written December 2008.

The city is large today. Waiting in line for tea in late December? Where did they all come from? It couldn’t have been far, could it?

Children everywhere. Murmur and bubble. We almost throttled one of the joyful innocent throats for his insistent slurping, purposely holding his straw just above the line of the juice in its grubby burgundy cup. Parents sitting by, continuing to chat. At what age is it appropriate to educate children about the health risks posed by pushing adults to insanity with repetitive noise and motion?

There was the time when I ate dinner at a boyfriend’s house and realized that there was no way he could have helped ending up with a smacking problem. I sat quietly chewing my steak and tried to tune out the maddening cacophony of a family of six all smacking loudly with open mouths and slurping iced tea. I tried blurring out all the distinct sounds and focusing on the overall cadence, but that only caused an image to swell in my mind of a giant lump of half-digested meat rolling around in a room-sized mouth, and I was inside.

I excused myself and made my way to the bathroom, where I remained until I thought they had had a reasonable amount of time to finish their feeding trough ritual. When I came out, my boyfriend’s huge, surly father asked me through a soggy lump of biscuit that moved up and down on his tongue as he spoke, “Whassa matter? Upset stomach?” He gulped down the wad in his cheek, and then passed gas loudly.

“Yes, I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me this morning,” I replied, after courteously cursing the dog for the foul smell that now hung in the stale air of the dining room.

Pushing the greasy, wax paper-lined basket of fried shrimp towards me, he insisted that I eat because “I didn’t pull out that goddamn frydaddy and sweat my balls off for the last hour to watch you push food around your plate.”