thanks

So I was originally planning to detail the makings of our First Family Thanksgiving (not that we haven't celebrated Thanksgiving before, but usually we're with a bigger group of family, with little or no cooking involved)--in my frenzied over-ambition, I even had a notion of live-blogging our preparations--but then I noticed that the food wasn't looking very beautiful and that we had somehow forgotten to include in our preparation any green vegetables, giving our entire meal a sort of beige palette reminiscent of institutional cooking, minus the styrofoam partitioned serving trays. So that's why, with the exception of that one picture of Cal mixing the cornbread stuff, and some pictures of Joe basting the half-done turkey, there are no pictures of our meal. Pity. I took most of the leftovers (turkey, mashed potatoes) with some of the ingredients that we forgot to use on Thursday (leeks, mushrooms, some frozen corn) and ended up making a shepard's pie the day afterwards, which actually was a modest success, though it, like much else, looked not unlike a pile of slop with mashed potatoes on top. But I think that "pile of slop with mashed potatoes on top" pretty much sums up what people want to get out of their Thanksgiving leftovers anyway, so score one for the slop master.

Anyway, thanks for nothing, Thanksgiving. On to the next thing.




I don't think I've ever put up our Christmas tree this early, and I don't think I necessarily would have this year except that Cal was SO EXCITED about it. He has been talking about putting up the Christmas tree ever since we moved, and he saw our (fake) tree amidst the boxes up in our closet. Also there is some weird three year-old thing going on in his mind about Christmas and The Baby, such that he equates the two (probably my fault for repeatedly telling him that the new baby would be coming after Christmas), such that the second after we had the tree up, Cal looked at me and asked hopefully, "So...is the baby coming now?" Yes son. And I will put him under the tree for you wrapped in a GIANT RED BOW.

(And yes, Cal is winking in that photo. No, I don't know why. Either he is imitating me looking through the viewfinder of the camera, or this is something he learned at school. I asked him why he was making that face, and he told me it was because, "I need to look with one eye." Ah so.)

Cal has been off of school since Tuesday afternoon, and it's been just enough days for me to realize that damn, those two and a half weeks he's going to be off for Christmas Break is going to be a long-ass time without any structured activities. I mean sure, there are playdates and the inflatable playground and the aquarium and all that stuff, but any way you spin it, sixteen days is sixteen days and I sure as hell hope he doesn't run out of things to do.

Anyway, partially to that end, and partially because we needed something to do now, today, we took our first trip to the Atlanta Zoo. (Actually, they call it "Zoo Atlanta" for some reason--perhaps Yoda was involved in the naming, but never mind about that.) I had toyed with the idea of going to the zoo earlier this year in the summer, when it was just me and Cal amusing ourselves before I started work, but it was just so hot and it seemed kind of far away, so I said screw it, let's just go to the pool again. We almost didn't go today because it was kind of raining on and off, but finally we just decided that since we weren't made of sugar, we could probably stand to get a little wet.

I am really glad we went. Not only is it an excellent zoo (for some reason, I didn't expect it to be that big, nor to have that many big-ticket animals so close up--I'm sure I don't need to tell you that not every zoo in the country has a pair of pandas, not to mention a BABY PANDA), but the fact that the weather was kind of crappy meant that hardly anyone else was there. We practically had the full run of the place ourselves. Minimal interaction with other humans! Woo!










(Full Thanksgiving picture set here, zoo picture set here.)

all he needs is a bucket and a shovel




Cal "helping" mix the dry ingredients for the cornbread. Though I suspect this was less for the love of cornbread and more for the novelty of having his own private sandbox.

(Incidentally, Thanksgiving culinary lesson learned, part the millionth: do not try to cook cornbread in a toaster oven. Unless you really love the taste of cardboard, in which case--save yourself the hassle, and just eat the box the cornmeal came in.)

into the light

Let's talk for a moment about light.

I don't have a lot of weird hang-ups (or so I'd like to think), but one that I am aware of is a sensitivity to light. Not in that vampire way, or like in that xeroderma pigmentosum Nicole-Kidman-in-"The Others" way, but just to the quantity and quality of light in my living space. Namely, I like a lot of light, and it has to be warm light. If it were up to me and I had no conscience or safety reservations or knowledge of our electricity bill whatsoever, I would outfit our entire house with 150 watt bulbs and keep them blazing all day long.

There are some lights in our new house that I hate, though. This is one of them.




It is a single bulb over the sink that Joe got to replace one that blew. He maintains that he got the same kind of power-saver bulb as the other bulbs are, and at the same wattage, but for some reason, while the other bulbs give off a vaguely yellowish warm light, this one bulb gives off a light that is to my eye a greyish blue. I hate it. I hate this light bulb. I mean, in as much as anyone can hate a light bulb. If I ever see it on, I flick it off instantly. It makes me jittery and anxious. It makes everything look cold and depressing. It makes the sink look like it's haunted.

There's another light in the living room that bothers me too, though to a somewhat lesser degree. It provides a fair amount of light, I suppose, but it is kind of a sickly yellowish green and when you listen closely, you can hear sort of a faint buzzing the the background whenever it is on, which leads me to believe that the bulb is flourescent. Once I started noticing the buzz, I could not tune it out. Also, there is, at some of the dimmer settings, a flicker. I cannot deal with a light that both buzzes and flickers and makes you look like you have some sort of liver disease. So I try to avoid using this light too.

I am all for saving money on electricity and "going green" and using energy efficient appliances as the next person. But I draw the line at light bulbs. And so I figure that the fact that I take mass transit to work every day buys me the right to use incandescent bulbs in my living room, so long as I turn them off when I leave the room.

(And on a related note, I tried to convince Joe last January to keep the Christmas tree up year-round, not as some sort of signifier of extreme sloth or mental illness, but as an additional source of ambient light. He said no. Let's hope he's too distracted this year with the baby and all that to notice and we can keep the tree up at least through March.)

33 weeks

First, a pictoral update




Biggie Smalls is getting more biggie, less smalls, and, I can only imagine, a little disgruntled at the increasingly cramped conditions of his living quarters. As, frankly, am I.

Cal's third set of grandparents came to visit us this weekend, which was fun. Cal got to do his cute act (like many kids, I imagine, he is always much more cute with adult guests than he is with his parents) and got to natter on about all manner of topics, each only tangentially related to the last. This last exchange amused me, though.


CAL
(lifting up Grandpa Bart's shirt)
Why is your belly big?

GRANDPA BART
(Patting Cal on the head)
Too many good meals.

CAL
Do you have a baby in there?

GRANDPA BART
No, just too much food.

CAL
Does the doctor need to fix your belly?

MICHELLE
(Explaining)
Cal's other grandpa has an umbilical hernia that he's getting fixed.

GRANDPA BART
(To Cal)
No, no doctor, just me. I just need to make some lifestyle modifications.

CAL
(Pause)
No. You need the doctor to fix it.


Reminds me of that "Simpsons" episode where Milhouse, upon being told that he needs more exercise asks, "Aw, can't I just have the surgery?"

cal's birthday will involve a beer exchange


Cal just got invited to a birthday party for a kid in his class at one of the local bouncy-house indoor inflatable playgrounds. The invitation stipulated that in lieu of presents for the birthday girl, all the guests are to bring a book, and at the end of the party all the kids will do a "book exchange," so that everyone can go home with a new book. Which, I have to say, is a really nice way to do things, and a cool way to send everyone home with a little something instead of a bag full of goody bag junk, promote non-materialism with respect to the birthday kid, all that good jazz. (Yes, it would be EVEN BETTER if we all brought toys and books to donate to ORPHANS or something, but hey, you can ask people to do that at your party.)

But another part of me is thinking, "No presents at your own birthday party? Man, that's cold."

100 steps (kinda)

Some time ago, I remember seeing a photo project on the internet called "100 steps" (or something like that) which challenged people to take a camera with them on a routine walk, and take a photo of something, anything interesting every 100 steps of that journey. I thought the idea was pretty cool, but at the time, I never really got around to it, because honestly, I am always in a big fat rush.

I don't get to pick up Cal from school that often, maybe once every week or two as my work (and OB appointment scheduling) allows, but every time I walk there to get him, it always seems like the weather is perfect and the light is just right and I always wish that I had a camera with me. So today I was walking to get Cal from school and thinking those same old thinks, when I realized, duh, I have a phone cam on me, don't I. I didn't obey the letter of the rules, in that I got tired of counting each 100 steps pretty early on, but I think I obeyed the spirit of the rules, which were basically to stop and observe and look at things that you might ordinarily just walk right by in your rush from Point A to Point B.

Anyway, it was fun. Full photo set here.

(Also, I think there's something wrong with the comments section, but damned if I know what it is. So I'm just going to wait until HaloScan figures out what's wrong fixes itself. That's my usual strategy when something internet-y goes wrong--defer to others. That, and the old standby for all manner of electronic equipment failure--turn it off, then turn it back on again. Works >50% of the time!)

like the goddamn circle of life or something

Just when you get one kid out of diapers...

So now at 32 weeks gestation, we have...oh, let's say 5-8 weeks to go here. That sounds like a big window, but behold, the human body in all its vagaries. I think we are mostly ready, but I think this is partially the second-time-around syndrome, where all sense of apprehension is dulled and amnesia has set in with respect to what we actually need to acquire up in here to accommodate the fact that this baby is going to be all born and stuff, and living on the outside. Like today it occurred to me that oh, I guess a newborn baby can't wear a size 6 overnight pull-up, can he? So I decided that we should splurge and get the new kid some diapers.

But the question is, how many? When Cal was born, I seem to remember having to run out to Walgreens an unseemly number of times for more newborn-size diapers--an experience that I don't want to replicate in the middle of January--but for the life of me, I can't remember how many we went through until he upgraded to a size 1. So...can anyone remind me how many diapers a newborn baby goes through in a 24-hour period? My recollection is 8 to 10-ish (we used to keep notes on his I's and O's because we were new at the game and we were residents and we were CRAZY), but somehow this seems like a RIDICULOUS NUMBER OF DIAPERS so I will defer to you all to remind me. It's been way too long, I can't remember.

Oh, and Update! My OB actually agreed to do a 39+ week induction if I haven't gone into labor naturally by that time. Despite the fact that I asked her about it twice, what finally made her agree to it (and quite readily, I might add) was the fact that Joe called her. JOE. NOT THE PATIENT. THE HUSBAND OF THE PATIENT. He posed it as a faculty-to-faculty "favor" and explained that he, like she, was also a doctor at [Big Academic Hospital], and he only got two weeks of vacation per year, one of which he was planning to use for his paternity leave. And since we had a three year-old at home, with limited time off for the baby, etcetera etcetera you know how the rest goes. Which, I have to say, is basically what I told her too, but I guess he was more persuasive somehow. I don't know.

Though I am mildly chagrined that it took some sort of mutual academic attending backslapping to get the job done (I mean, what am I, chopped liver? I'm only the one who's actually having the kid, and it's not like I don't know of OB, having been both a Peds resident for two years AND currently an anesthesiologist) in the end I don't really care and am just grateful that we won't be burning any of my maternity leave, or Joe's much shorter paternity leave, on waiting around for my damn water to break or some such thing. My official due date is Sunday January 11th, so the next time I see her, I'll see if we can schedule an induction date for Friday the 9th, unless I somehow go into labor on my own before then, in which case, we'll just go with the flow.

(Ew, "flow.")

sterling coop




The hospital where I currently work, as I'm sure many, many hospitals do, has a long wall of paintings near one of the entrance hallways, commemorating past generations of hospital CEOs or trustees or whoever these olden days white guys were. There's this one portrait in particular that, every time I pass it, always makes me think of "Mad Men."

a big guy

OK, I know that this may be pushing your tolerance for Cal stories to post this right after yesterday's post, but seriously, this school art project that they sent home from school just cracked me up, partially because it reminded me of this. (This is supposed to be a self-portrait with commentary, I assume. The teachers asked all the kids the same questions and then they typed up the answers.)

baby's first prank

Yesterday morning, I heard Joe telling Cal from downstairs, "Go show Mommy!"

Thump thump thump.

Cal materialized at the top of the steps, holding a cup from the local coffee shop. "Mommy, look what I'm drinking!" he said, taking a giant swig from the spewing hot lava hole that coffee cup makers seem to think will somehow prevent coffee enthusiasts from burning their tongues off.

"Cal...what are you drinking? Coffee? Coffee isn't for kids, right?"

A small pause. "It's juice! IT'S JUICE! I played a trick on you!"

Joe's voice from downstairs, "I rinsed out the cup and put juice in it."

Cal again, delighted, "I tricked you! I played a trick on you!"

I have to say, it was pretty good. Not quite as good as that time in med school when Andy and I pranked one of the other guys in our rotation group, paging him and, when he called back, pretending to be one of our clinic attendings ripping him a new asshole--but as three year-old pranks go, it was pretty good.

mo' money, mo' problems

The interesting thing about having a blog (and I say this with some perspective, having been at this game for a little more than eight years, since the days people called these things "online journal" and when I thought that writing with yellow text on a royal blue background showcased my IMPECCABLE DESIGN AESTHETIC) is that people really feel like they know you. Sometimes it's nice, like when people refer back to old entries from med school, or remark on how fast Cal is growing up, that sort of thing. And sometimes it's a little strange. One has to understand when reading my blog is that though I talk about my personal life, and to a lesser extent my work life, what I write about here is about 25% of the picture, sometimes even less. Not everything is for sharing, after all.

A few days ago I posted a Twitter about how I woke up in the middle of the night (to go to the bathroom, actually--damn pregnancy) and could not fall back asleep because I was worrying about our finances. And this seems to have caused some consternation, because people felt that I was "complaining" about my lot in life, and that this was insensitive given that as doctors, we were in a privileged subset economically and that there are people far worse off. First off, let me say: I'm not upset about this, and I don't take it personally. Certainly anything I say publicly has a right to be publicly responded to, and everyone has a right to their opinions. My initial reaction was actually to try to explain everything, give a lot of details about our particular circumstances at this moment, what the concerns are, and make it clear why with an attending physician salary in a two-doctor household, we are suddenly chewing our nails down to nubs about finances.

But that is outside the purview of this blog. As are many other things. And as much as it would make me feel better in some way to give everyone a more complete perspective, I don't really think that's subject for public discussion. As much as some people might think that they have a full picture of our lives from the pictures that I post here or the things that I choose to write about, I venture that it is not. In fact, it's probably closer to trying to diagnose a patient while peeking at them through a keyhole.

I don't argue that as a family we're lucky and that there are people far worse off than us. I have some perspective--I take care of them every day. And I'm not saying that readers don't have a right to comment--I would never shut down a discussion or erase a comment, because why post anything publicly if you can't handle people responding to it? After nine years of medical training, I have thicker skin than that. All I'm saying is: don't be fooled into thinking that a sense of familiarity actually confers an understanding of the 75% of my life that I don't share here. So for your own sakes, don't spend any more time thinking about why I should or should not be allowed to stay up at night worrying about our finances like everyone else in this country, especially given that you don't know any of the particulars. First of all, such particulars are almost always REALLY BORING; secondly, Joe and I spend more than enough time on that endeavor as it is lately, no reason you should.

And...that's it! No hard feelings! Carry on!


* * *

Speaking of Biggie Smalls...

One of the best things about this pregnancy is that since my work is so busy, the weeks seem to be passing by really fast. Any pregnant woman will tell you that the worst part of pregnancy is the waiting. That tortuous first-trimester waiting, when you're on pins and needles, waiting to see what direction things are going to take. That pendulous third-trimester waiting, when you're ready to get the show on the road already, whether this baby feels like it or not. And all the waiting in between. My problem is that I am a control freak and I have no patience.

But working is really making the time fly by. It's another Monday, then you blink, and suddenly it's Friday again. Then Monday. Then Friday. And suddenly, I'm just about 31 weeks, which means that we have anywhere from six to ten more weeks to go with this gig. Once you start getting down to a single-digit number of weeks, it starts to feel like you're in the home stretch.

Because of the six-week maternity leave issue, I had hoped that my current OB (who from my very limited interactions I am not IN LOVE with, not that it really matters, I guess) would be open to the idea of a full-term scheduled induction of labor, but it seems she's more of the "medical indication only" school, which...OK. Fine, I can respect that--I'm sure that there are those out there who find the idea of medically inducing labor (or even accelerating labor) kind of appalling. She did say that we could readdress the issue if I went post-dates, so we hopefuly won't go too far past 41 weeks, but hopefully I'll just spontaneously go right on time and not have to burn one of my leave weeks sitting around with NO JOB and NO BABY and nothing to occupy my time but watch the minutes sloooooowly tick by.

Or maybe I'll just keep showing up to work every day past my due date like a ticking time bomb and just scare everyone half to death.

come for the credits, stay for the grandchild




So my mom is flying in tonight to visit for a few days! Of course, I would like to think that she would have visited us anyway, and the fact that the American Academy of Ophthalmology annual meeting (with all its magically delicious CME credits) is in town this weekend is just a COMPLETE CONICIDENCE.

brand new day




For all the thrilling and historic aspects of this election, and there were many, the thing that excites me the most is the idea that years from now, when Cal is my age, he may not understand why it was such a huge deal to us old geezers that way back when, we managed to elect as our nation's 44th president a man named Barack Hussein Obama.

Today is a good day.

Done and done.

the triumph of the five-minute costume

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Captain Lightening Bolt.

I came home from school to be told that Cal refused to wear his butterfly wings for the Halloween parade at school, so I knew that we were in some trouble if we wanted to try and go trick-or-treating that evening. So we just started randomly grabbing at stuff. The black shirt and pants, Cal already had on. To that, we added Cal's rainboots. A red stocking cap of Joe's that he got for a "Lust in Space" party in med school. Some construction paper. And thus, Captain Lightening Bolt was born. Not as cool as being bitten by a radioactive spider or being accidentally exposed to the blast from a gamma bomb of his own invention, but whatever. Captain Lightening Bolt, he is the Joe Six-Pack of the superhero world.

If you can believe it, this is the first time I'd ever been trick-or-treating outdoors (growing up in New York, we always just trick-or-treated in apartment buildings), so negotiating the temperature issue was a little bit of a sticky wicket. In the end, we just slapped a vest on him and kept it unzipped so that the lightening bolt icon could show. He looked like the most flamboyant cast member of "The Perfect Storm."

We only managed to hit about seven or eight houses before toiletting concerns drove us home, but considering that Cal insisted on sampling the wares after hitting each house, the sugar bolus was sizeable.

And in the end, despite insisting all night that he wasn't wearing a costume, he was just wearing clothes, I think he had a pretty good time.

(Full photo set here.)