tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22903052047684425182024-03-13T12:12:43.313-07:00underwearAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comBlogger500125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-63217987935983990892013-09-05T11:10:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.490-07:00boy meets worldCal started fourth grade about a month ago, which would usually be my cue to say, <i>"Can you believe it?"</i> but every time I say something like that I think about <a href="http://www.undertheradarmag.com/uploads/media/Tig_Notaro_-_06_-_Can_You_Believe_It.mp3">that Tig Notaro bit</a> and feel a little bit stupid.<br /><div><br />Anyway, fourth grade. It's going pretty well so far, at least academically, but I think we've entered the age where we <i>really</i> need to start watching his friends and keeping on top of their activities and interactions. And while this all would likely be true regardless of the existence of <a href="http://amzn.to/1amhuhZ">Minecraft</a>, it sure doesn't help.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UQ_JDBmt93I/UijJuibXFNI/AAAAAAAAFJg/E0XXVgmoMMg/s1600/minecraft_xbox_360_edition_retail.0_cinema_640.0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UQ_JDBmt93I/UijJuibXFNI/AAAAAAAAFJg/E0XXVgmoMMg/s640/minecraft_xbox_360_edition_retail.0_cinema_640.0.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />For those of you blissfully unaware (meaning you know no kids between the ages of, oh, say 5 and 21), Minecraft is a video game, and to call it a generational obsession would be understating things somewhat, like calling Pol Pot a pretty mean guy. I agreed to get the game for Cal because it seemed innocent enough--basically an open-world action adventure game, building things with blocks, resource management, that sort of thing--and more to the point I didn't want him to be some sort of out-of-the-loop freak if every single other kid in his class was playing this game and he wasn't. I know, I know, if all your friends jumped off a bridge, <i>etcetera etcetera</i>, but since he's a year or two younger than his classmates we try to be particularly sensitive about allowing him the social tools to be one of the gang more easily. Because if we <i>didn't</i> let him play Minecraft? He'd be, like, THE ONLY ONE. And I just hate to think about him being the pop culture equivalent of the kid whose parents don't let him eat sugar, and brings, like, unsweetened carob cakes in for his birthday, you know?<br /><br />So anyway, we let him play Minecraft (which he's only allowed to play on the weekends--we still have <i>rules</i> and <i>standards</i> up in here after all), he plays it, he loves it, everyone is happy. And every time I pick him up from school all he wants to talk about is MINECRAFT and everyone's special strategies in MINECRAFT did you hear about the newest thing in MINECRAFT? And William? Told me that there's a mod? That you can put Star Wars skins on your MINECRAFT server? And also one time? Thomas was building a house and two creepers snuck up on him but then he used his leather armor and threw a sheep at them and then he fell into a trap in the nether? And it was SO FUNNY!<br /><br />(I'd like to think the game makes more sense than this but suspect that it doesn't.)<br /><br />Except one day I walked by when he was playing Minecraft and I noticed that there was this scrolling chat box open at the bottom of the screen, with these other randos talking to each other while they were all playing. (I'm no video game enthusiast, but I think there are similar things in most video games that you play cooperatively with people online, games like "Call of Duty" and of that ilk). Those of you familiar with such games probably won't be surprised to hear this, but the back and forth taking place in this chat box? Awful. <i>Terrible</i>. Slurs! Swearing! INCORRECT SPELLING.<br /><br />"Cal," I spluttered, "<i>what</i> is all this going on at the bottom of the screen?"<br /><br />"Huh?" He looked down. "Oh, I didn't see that. I'm not really sure. I think that's other people that are playing on this server. It's my friend Archibald's* server, he invited me to join when we were sitting together at lunch last week."<br /><br />"OK, but who are these <i>other</i> people? Do you know them? And why are they saying all these terrible things?" For lack of any other better solution, I just covered the chat box with my hand.<br /><br />"Oh, I don't know. I guess they're Archibald's friends. Or other people that joined his server anyway. I haven't really been looking at it. What are they saying?"<br /><br />"NOTHING. They're saying NOTHING. But can you turn this screen off? Hide it in some way? Or better yet, why do you have to play on someone's server at all? Can't you just play by yourself? Play by yourself and do something peaceful, like build a diamond...zombie...hut...or something?"<br /><br />So anyway, Cal turned the chat function off, and then we had a talk about not playing with people online unless he really really knows them personally and he's preferably in the same room as them. I also said he was never allowed to have the chat function on again, <i>ever</i>, because: <a href="http://inappropriatemetal.ytmnd.com/">INAPPROPRIATE</a>.<br /><br />He's still young and relatively naive, so I know this is just the beginning. And while I'm obviously not going to be a super-paranoic about the use of the internet and social media (see: this page you're reading right now, and the existence thereof) I am a little apprehensive, despite the fact that we have a pretty tight lid on his screen time and computer habits and who he spends his time with outside of school. Because what's it going to be next year? Or the next? Or even forget the computer--what are he and his friends talking about in person at recess? In carpool line? At their sleepover parties?<br /><br />(Yes, you're right--they're probably talking about Minecraft. Because Hayden? Said one time? He got a pile of gold? But then a zombie came and fell into this lava moat that he made around his house? And then someone hacked into his server and stole his diamond armor! It was <i>epic!</i>)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/qPq3TwWfKYs" width="640"></iframe><br /></div><br /><br />Cal is eight years old now, which is the age that most kids start to form stronger and stronger ties with people outside of their families. So I have to let him do that, but it's hard not to worry, because even though we know his friends and know their parents, that act of sending your child out there into the world can feel like feeding a lamb to the wolves. Because we can't always be there, and we can't always filter, and can't always catch the chat box before they see it and cover it with our hand. We just can't. That's what raising a child is: getting them ready so that they will be OK without you.<br /><br />In my mind Cal is kind of a low-maintenence child, in that's he's old enough now to fend for himself and his personality is generally allergic to trouble-making. (He's actually kind of a people-pleaser to an almost unfortunate degree, in that even the <i>hint</i> that he's transgressed in some way makes him start to get teary and apologize--at school, anyway.) But nonetheless, I'm glad that I'm going to have a little more time to spend with him now, not just in spite of the fact that he's older and becoming more independent, but <i>because</i> of it. <br /><br />-----<br />* Not his real name, OBVIOUSLY. I actually have not ever met this kid before but I have encouraged Cal not to play on his server anymore because aside from the obvious reasons I detailed above, apparently he regularly stays up until midnight playing Minecraft on school nights and what parent lets their nine year-old kid <i>do</i> that? </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-48138249880159032552013-09-01T05:00:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.496-07:00the chamber of secretsCal did two weeks of "Danger Camp" this summer (basically a summer day camp program based on <a href="http://amzn.to/1dCrIMF">this book</a>) and came away with it not only with the requisite mosquito bites and tie-dye T-shirt, but also with an enduring passion for spying, ciphers, espionage, and general subterfuge. It's all highly contagious, and while Mack will deny this to his last breath he idolizes Cal beyond all measure so whatever interests Thing 1 has rapidly become the interests of Thing 2.<br /><br />Separate and mostly unrelated: we currently live in a three bedroom house, which while by New York standards is an embarrassment of bedrooms (and square footage), means that under current occupancy patterns, we have neither a guest room nor a room for Nina to decamp.<br /><br />THEREFORE (and this is where the two threads come together) we are working towards the goal of consolidating both boys into the same room. We already have a bunk bed in Cal's room so we're halfway there (it's even a twin over a full so that Mack will be, what, 50% less likely to end up on the floor?) but even so, it's a transition that is sure to be met with some resistance, at least initially. So we're selling the idea by billing these new shared quarters as the SUPER-DUPER BOYZ HANGOUT ROOM. <i>Jazz hands!</i> And one of the ways that we thought we could make the room cooler? By building a <i>secret clubhouse</i> inside of it.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ydwQBydu5d8/UiKRW8fEACI/AAAAAAAAFIA/rxJS5Gu4Pog/s1600/IMG_4231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ydwQBydu5d8/UiKRW8fEACI/AAAAAAAAFIA/rxJS5Gu4Pog/s640/IMG_4231.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Cal's room has three small closets, the middle closet of which has a lofted crawlspace, about two and a half feet wide, thirteen feet long, and maybe four feet high. We'd been using this space to keep a variety of larger items that we had nowhere else to store (as we have neither garage, basement nor attic space); things like our Christmas decorations, moving boxes, an old set of doors from the laundry room, what have you. We <i>still</i> have no place to store these things, and in fact, all these things are kind of sitting out in the family room now until we find a better place to put them. But lack of storage aside we figured <i>screw it</i>, let's just empty out the crawl space and turn it into a clubhouse. A SUPER SECRET RAD CLUBHOUSE FOR BOYS. No Homers allowed!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XjaXyrmrjVQ/UiKR589Tz8I/AAAAAAAAFII/Q_guhnaFz2o/s1600/clubhouse+before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XjaXyrmrjVQ/UiKR589Tz8I/AAAAAAAAFII/Q_guhnaFz2o/s640/clubhouse+before.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The first thing we had to do, after we emptied the closet out, was change the light fixture. Being a closet, all it had was a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull-chain cord, which was obviously hazardous, what with the risk of anyone walking into the burning bulb with their face. So we took out the light fixture, capped it off, and put in an outlet instead. (I say "we" but when I say "we" I really mean the electricians did it and I watched, encouraging them with the thumbs up sign and offering beverages for their troubles at annoyingly frequent intervals.) After the electrical work was done, we vacuumed and washed the floors (and I apologize for the lack of any really good "before" photos because you have to understand, it's basically a railroad car-shaped space, there's really no room to get a good shot) and got to work decorating.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ERmQxH9Uq8A/UiKSPWk0usI/AAAAAAAAFIQ/CJ7pj_GGD04/s1600/IMG_4207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ERmQxH9Uq8A/UiKSPWk0usI/AAAAAAAAFIQ/CJ7pj_GGD04/s640/IMG_4207.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />One thing that Joe really wanted to put in there was a full-wall panel of dry-erase board. A <a href="http://amzn.to/17xaxsn">dry erase board that size</a> (about four feet by six feet) would easily cost more than a hundred bucks, but we did it on the cheap by going to Home Depot and getting a panel of fiberboard with one side of white shiny coating (not sure what the coating is but it is smooth and slick, like melamine) and getting it cut to 48 inches, which was the length of the wall on one side of the clubhouse door. The whole panel of fiberboard cost something like $12.99, and after getting it cut, we ended up with two fairly large pieces of whiteboard material--I still have to find a home for the second piece, because I guess I'm too much of a cheapskate to throw it away. The only drawback to this is that the dry-erase board isn't magnetic like some of the more expensive "real" whiteboard options, but in the big scheme of things and especially given the price differential, I don't think it's a big deal.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eV6kCvxXMog/UiKSp7c5qVI/AAAAAAAAFIY/wEUqzKRN3sI/s1600/IMG_4237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eV6kCvxXMog/UiKSp7c5qVI/AAAAAAAAFIY/wEUqzKRN3sI/s640/IMG_4237.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />My big contribution was the lighting. Mainly the concern was safety. Joe had wanted to install one of those recessed can lights up in the ceiling, but I just kept having visions of the kids burning their heads or their hands on the bulbs, as the ceiling really is very low in there--Cal can't even stand up straight without his head grazing the ceiling. Another issue is that as a closet, the ventilation in the clubhouse space isn't very good. We already put a fan by the door to move some air in there and I have talked to the boys about leaving the outer closet door open, because as an anesthesiologist I am somewhat paranoid about CO2 rebreathing. (That scene from "Apollo 13" where the astronauts have to make that new CO2 filter out of, like, a sock and some duct tape? THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES.) Anyway, my point to the lights is that anything incandescent would heat up the space quickly. I originally thought about a string of low wattage Christmas lights, but then I found <a href="http://amzn.to/198qDWT">these</a>:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B009OVNT90/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B009OVNT90&linkCode=as2&tag=theundedraw-20"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rQp6TDuu1fY/UiKS-hslCwI/AAAAAAAAFIg/9gTTm30a5ok/s640/51HZ2h7kwuL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B009OVNT90/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B009OVNT90&linkCode=as2&tag=theundedraw-20">Tape lights!</a> (Not "tap lights". TAPE lights.) They're LED and energy efficient, bright, cool to the touch, and super-easy to affix, as they are literally backed with 3M tape so you can just stick them up wherever you want. And best of all?<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wToSDCRuZxw/UiKTIWunhYI/AAAAAAAAFIo/qhFQT0Wm9Is/s1600/color+lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wToSDCRuZxw/UiKTIWunhYI/AAAAAAAAFIo/qhFQT0Wm9Is/s640/color+lights.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />They change color! They even have flashing and strobe effects, which is not my favorite setting (I kept waiting for someone to start seizing in there) but the kids certainly enjoyed pushing all the buttons. I mean, no kidding, right? THERE ARE BUTTONS? WE MUST PUSH THEM. Anyway, we got <a href="http://amzn.to/198qDWT">two sets</a> of 16 feet each, which was enough to go around the entire clubhouse once with a few feet to spare. We actually like these lights so much we ordered another two sets to rim the bunkbed with, so the kids could use them as reading lights in bed. (See also:<i> the awesome factor.</i>)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-czUPVLaQMZw/UiKTrCgk66I/AAAAAAAAFIw/MV9o81s1IgQ/s1600/IMG_4250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-czUPVLaQMZw/UiKTrCgk66I/AAAAAAAAFIw/MV9o81s1IgQ/s640/IMG_4250.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />We rounded out the room with a berber carpet remnant we had lying around from carpeting the bedrooms when we first moved in (coincidentally the one strip we had was almost <i>exactly</i> the dimensions of the clubhouse space--we just had to lop off a few inches in width to make it fit), two beanbags from Target, a few superhero posters, and a world map from National Geographic. <i>Et voilà.</i> <br /><i><br /></i><i><br /></i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fXTBconJNto/UiKT5bEV5_I/AAAAAAAAFI4/OPb-9M-iebk/s1600/IMG_4256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fXTBconJNto/UiKT5bEV5_I/AAAAAAAAFI4/OPb-9M-iebk/s640/IMG_4256.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GN61S7MxFHg/UiKT5r0h2pI/AAAAAAAAFI8/iv8U_2BgvM0/s1600/IMG_4260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GN61S7MxFHg/UiKT5r0h2pI/AAAAAAAAFI8/iv8U_2BgvM0/s640/IMG_4260.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The name of the secret club, by the way, is SECRET CLUB MOM AND DAD NOT ALLOWED (S.C.M.D.N.A. for, uh, "short") and after surveying the finished product, Cal and Mack promptly kicked me out, which I consider a successful end-result.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8jdfHjkhDB4/UiKULbT_RVI/AAAAAAAAFJI/UpdbMo-tnWQ/s1600/IMG_4254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8jdfHjkhDB4/UiKULbT_RVI/AAAAAAAAFJI/UpdbMo-tnWQ/s640/IMG_4254.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Hope you're having a happy Labor Day weekend!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-4238608119135701422013-08-28T08:45:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.503-07:00straddlingI had to take our minivan to the dealership for a physical (I don't know--what do you call it when you have to take your car in for a visit to the car doctor? A well-car check? I plead ignorance and this parenthetical is now threatening now to take over the whole intro) and at the dealership they have honest to god <i>carrels</i> in a room off the waiting area, like a damn <i>library</i>. On one hand--how great! A quiet area with a desk and a chair and a power outlet to get some actual work done! And on the other hand--how long do you expect that I'm going to be sitting here, exactly?<br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2F7zf2RhVjk/Uh3yEnmERVI/AAAAAAAAFHU/J01-KRs5IQA/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2F7zf2RhVjk/Uh3yEnmERVI/AAAAAAAAFHU/J01-KRs5IQA/s640/photo+(4).JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, nothing like a stretch of captivity to force you to update your foundering blog. Ahoy hoy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last week was my last week of working full-time. My first "official" week of working at a 60% schedule is actually the week of Labor Day, but I had <i>this</i> week fortuitously scheduled as a week off from almost a year ago, like I planned it this way the whole time, for transition. It's not so much a vacation as purely a maintenance period for our family (MAINTENANCE! That's the kind of car visit I'm at now! <i>Le mot juste!</i>) meaning yesterday I took Mack to the dentist and tomorrow I'm taking Nina for her one year well-child check and now I'm here looking at a wonderful hubcap display and wondering if I should get purple under-light effects to make our suburban splendor-mobile that much more splendid. I mean, it seems excessive and yet this pamphlet makes such a compelling case for them...</div><div><br /></div><div>I am so excited to enter this next phase of being more engaged or at the very least present for my out-of-hospital responsibilities, but I acknowledge that various internalized cultural attitudes have been a little difficult for me to shake. Namely, I find that I really have to check myself from being too defensive when people talk to me about my part-time status. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JOE</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(As we are engaged in high-level strategy talks about managing yet another week of juggling </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>call schedules, OR and clinic times, childcare, meal timing, and after school activities)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Man, this is hard. I can't wait until you start slacking off at work a little bit.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MICHELLE</div><div style="text-align: center;">SLACKING OFF?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">JOE</div><div style="text-align: center;">I mean...not <i>slacking</i>...I mean...you know what I mean! Working less! Working less at the hospital!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MICHELLE</div><div style="text-align: center;">THERE IS NO SLACKING INVOLVED HERE. <i>NO SLACK</i>. </div><div style="text-align: center;">ALWAYS WORKING! HARD WORKER ME!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Or possibly this:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CO-WORKER</div><div style="text-align: center;">So, you're going part-time, huh? Sounds nice.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MICHELLE</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Cautiously)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Yes...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CO-WORKER</div><div style="text-align: center;">Gotta go be mom. I get it. I wish I could do that.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MICHELLE</div><div style="text-align: center;">DO YOU THINK THIS WAS AN EASY DECISION OR SOMETHING?</div><div style="text-align: center;">BECAUSE IT WASN'T! NOTHING EASY! EVERYTHING HARD!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">CO-WORKER</div><div style="text-align: center;">Uh...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Starts backing away, feeling for the doorknob)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And also:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDOM PERSON</div><div style="text-align: center;">Hello--</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">MICHELLE</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Pointing)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">AND YOU! I'LL HAVE <i>YOU</i> KNOW THAT I HAVE AN <i>EXCELLENT</i> WORK ETHIC.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDOM PERSON</div><div style="text-align: center;">Aha. Huh. Well, as I was saying, "Hello, and welcome to Target."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, sorry world. Obviously I am having <i>feelings</i>. It's like I'm all messed up on my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erikson's_stages_of_psychosocial_development">Erikson's stages</a>. Instead of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erikson's_stages_of_psychosocial_development#Care:_Generativity_vs._Stagnation_.28Middle_adulthood.2C_25-64.2C_or_40-64_years.29">"Generativity vs. Stagnation"</a> I've regressed back to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erikson's_stages_of_psychosocial_development#Fidelity:_Identity_vs._Role_Confusion_.28Adolescence.2C_13-19_years.29">"Identity vs. Confusion."</a> (Also, can we all acknowledge that the fact that I even remember any of this from second year med school psych is pretty fucking impressive? OK, not so impressive, but notable at least.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know why I default to the defensive--maybe I need to prove to myself and everyone that I'm not "slacking off" or "opting out" or taking some slow boat to Shangri-La. Not that anyone has implied that, I think it's pretty clear that going part-time at work amounts more to scaling back on one type of (rewarding, highly-paid) work and scaling <i>up</i> on another type of work which is both unpaid and elicits a less direct, calculable form of appreciation. Not that I need my head patted constantly, but I think many of us have experienced the Moebius strip that is the endless cycle of keeping a three-kid household running smoothly, and how the loss of old workday landmarks can make things both easier and harder.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know I'm probably stomping all over the landmines with this but just hear me out, I'm sitting in the backroom of a Toyota dealership waiting for them to finish checking my brake fluid or god knows what else so this is a bit of a rush job. I realize that my defensiveness is just part of my natural adjustment to our new situation (see also: guilt at bringing home less bacon than I was before, particularly after many years of being the primary or equal bacon...herder) but this all makes me happy that I have the option to partially scale back as opposed to having to make a binary choice to be all in or all out. The identity loss I'd have without some career focus would definitely be traumatic, and I think that this option, the part-time option, might allow me the best of both worlds. That's the theory anyway, and hopefully once I see that, I'll stop alternately taking everyone's head off and showily doing one-armed push-ups to prove that I'm JUST AS POWERFUL AS I EVER WAS. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Psychological problems! I has them!)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was going to write some more stuff here, but in the interest of just getting this up and saying BLOG UPDATE: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED I'm going to save that for next time. My goal in general, by the way, is for there to <i>be</i> a next time more consistently, and to do a little more writing in addition to the other thousand things that I've been neglecting in the past year. And now I have no idea how to end this entry so I guess I'll just put in this video of Nina lurching around because didn't you hear, she's a toddler now. Unreal.<br /><br /></div><div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="480" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/5dk7ni7dwIk" width="640"></iframe><br /><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-39660235161494976872013-07-31T10:24:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.509-07:00recalibratingI know there's a touch of irony in adding this disclaimer given that I haven't updated this blog in, like, half a year, but: LONG ENTRY AHEAD.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SIld0M_c6uc/UflHU0RtL9I/AAAAAAAAFGM/v_-PeKERN74/s1600/yaxvd_14_563115.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SIld0M_c6uc/UflHU0RtL9I/AAAAAAAAFGM/v_-PeKERN74/s640/yaxvd_14_563115.gif" /></a></div><br />There's a snippet of a cartoon I remember from my childhood--I can't remember if it was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUFcvu5buUM">"Tom and Jerry"</a> but if it wasn't it was in a similar vein--where a mouse is reclining in a hot tub. He's sitting back with his arms along the rim of the tub, maxing and relaxing as cartoon mice do, wearing that look of smug satisfaction he was prone to. (As an aside: I never liked Jerry. I always thought he was a real jerk to Tom, a cat who was just fulfilling his evolutionary imperative after all. Ditto Road Runner. Ditto those capering harpy kids that keep taking the Trix away from the rabbit. JUST GIVE HIM A BOWL, YOU ASSHOLES.)<br /><br />So anyway, the mouse. He's enjoying the hot tub. He's relishing the water, the heat. But the water starts to get a little bit hotter. And a little bit hotter still. Suddenly it's not so comfortable anymore. Not hot enough that he wants to get out of the tub or anything, but just...<i>hotter</i>. He starts sweating. His fur starts getting a little frizzy (from the humidity, you understand). Then, finally, he turns around and notices the cat behind him, slicing onions and carrots to add into the now boiling water. (My memory of this part is not quite as clear, but the cat may have been wearing a chef's toque.)<br /><br />I've thought of that cartoon clip a lot in the last year.<br /><br />But let me back up for a second.<br /><br />If you've ever followed this blog with regularity in the past (though I'm sure with my sporadic updates I've winnowed that number down to only the die-hardest of die-hards) you've probably noticed that I haven't had the time to write much of substance since I went back to work after my maternity leave last September, and that I haven't updated basically at all since December. The reasons are all those that you could probably expect: busy job, three kids, and the responsibilities and duties associated therein. The explanations are always boring because everyone's reasons for being busy are pretty much the same, but to put it in medical terms: it's just a matter of triage.<br /><br />It's hard to know where the tipping point was--though I have to presume that it was at least in part associated with the addition of our much-beloved third child into the mix--but at some point in the last year, things started getting hard. Not impossible, not un-doable, but subtly, Joe and I started to notice just how <i>tight</i> things were getting. Time was tight, at home, with the kids, with each other. Emotional resources were tight. Patience was less of a resource we could reliably depend on. The days and weeks started becoming these things that we were <i>enduring</i>, rather than living, let alone enjoying. Again, the imagery from an old movie comes to mind--inmates in a prison, grimly notching off yet another day on the wall of their cell.<br /><br />I don't mean to imply that our life is a joyless dirge--far from it. We love our family, we love our jobs. Even working the hours that we do, we try carve out quality time when we can--long weekends, holidays, family vacations where they fit in. We bolus our family time because our basal infusion rate is so parsimonious, but we do make an effort to compensate. And we liked to tell ourselves that this bolus dosing was sufficient, and it worked...not <i>well</i>, but well<i> enough</i>.<br /><br />But it didn't change the fact that over the past few years, and over the last year in particular, the feeling of our everyday lives becoming something that we were <i>tolerating</i> started to feel more an more pervasive. When you only see your kids for an hour or two at the very tail-end of each day, only to perform the most basic of maintenance for them (bath! brush teeth! yell at them for not taking their baths and brushing their teeth quickly enough because I'm tired and they're tired and everyone's tired so LET'S ALL GO TO BED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE) you start to feel like you're consisting on a diet of discarded crusts in an otherwise empty pizza box. Maybe you can piece together a life in these scraps of the day, but split between three kids, it's simply not enough time.<br /><br />Joe and I have been discussing for years our long-term outlook for modifying (read: decreasing) the work hours for at least one of us to have more time with the kids, and for the longest time, our party line has been: <i>soon</i>. We're going to do it soon. "Maybe in a few years or so," was the stock phrase. But there was always the next thing. <i>We'll think about it when I finish my fellowship. We'll figure it out it when I get more settled in my job. We'll do it if I make partner in my group. Later. We'll do it. But later. </i>Meanwhile, time marches on.<br /><br />Then: I was talking with one of my partners at work a few months ago. He has four kids, the oldest of whom had just turned eight. "I just realized," he said as we were chatting in the front hall of the OR, sidestepping a stretcher careening down the hallway from the PACU, "that he's <i>eight</i>. In <i>another</i> eight years, he's going to be in high school, driving, getting ready to go to college. Half my time with him is already <i>done</i>. I mean, they come home after they go to college and all, but you know what <i>that's</i> like. It's not the same. Half my time of having my son in my house is over already."<br /><br />There feeling that I had after having that conversation was not unlike being wrapped in a piece of wet burlap and gently asphyxiated. Because Cal was turning eight too. Half our time raising our oldest son in our home was done, and not only had this particular calculus not ever occurred to me, but looking back, I can't say I really know where those eight years went.<br /><br />Because see, we've <i>always</i> lived like this. <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2005/07/labor-day-joe-is-getting-sad-that-he.html">Cal was born when we were residents</a>. His entire life--and thus of course, Mack and Nina's entire life too--we've worked. Both Joe and I have worked our tails off. We're not residents anymore of course, and some of the specifics of our jobs have changed from year to year, but the fact of it is that we each work on average 50-60 hours a week, more if we're taking weekend call, and although we've been saying for years that we were going to try to get more control of our work schedules to put some more time into our family life, it hadn't happened yet. The decision point was always pushed off down the road. <i>Later. Soon. Not yet. Someday.</i> And now Cal was turning eight and I have no idea how time passed so fast.<br /><br />If I'm going to be completely honest with myself I'm sure some of this particular grim inertia was also linked to a perverse macho pride. I've always <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0446538248/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-3&pf_rd_r=0Z8HDFWC99368F4D1HMX&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938811&pf_rd_i=507846">spoken a lot</a> about work-life balance in medicine and how these antiquated notions, about doctors functioning as around-the-clock automatons sacrificing their personal lives for the greater good, would have to evolve along with the rest of the world. But I think that in some ways I felt safe championing the choice for others to go part-time because I myself chose to work full-time. <i>You do what works for your family, everyone's definition of work-life balance is different</i>. But saying it from the vantage point of someone with three kids and still worked full-time herself felt like a secure platform from which to proselytize, like I was somehow above reproach from people who might accuse all part-time doctors of being lazy or uncommitted. DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO; BUT AS FOR MYSELF, I AM DOING <i>ALL THE THINGS</i>.<br /><br />And to be honest, we were getting by. It wasn't wonderful, but it was OK. We were surviving. Maybe we weren't "living our best life" to invoke an Oprah-ism (and I don't even know how I know that since I never even watched Oprah) but...day to day, we were getting by.<br /><br />And then, the week before Memorial Day, our nanny of five years quit. With no warning, and giving zero notice. She just left one day and mentioned on her way out the door that she wasn't coming back.<br /><br /><i>Boom</i>. Game-changer.<br /><br />I'm not going to talk too much about the nanny thing because frankly, after probably the most stressful two months of our lives, I'm just <i>over it</i>. It wasn't even so much the issue of finding a new nanny--though that, obviously, was a huge part of solving our problems, at least in the short term. But the larger and more important part was having to honestly evaluate our life, our choices, and just how much time we did indeed spend at work, away from our children. It was like turning the stark, faintly buzzing fluorescent exam light onto the fish-white underbelly of what kept things functioning at a level that passed as "OK" for the past five years. And what we realized was that: it really <i>isn't</i> OK. Having to outsource this much of our children's care--of our children's <i>lives</i>--to someone else, particularly someone who after five years could walk out on them without so much as a backwards glance...is not OK.<br /><br />(This is putting aside the obvious logistical difficulty of finding a non-live-in person to work 50-60 hours a week. It's a tough sell to say the least. One suggestion, perhaps less helpful than most, was that we should just hire <i>two</i> nannies. To which my reaction was, <i>if you have to hire two people to take care of your kids while you're at work, it's possible you're not spending enough time with your kids</i>.)<br /><br />So. Joe and I discussed and agonized and number crunched and evaluated. We talked to a lot of people. We agonized some more. And what's going to happen now is this: as of September 1st, I will be going part-time at my job. Joe and I would have been fine with either one of us working less, but because of the ways our jobs are structured, it makes more sense right now for the part-time working parent to be me. My new schedule will have me working three days a week, mixed in with my share of nights, weekend and holiday call. And my main goal for the other two days of the week? To do some of the things that I've never been able to do with my kids because I've haven't had the time. Simply to <i>be around more.</i><br /><br />I know this all seems unnecessarily melodramatic of an announcement to some, because plenty of people in a multitude of fields choose to work part-time. But for me, it <i>is</i> a big deal, because to be honest, when you're accustomed to following a prescribed path, swimming against the current for a change can be scary. And there are a lot of issues--job guilt, fear of resentment from co-workers or being perceived as less than fully committed to medicine, concerns about crippling my career potential--that I'm working through having finally made this decision. There's a fear of not wanting to let people down.<br /><br />But that's it on the other side too, isn't it? <i>I don't want to let people down</i>. I want to do my job well. <i>All</i> my jobs. And I think that right now, I need to spend more time with my kids. Nothing's broken, I still love being an anesthesiologist, and the fact that I've worked full-time for the first eight years of parenthood wasn't the wrong call nor has it damaged our family. It's just that our choices then are not the same as our choices now, and when we have better options we owe it to ourselves to take them. We could be making more of this life. <i>We could be doing better</i>.<br /><br />I'm not going to be there hovering in the periphery for every single second of my kids' lives, nor frankly should I be. But I'm looking forward to just being around <i>more</i>.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://imgur.com/ZPqZE"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/ZPqZE.jpg" title="Hosted by imgur.com" /></a></div><br /><br />So that's what's going on with us. In most ways, it's really no big thing. But in other ways, it's the biggest thing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-11157934660319360512013-05-26T18:05:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.515-07:00Wright State University Boonshoft School of Medicine, commencement address, May 24, 2013<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.5;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Good evening and congratulations to the Class of 2013!</span></b><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"></b></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I graduated medical school almost exactly ten years ago today (which sounds like a much longer span of time than it actually feels) so naturally when I started to write this address I thought back to my own med school commencement ceremony, or what little I remember of it. Particularly I tried to recall the invited speaker we had that year and what pearls of wisdom he imparted, so that I could frankly plagiarize them and pass his pithy truths off as my own.</span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The problem is, I can’t remember anything he told us.</span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our med school commencement speaker for 2003 was Jimmy Breslin, a reporter for the New York Post and certainly a more illustrious figure than I. And he had a very well-written speech—I mean, </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">probably</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> he did, because again, I can’t remember—but all I really do recall is that he spoke a </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lot</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and he spoke for a </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">long time</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. And I remember thinking to myself, as I sat there in my academic regalia, sweating under the layers of polyester like one of those cook-in-the-bag microwave meals, that this man and his endless speech were the only things standing between me and my medical degree. </span></span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(He did eventually stop talking, by the way.)</span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t convey to you what an honor it is to be invited to share this day with you all, which with the possible exception of this address, is likely one of the most important and memorable days of your life. So when I sat down to write this speech, I had only two goals in mind. First goal: to give you real advice that you can actually carry with you for the long road ahead. And my second goal: </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">keep it short.</span></span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, as a fourth year medical student, you probably already experienced the fact that the world is teeming with people all too eager to give you advice. Much of the advice from senior doctors in particular will be strangely centered around when, how and if you should eat, sleep, and eliminate during residency. (Clearly people have strong feelings about such things.) </span></b></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But as a fairly junior attending physician myself, the idea of giving you all advice outside the realm of the purely practical does feel a little presumptuous. The field of medicine is constantly changing—maybe now more than ever before—and I can’t pretend that I know what the future will look like any more than you can. Therefore, I only have one piece of advice, so as to make it easier for you to remember, and that is this:</span></b></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember who you are in this moment.</span></b></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-5a5d0872-e382-fd59-5040-7ab92b6fefe7" style="font-weight: normal;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And who, exactly, is that? At this moment, you are a fourth year medical student, just minutes away from being granted your medical degree. You are proud, and you should be. You are excited, and you should be. You are a little apprehensive about what comes next—intern year, residency, the hours, the new responsibility. That, you should be too, but I’ll not belabor the point—other than pregnancy, there’s no condition about which people like to recount horror stories more than medical residency. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, you are still idealistic. I hope, at least, that even at the end of medical school you have retained the idealism that brought you into medicine in the first place. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And why did you go into medicine? I’m sure there are a host of different reasons, phrased in a number of different ways—but I think, and I hope, that it all boils down to this: </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you want to help make the world a better place, one patient at a time. </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And right now, this seems like the most obvious thing in the world, the thing that has powered you through years and years of books and finals and 4:00am scut rounds done on no sleep and an empty stomach. You’re doing all this not just for yourself, not solely for any kind of personal glory or reward, but to help other people.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember who you are in this moment.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Older doctors, particularly the more cynical ones, will speak of idealism as though it’s a bad thing, some sort of marker for naivite. But I’m going to tell you this right now: </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">idealism is never a bad thing</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. And idealism seasoned with experience is maybe one of the very best characteristics a doctor can have.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember who you are in this moment</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. A young doctor on the cusp of doing great things. Some of these great things will be large acts, the majority of them will be small, but all of them will stem from who you are in this moment, who is someone with the energy, idealism and work ethic to make the world a better place. With all the pomp and circumstance of this particular day and all those that preceded, it seems like the concept of service would be difficult to forget. But believe me when I tell you that forgetting is the easiest thing in the world. I have forgotten it many times myself.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because there will come a night on call during internship when you’re going to feel beaten down and tired and regretful of having ever gone to medical school in the first place. And right when you manage to sit down, the first time that you’ll have had a chance to sit down all night, the charge nurse on that floor will yell at you for sitting in her special chair. And right then, you will forget who you are in this moment.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or during residency, you’ll have a patient who will push all of your buttons. And that patient will be loud and belligerent and unappreciative and will say things that make you feel inadequate even after the hours and hours of work you’ve put in trying to take care of him. That patient will make you angry, unsympathetic, and when that happens, you will forget who you are in this moment.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or there there will come a time when you’re an attending, after you’ve been working late for the fourth evening in a row. This will be the one day that you have any hope of getting home to see your spouse and kids before bedtime, and right as you’re finishing up your dictations and ready to hit the door, an emergency case rolls in that no one can staff but you. And that particular evening, you will forget who you are in this moment.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cynicism is a protective adaptation. It is a shell that doctors build around themselves after they feel that they’ve worked too hard, seen too much, been burned too many times. It’s a way for doctors to broadcast to their colleagues and to the world at large that they’re so expert in the human condition that nothing surprises them anymore.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But don’t be that person. </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don’t be the cynic.</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Be for the rest of your career as you are today, someone who doesn’t tuck your idealism away like an obsolete relic of your years in training, but proudly wears it on the lapel of your white coat. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Be ready for everything you think you know now to change. Be open to new experiences. But always remember who you are in this moment. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Congratulations to the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wright State University Boonshoft School of Medicine Class</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> of 2013. </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Congratulations, doctors.</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> May each of you have a long, fulfilling career filled with interesting patients, challenging days, and a lifetime of surprises. The rest of us have been waiting for you, and are so happy to have you join the team. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now roll up your sleeves and get in here. We’ve got a lot of work to do. </span><span style="font-size: 18px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-4278592019421796652012-12-09T12:39:00.000-08:002013-09-07T21:53:39.521-07:00spinning into butterHello? Is this thing on?<br /><br />Well! I have a blog! It's been increasingly difficult to find any good time to update, but in the meantime, I present to you a home food project that is so unbelievably easy and satisfying to accomplish it's going to make you feel like a magician. If you follow my <a href="https://twitter.com/scutmonkey">Twitter</a> or <a href="http://www.facebook.com/michelleaumd">Facebook</a> you've probably heard me yammering about <a href="http://michelleau.tumblr.com/post/36468597308/churned-fresh-butter-for-the-first-time-first-the">the weekend after Thanksgiving</a>, but for those of you blog purists out there, I'm talking about making your own butter.<br /><br />Did you know you can make your own butter? You can! And you don't even need any special tools! Seriously, this is probably just Food Science 101, but butter is just one of those things I have only considered buying from the store in stick form--I'd heard of churning your own butter, of course, but why bother, it seemed (most likely) cumbersome and thankless. And anyway, who the hell am I, Laura Ingalls Wilder?<br /><br />Apparently, yes. I tried this two weekends ago, and it was such a fantastic trick, I did it again yesterday. And this time I took pictures!<br /><br />What you will need:<br /><br />- One quart of heavy cream (just the supermarket brand is fine)<br />- One large jar with a screw-top lid<br />- Some salt<br /><br />So. Get the heavy cream out of the fridge and let it sit until it comes to room temperature. (This makes the process go faster, I think.) Pour it into your jar. Screw the lid on.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DxZJUABt-J0/UMTs9IaJtoI/AAAAAAAAE_A/jZxaxRZSjuY/s1600/IMG_0693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DxZJUABt-J0/UMTs9IaJtoI/AAAAAAAAE_A/jZxaxRZSjuY/s640/IMG_0693.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Shake that mother.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fbog6Z8XF_Q/UMTs_OuHVyI/AAAAAAAAE_I/xcSYLLd4R6s/s1600/IMG_0694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fbog6Z8XF_Q/UMTs_OuHVyI/AAAAAAAAE_I/xcSYLLd4R6s/s640/IMG_0694.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />See, this is the part where I thought, <i>"What a fun project for the kids! I should get them involved and they too will share in the wonders of food science and creation and it will be so wholesome we'll just be high-fiving and group hugging forever!"</i><br /><br />(The reality of it is that Cal shook the jar for, like, five seconds, and when the cream didn't <i>instantly</i> transform into a blob of butter he handed it back to me, told me encouragingly to keep up the good work and let me know when it was ready, before scurrying down to get in his weekend allowance time of frying his eyeballs playing Super Mario Brothers on the Wii. CHILDLIKE WONDER, AM I RIGHT?)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wv-Ahlh0jtQ/UMTtnsUnEHI/AAAAAAAAFAI/UxVTAm4jl6I/s1600/IMG_0696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wv-Ahlh0jtQ/UMTtnsUnEHI/AAAAAAAAFAI/UxVTAm4jl6I/s640/IMG_0696.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Making butter doesn't take a <i>long</i> long time, but it takes at least 10 or 15 minutes of shaking that jar. And at first, you're going to feel like nothing is happening, because the cream is just going to get thick and a little frothy, at which point it's not going to feel like you're agitating much in the jar at all. (Truth be told--my arms got tired and I took a little break midway through. Probably it would have gone faster with a blender or food processor, but what's the fun in that? In the low-tech lies the fun. WE'RE SHAKING JARS ALL UP IN THIS PIECE.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R9QVcOO1f5I/UMTs7J2iZwI/AAAAAAAAE-0/tZpaApbKI3U/s1600/IMG_0672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R9QVcOO1f5I/UMTs7J2iZwI/AAAAAAAAE-0/tZpaApbKI3U/s640/IMG_0672.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Just when you're about to give up and call the supermarket about the DEFECTIVE CREAM that they sold you, the contents of the jar start to...loosen up. Suddenly your silent thick jar contents will start to sound like sploosh <i>sploosh</i> <i>SPLOOSH</i> and you will look inside your jar to see that lo, butter is separating from the buttermilk. SCIENCE IS HAPPENING. Keep shaking for another few minutes, until you get a nice big butter core all teased out.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-64mcb7j3VSk/UMTtDYTWysI/AAAAAAAAE_Y/sahB8_zmya4/s1600/IMG_0697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-64mcb7j3VSk/UMTtDYTWysI/AAAAAAAAE_Y/sahB8_zmya4/s640/IMG_0697.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Pour the jar contents through a strainer, and save the buttermilk if you want (you'll end up with about a cup) to make other things. What other things? I don't know. <i>Things</i>. Or save it to bathe your prize-winning pig with, like in <u>Charlotte's Web</u>.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qXdBfIQinJI/UMTtFr-HBbI/AAAAAAAAE_g/MnCqkdIBFCY/s1600/IMG_0698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qXdBfIQinJI/UMTtFr-HBbI/AAAAAAAAE_g/MnCqkdIBFCY/s640/IMG_0698.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Rinse the butter with cold water (cold so you don't melt it) and squoosh it around to get the excess buttermilk and water out. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JQ1avrbL4oU/UMT0IsiHMKI/AAAAAAAAFBA/3aF1Q-MT9f4/s1600/IMG_0689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JQ1avrbL4oU/UMT0IsiHMKI/AAAAAAAAFBA/3aF1Q-MT9f4/s640/IMG_0689.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Mix in some salt if you like. Or other flavors! I thought a salt-rosemary butter would be super fancy, but I wanted the kids to eat it and was worried they'd protest against butter with "things" in it.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VOBx4t1TVt8/UMTtLDwOBlI/AAAAAAAAE_0/V5Q69OccKh4/s1600/IMG_0700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VOBx4t1TVt8/UMTtLDwOBlI/AAAAAAAAE_0/V5Q69OccKh4/s640/IMG_0700.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />You'll end up with a tennis ball sized glob of soft, fluffy butter. Put a lid on it, stick it in the fridge, smear it on everything, unless you're one of those health food nuts that thinks a little butter is going to kill you--in that case, give the container to someone that you hate.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L-QiW5fwhaQ/UMT1Ll2PzhI/AAAAAAAAFBI/tOnL-dHB9Dc/s1600/IMG_0692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L-QiW5fwhaQ/UMT1Ll2PzhI/AAAAAAAAFBI/tOnL-dHB9Dc/s640/IMG_0692.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />You made butter!<br /><br />(Yes, that smug feeling afterwards is normal.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-76133045349189553872012-11-03T13:34:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.526-07:00because disasters are apolitical but choices aren'tOne of the things Joe and I were discussing (because we are SO ERUDITE--in between making a series of fart noises, both faked and authentic, and then blaming them on the dog) is the impact that Hurricane Sandy and its aftermath is going to have on the election. It's difficult to calculate, I think. <br /><br />First, the regions hit hardest by the storm (that is to say: the Northeast) are traditionally firmly Democratic, and logistically, it may be difficult for people to turn out and vote come Tuesday. But will this actually make any difference in the electoral college, or will it just impact the popular vote?<br /><br />Secondly, people inside and out of the affected regions may respond differently based on their perception of storm readiness, reaction and aftermath. I think that overall the reaction has been largely positive (at least compared to the level of preparedness for Katrina, <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/politics/fema-director-brownie-weighs-disaster-article-1.1195126">"heckuva job Brownie"</a> and all), but it's clearly a difficult time for everyone impacted. Will that change anything come election day? Again, difficult to say.<br /><br />Campaigning for both parties has obviously been put somewhat on the back burner, or at least a burner off to the side--for the president firstly because he's busy, you know, <i>leading the country during a crisis</i>; and somewhat for the Romney camp as well, to (rightly) avoid politicizing and tragedy and, perhaps more importantly, avoiding the opportunity to say anything completely offensive of tone-deaf to those suffering losses. What did these two campaigns have planned for the final two weeks of the campaign? Would that have made a difference either way?<br /><br />And on and on and on. Like I said, the political effects are incalculable, and though I think the post-mortems at the end of next week will pick apart this and that trying to frame whatever the outcome ends up being in the light of inevitability, but that's all Monday morning quarterbacking to me. Regardless of whichever presidential candidate wins the election, the effect of an unprecedented natural disaster of this scale is as unexpected as it is difficult to predict. <br /><br />But there's one thing I do know that everyone can take away from the stories of Hurricane Sandy, and which is: <i>you are not immune</i>. Terrible things happen, and they can happen to any one of us. The single mom in Staten Island and the hedge fund manager in Tribeca. The elderly couple in New Jersey and the CEO in the Hamptons. Terrible things can happen, and they can happen quickly, unexpectedly, without prejudice. And all of us, whether we think we will or not, will occasionally be grateful for some help.<br /><br />I think back to my own reaction to the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in the days and weeks that followed that particular storm. I was shocked and horrified and of course I pledged my support and dollars to help the survivors, but still, even though it happened in my own country, it all still felt a little removed for me. I admit that fully. The words and the situation: <i>Lake Pontchartrain? Levees? Superdome?</i> It seemed so foreign from the everyday life of a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker that my empathy, and my ability to relate, while present, still felt a little bit distant. <br /><br />But this? Oh, <i>this</i>.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tf8aSPsYjfc/UJVwgsJWveI/AAAAAAAAE9g/s-OtR2jJfGA/s1600/Hurricane-Sandy-Lower-Manhattan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tf8aSPsYjfc/UJVwgsJWveI/AAAAAAAAE9g/s-OtR2jJfGA/s640/Hurricane-Sandy-Lower-Manhattan.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I walked here, on my way back from a late night out in med school after finals, from restaurant to dive bar to seedy club, trying to find my way back to the subway station to take me home.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2B5CbGv2DEs/UJVxQSkl5UI/AAAAAAAAE9o/w-1ZkC_EpF0/s1600/hurricane-sandy-subway-flooding-537x373.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2B5CbGv2DEs/UJVxQSkl5UI/AAAAAAAAE9o/w-1ZkC_EpF0/s640/hurricane-sandy-subway-flooding-537x373.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Over the course of high school I got off at this subway station hundreds and hundreds of times. We'd take the 6 train one stop down and switch here to catch the express, or maybe venture above ground to get something to eat, or browse through the new CDs at HMV (remember when we used to do that?), or just walk around and people watch. Do you know how vast, and how deep those tunnels are? Do you know how much water it must take to fill them up? I don't. I can't even imagine.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMqS11Xs53k/UJVxwjXpKzI/AAAAAAAAE9w/QozMVDLO5io/s1600/155094083.jpg.CROP.article920-large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="500" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMqS11Xs53k/UJVxwjXpKzI/AAAAAAAAE9w/QozMVDLO5io/s640/155094083.jpg.CROP.article920-large.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The cutoff for power outages on Manhattan was at 25th street and south. I used to live on 25th Street and Second Avenue, on the 19th floor of our building. Most likely we would not have had power. Now, with three kids, in the chill of November, it's difficult to imagine how we would have handled it, though I can say for sure we would not have done it with the grace of those in New York the even more seriously affected outlying communities. Probably I would have just cried. Well, cried and eaten all the ice cream, like we did after <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.homestead.com/03_08_18.html">that big power outage in 2003</a>. (IT WAS GOING TO MELT ANYWAY YOU GUYS.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2vGBgsTZGJk/UJVzAP1gPiI/AAAAAAAAE94/5H1LNABKQRg/s1600/628x471.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2vGBgsTZGJk/UJVzAP1gPiI/AAAAAAAAE94/5H1LNABKQRg/s640/628x471.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />We lived just a few blocks away from NYU Medical Center (it is, in fact, the hospital at which I was born), which of course was evacuated after the storm when the power went out and the backup generators failed. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for those staff working that night. I read accounts of patients, fresh CABG post-ops and others, being walked down 10 flights of stairs or more to evacuate after the elevators failed, NICU babies being carried out one by one, nurses and housestaff and techs and everyone forming lines up the stairs passing buckets of fuel up the fire escape to the emergency generators after the fuel tanks in the basement of the hospital became overwhelmed with water. I think: <i>what if I had been in the OR at that time with a patient when all the power went out? What would I have done?</i> I see myself reaching for the ambu-bag, sending someone to run for more IV induction meds, and holding up the flashlight we keep in the bottom drawer of our anesthesia cart so that the surgeon could see enough to sew faster. I can kind of imagine it. But also, of course, I totally can't. Not <i>really</i>.<br /><br />In the final days before the election it's hard to conceive of people who are still undecided about who to vote for, but I know they must be out there because the news and the polls say its true. And I ask these people to think not just about jobs or the economy or foreign policy (though these are, of course, also crucially important issues) but to also think about the role of government in the face of crisis. In the face of bad things happening, indiscriminately and free of political bias. And think not just of how the candidates are reacting <i>now</i>, but of <a href="http://takingnote.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/11/01/romney-on-fema-then-and-now/">what they've said in the past</a>. About the role of government. About <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/closeread/2012/09/mitts-forty-seven-per-cent-problem.html">"dependency" and "entitlements."</a> About the size of government and how some might propose both a smaller government with a diminished role and ability in providing help to its citizens in deep trouble, but also concurrently one that paradoxically insists of legislating and restricting our personal lives. Think about these things. And then go vote.<br /><br />It's easy to accuse and tell people what they <i>should</i> have done or what you <i>would</i> have done when bad things don't tend to happen to you, but Hurricane Sandy reminds us in the most explosive and shocking way possible: <i>bad things can happen to us all</i>. And everyone needs help sometimes, and sometimes the help we need is bigger than that which individuals or private institutions are able to provide. And it's a credit to our civilization when we as people, and yes indeed as a government, are able to help those least among us. Because next time, it could be you, too. And where do you want to be living, and under what kind of leadership, do you want the next time something does?<br /><br />My family are all OK, thankfully. Much love to my friends in New York and the surrounding areas devastated by the storm--I'm with you in spirit if not in person. If you need help, just ask. And if you're looking for ways to help, two good starts are <a href="https://secure3.convio.net/fbnyc/site/Donation2?idb=1063377753&df_id=2781&2781.donation=form1">here</a> and <a href="http://www.redcross.org/">here</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-59365398301025221792012-10-27T20:48:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.531-07:00costume dramaHe's my firstborn and so I say this with all possible love and bemusement, but Cal is a weird child when it comes to dressing up for Halloween. It's not so much like he has sensory issues--he doesn't have problems with the costumes being itchy or bulky or too hot, he just thinks they're <i>dumb</i> or something. I think in reality he just gets self-conscious. Like the act of wearing a costume garners too much attention, and he doesn't like the fuss. <i>At all.</i><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ujfW4Azj9M/UIxML4kE3VI/AAAAAAAAE6s/8KEXyd8jlE8/s1600/Page_3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ujfW4Azj9M/UIxML4kE3VI/AAAAAAAAE6s/8KEXyd8jlE8/s640/Page_3.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><br />Above is, unfortunately, the only surviving photo of his first Halloween costume that I can find (there must be more out there, but I didn't use iPhoto during Cal's first year so many of those digital image files are archived somewhere unreachable). It also showcases Joe's unfortunate predilection for grafting cheesy beyond belief titles and borders onto photography--just be grateful we're spared a wreath of pumpkins around Cal's face or something similarly Printshop circa 1988. Anyway, I just show you this picture because this, taken at the time that Cal was about Nina's current age (they were both born in July), is the last time that we were able to cram Cal into a Halloween costume without him complaining.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPPqlSod2Kg/UIxMHkNrJwI/AAAAAAAAE6I/HsUMAJ6Zyuo/s1600/DSC_0051.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPPqlSod2Kg/UIxMHkNrJwI/AAAAAAAAE6I/HsUMAJ6Zyuo/s640/DSC_0051.jpeg" width="424" /></a></div><br /><br />Here <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2006/11/thankful-well-never-even-made-it-to.html">the following year</a>. You can't see most of the costume since he's you know, running away from Joe (I think I was actually on call that particular Halloween so I wasn't even there) but he's supposed to be a monkey. See how happy he looks? SEE THE LOOK OF CHILDLIKE WONDER WHILE TRAIPSING THROUGH THE MAGICAL WORLD OF MAKE-BELIEVE?<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PrasGOB4re4/UIxMG66A3rI/AAAAAAAAE6E/0Nk6SWiAe1Y/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PrasGOB4re4/UIxMG66A3rI/AAAAAAAAE6E/0Nk6SWiAe1Y/s640/DSC_0044.JPG" width="424" /></a></div><br /><br />Above, <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2007/11/halloween-2007-our-one-requirement-for.html">the following year, when he was two years old</a>. We, thinking ourselves <i>terribly</i> clever, dressed him as a medical resident. Cal quickly stripped himself of the accessorizing accoutrement (the scrub cap, the pager, the stethoscope which had been doused in alcohol and Clorox to eliminate all traces of <i>Enterococcus fecalis</i>--it's the small touches that really make the costume, after all) and just barely tolerated the rest of it, mostly once he realized there was candy involved. This was back when we still lived in New York by the way, so his exposure in costume was minimal--mostly we just walked down the hallway, trick-or-treated one apartment, and then walked back. (Some of the candy he got may have been from our own bowl.)<br /><br />I had some high hopes the following year, as in September Cal <i>specifically</i> requested a pink butterfly costume. Yes, a pink butterfly. So I got the costume (OK, so maybe I got a red and orange butterfly costume--I am as open-minded as the next parent but maybe it's my own bias that led me to apply some well-meaning edits to his original intent), but by the time it came Cal decided that he didn't want to wear <i>any</i> costume, butterfly or otherwise. "I just want to wear regular clothes," he said, a refrain that would dog us again and again subsequent Halloweens. We went to his nursery school Halloween party that year wearing khakis and a grey cardigan (I begged him to let me put some baby powder in his hair so that we could at <i>least</i> pass his costume off as "old man," but he was not having it) and had no further costume planned as of October 30th.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mOwWnf2QNNM/UIxMNJJfmeI/AAAAAAAAE60/RHBKlzV40EA/s1600/captain+lightening+bolt+2+(small).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mOwWnf2QNNM/UIxMNJJfmeI/AAAAAAAAE60/RHBKlzV40EA/s640/captain+lightening+bolt+2+(small).jpeg" width="424" /></a></div><br /><br />Finally, we just ended up putting him in his beloved "regular clothes" (black long-sleeved t-shirt, long pants), gussied it all up with his rain boots and a two-tone bolt of electricity that I cut out from construction paper and taped on his chest. <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2008/11/triumph-of-five-minute-costume-ladies.html">Enter "Captain Lightning Bolt."</a> He was OK with this for some time, but then had a little potty accident after hitting three or four houses (three year olds never feel like they have to go to the bathroom until all of a sudden OMG THEY TOTALLY DO) so trick-or-treating was cut short and the costume issue was put to rest for another year.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LC8JXH2ro8c/UIxMJ6rinXI/AAAAAAAAE6U/Po0cl0jTT5w/s1600/DSC_0226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LC8JXH2ro8c/UIxMJ6rinXI/AAAAAAAAE6U/Po0cl0jTT5w/s640/DSC_0226.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br /><br /><a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2009/11/solution-to-having-no-time-is-just-to.html">At age four</a>, Cal finally acceded, after weeks of cajoling to think of a Halloween idea, <i>any idea</i>; to go as "a builder man." Again, a costume involving his everyday clothing and some accessories from the toy bin. The hat, tool belt and goggles were, of course, instantly shed the second after the pictures were taken, and he ran around his school Halloween party somewhat incongruously dressed in jeans and a blue oxford shirt. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hf86jZwHFT8/UIxNwUlmTkI/AAAAAAAAE7E/nZN8U8QGk8A/s1600/P1000178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hf86jZwHFT8/UIxNwUlmTkI/AAAAAAAAE7E/nZN8U8QGk8A/s640/P1000178.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And then, the year he was five, Cal refused to wear anything even approximating a costume. In fact, we didn't even <i>go</i> trick-or-treating that year because he just flat-out refused to do <i>anything</i> and Mack was too young to know any better. At the 11th hour (that is to say: 6:00pm on Halloween night) we thought maybe we had convinced him to go as Steve from "Blues Clues" just by wearing stuff out of his closet (green striped rugby shirt, khakis, blue dog stuffed animal--boom, <a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbblhld32A1r0n2hvo1_400.jpg">instant Steve</a>) but then at 6:05 he decided with finality that costumes were BOGUS and trick-or-treating was DUMB and a horribly humiliating ordeal for LOSERS. Also maybe he whined and cried and acted like we were asking him to eat not but burning hot coals and drink not but burning hot cola. <br /><br />"But if you go out and wear a costume, people will give you candy!" I told him, playing what I thought was my trump card.<br /><br />"We have candy at home," he said, quite reasonably. <br /><br />So after that debacle, we decided last year, when he was six, that he was going to find a costume that he would tolerate and we were going to go trick-or-treating whether he liked it or not. I don't think we're of the type necessarily to force our kids to do stuff that they hate, only it seemed like he was getting himself all worked up over nothing, and that if only he would stop being so rigid and just relax about "looking dumb" and allow himself have <i>fun</i>, that maybe he could actually <i>have</i> fun and we could be like a normal family going trick-or-treating. And then <i>maybe</i> I finally get some candy runoff at long last. IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK? <br /><br />We decided, after brief discussion, that he would be Harry Potter, which was cool because <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2011/10/next-stop-madame-pomfreys.html">he already had a Harry Potter wand</a>, and anyway, Harry Potter wears regular clothes, he could even skip the glasses, all he'd have to do is let me draw on the forehead scar and wear this Gryffindor scarf that he got just so it looked like he was trying a <i>little</i>.<br /><br />After a lot of discussion (and more whining, and more crying), he finally let us tie the scarf on him. But he was not real happy about it. "You know, Cal," I told him, "most kids actually really <i>like</i> Halloween. They think it's <i>fun</i> to dress up, and go around, and they like going door to door to get candy. It's kind of a really big holiday for kids, you know? Some kids look forward to this all year!"<br /><br />He just grunted.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cFZIlFgkaHU/UIxMKmsNl_I/AAAAAAAAE6c/qIweffFrRB8/s1600/IMG_4939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cFZIlFgkaHU/UIxMKmsNl_I/AAAAAAAAE6c/qIweffFrRB8/s640/IMG_4939.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />(Though eventually he did get into it.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v-46Jd5n2As/UIxMLZimIhI/AAAAAAAAE6k/PAMXLPHENro/s1600/IMG_4953.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v-46Jd5n2As/UIxMLZimIhI/AAAAAAAAE6k/PAMXLPHENro/s640/IMG_4953.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />This year, we didn't even have a discussion. <i>We were going to do this thing.</i> After polling Cal to see if he had any costume ideas (to which he responded, "I don't know. I have to consider it.") I just decided, boy, you're going to dress up as a Star Wars character, and I don't want to hear any more about it. Originally I bought a whole pile of cream and brown fleece and was going to <i>sew</i> all the kids matching Jedi costumes (pause for laughter), but reality testing eventually intervened and I ended up buying the chintziest of chintzy drugstore Jedi outfits for both boys, coupled with <a href="http://amzn.to/XCqGpc">these foam colored light up rods</a> that <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/01/these-are-not-droids-youre-looking-for.html">I highly recommend</a> to anyone who has kids that are into Star Wars. <br /><br />And when we went to the third grade Halloween party this Friday, he put it on without any discussion.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xzTYRkEd9HM/UIxNtH9KEPI/AAAAAAAAE68/vyZYDjQHND0/s1600/IMG_9986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xzTYRkEd9HM/UIxNtH9KEPI/AAAAAAAAE68/vyZYDjQHND0/s640/IMG_9986.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Cal!<br /><br />Put on an actual non-regular clothing costume!<br /><br />WITHOUT DISCUSSION!<br /><br /><i>(High fiving a million angels)</i><br /><br />I know it's not a big deal (and believe me, I'm trying not to make it into one, especially in front of him), but it's been seven years and eight Halloweens to get to this point so...yeah, it is kind of a majorly big deal.<br /><br />Both of the boys, by the way, decided to be Obi-Wan Kenobi for Halloween. Originally Cal wanted to be Obi-Wan and Mack was going to be Anakin Skywalker (which I found actually quite fitting), but then Mack decided that <i>he</i> wanted to be Obi-Wan too, and Cal got mad because what are you <i>nuts</i>, there can't be <i>two</i> Obi-Wans, haven't you even <i>seen</i> the movie? Like, a couple hundred times? And there was much squabbling, and I came in and decided, perhaps at a slightly higher volume than strictly necessary, YOU KIDS SHUT UP EVERYONE'S GOING TO BE OBI-WAN.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Ah, Mack. Mack, on the other hand...<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPTBIPpvE_w/UI1LUaQJGrI/AAAAAAAAE8s/e1iypT1Lv5o/s1600/mack+costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZPTBIPpvE_w/UI1LUaQJGrI/AAAAAAAAE8s/e1iypT1Lv5o/s640/mack+costume.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The only problem we have with Mack is getting him <i>out</i> of costume.<br /><br /><br /><center>* * *<br /></center><br /><br />I'm kind of hustling to write this while the kids are asleep so I don't really have time to reflect on this fact or get overly introspective/profound/lachrymose about this fact, but: this weekend marks <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.homestead.com/archives_old.html">the twelfth anniversary of this blog</a>.<br /><br /><i>Twelve years.</i> That's a lot of years, boy. Twelve years ago I was starting my second year of medical school and decided, on a whim, to start an online journal in lieu of memorizing the <a href="http://www.biocarta.com/pathfiles/classicPathway.asp">complement pathway</a> to have even a faint hope of passing my immunology midterm. And now I am an attending anesthesiologist, married to my <a href="http://josephwalrathmd.com/">med school classmate</a> (who, not to knock my own clinical skills, but I often think is a better doctor than me, or at least good at different things), a mother of three, living in the South. <br /><br />Aside from the part where I now have a medical degree, at the moment I started this blog I had no idea where I would end up ten-plus years down the line. I can't say that everything that has happened to me since has been expected. But as much as we Type A personalities like to control things, the unexpected can be exciting, and what's more, the unexpected can be quite good. And really, I don't think that this blog anniversary requires much more reflection than that, only to say that life now is busy and full and, most importantly, <i>fun</i>. I think I've reached a point in balancing my life and obligations where I feel that if something extracurricular ceases to be fun, it's probably not worth doing anymore. But keeping this blog, even after twelve years, continues to be fun, and that's why I keep writing. So thank you for sticking around with me. <br /><br />And yes, if the finer details of the <a href="http://www.biocarta.com/pathfiles/cxcr4Pathway.asp">CXCR4 signaling pathway</a> are indeed important to my clinical practice, I am pretty much screwed, because I don't think I ever really learned it in the first place.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-27146597347932819462012-10-07T14:29:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.536-07:00indian summer vacationThe way Joe and I schedule our lives we end up planning most of our family vacations more than a year in advance, and around the Spring of 2011 we made plans to rent a cottage in Jamaica for summer vacation the following year. Well, turns out that despite my neurosis about planning things well ahead of time, you actually <i>can</i> make plans too far in advance, because it turns out <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/07/independence-day.html">we were a little busy this past July</a>. Luckily, the rental place was very nice about allowing us to reschedule once we told them the reason, and so we took our family summer vacation and moved it to a week in the fall. To <i>this</i> week, as a matter of fact.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eMrDjOBJ5xw/UHHsv9mjRHI/AAAAAAAAE3c/1JNFUVaYcCw/s1600/sleeping+to+villa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eMrDjOBJ5xw/UHHsv9mjRHI/AAAAAAAAE3c/1JNFUVaYcCw/s640/sleeping+to+villa.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />It actually doesn't take that long to fly from Atlanta to Jamaica, but we did have to take a car to a shuttle to a monorail to a plane to a van, so it ended up being a fairly grueling trip for the three kids. Luckily we now have no other plans for this week other than to hang around and let the kids beach and pool themselves stupid. So you know. <i>Vacation</i>.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PQqiU3FHQv8/UHHsjZBm0fI/AAAAAAAAE3U/99E5XKXBe_s/s1600/Ba+and+Ma+holding+Nina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PQqiU3FHQv8/UHHsjZBm0fI/AAAAAAAAE3U/99E5XKXBe_s/s640/Ba+and+Ma+holding+Nina.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />We invited my parents to come along with us for the trip too, because it's nice for the kids to be able to spend time with them, and also (selfishly) it's nice to have another two sets of eyes around to make sure no one's playing with anything dangerous/inadvisable/flammable. Here are each of them holding the only remaining grandchild who will agree to sit on their laps. In the picture on the right, Nina, like Kuato, wants you to <i>open your mind, Quaid</i>.<br /><br />(I should also note that my dad came into town one day early so that <a href="http://josephwalrathmd.com/">Joe</a> could do a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blepharoplasty">blepharoplasty</a> on him, which is why his eyelids still look a little bruised. He would also want you know to know, however, that he got this done <i>only</i> because his lids were drooping and obstructing his vision, and not for purely cosmetic reasons. Now, I don't know nothin' about no oculoplastics, but I do know that <a href="http://josephwalrathmd.com/">doing a good blepharoplasty</a> is sometimes a tricky and subtle business--particularly on Asian people--but even just three days post-op, I have to say that Joe did a really amazing job. First off, my dad can <i>see</i> better, so already: success. But as someone who has been looking at my dad for my entire life, I also have to say that even this soon postop, he also looks really good and natural and <i>himself</i>, which is important. So good for him, and less good for, you know, <a href="http://img2-3.timeinc.net/people/i/2006/news/060424a/krogers.jpg">Kenny Rogers</a>.)<br /><br />Anyway, so we're here. Cal's having fun swimming, Mack's having fun bobbing, and Nina's having fun lying in a variety of shady spots and looking at the ceiling fan in the bedroom.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2sFwGxJKmf0/UHHwXFh8dtI/AAAAAAAAE4g/GmJT_fLLPD4/s1600/IMG_9295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2sFwGxJKmf0/UHHwXFh8dtI/AAAAAAAAE4g/GmJT_fLLPD4/s640/IMG_9295.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aoDixPwjNks/UHHwC4kpCxI/AAAAAAAAE4Y/1-wzwtmgZEQ/s1600/IMG_9247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aoDixPwjNks/UHHwC4kpCxI/AAAAAAAAE4Y/1-wzwtmgZEQ/s640/IMG_9247.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cNw9NvWD1Is/UHHxCBgveuI/AAAAAAAAE4w/21DszQWyxAM/s1600/IMG_9301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cNw9NvWD1Is/UHHxCBgveuI/AAAAAAAAE4w/21DszQWyxAM/s640/IMG_9301.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QM0qvfNue-k/UHHwtfiFx5I/AAAAAAAAE4o/d6Yc3pV0fRo/s1600/IMG_9298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QM0qvfNue-k/UHHwtfiFx5I/AAAAAAAAE4o/d6Yc3pV0fRo/s640/IMG_9298.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yW6VNg4WZRs/UHHxaBFj_9I/AAAAAAAAE44/BomQi7PZvfw/s1600/IMG_9302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yW6VNg4WZRs/UHHxaBFj_9I/AAAAAAAAE44/BomQi7PZvfw/s640/IMG_9302.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yrYS5m4vs2o/UHHx5tVyNdI/AAAAAAAAE5I/GR5Lqzh7Yms/s1600/IMG_9292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yrYS5m4vs2o/UHHx5tVyNdI/AAAAAAAAE5I/GR5Lqzh7Yms/s640/IMG_9292.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BFUEPnkBmkA/UHHxsFWsy8I/AAAAAAAAE5A/b9zocsroRD0/s1600/IMG_9306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BFUEPnkBmkA/UHHxsFWsy8I/AAAAAAAAE5A/b9zocsroRD0/s640/IMG_9306.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I suppose there might come a time where our travels might not so reliably involve going to the beach. Just probably not anytime soon.<br /><br /><i>Vacation!</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-79489307112929492682012-10-01T05:20:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.541-07:00spotlight on specialties: anesthesiology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MS5Cv_at7qk/UGmJznJI0uI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/tjArdjB7mO8/s1600/anesthesia+collage.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MS5Cv_at7qk/UGmJznJI0uI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/tjArdjB7mO8/s640/anesthesia+collage.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Sorry, I'm a little bit in remiss in that I didn't post this link up earlier, but here's a link to <a href="https://www.aamc.org/students/medstudents/cim/choicesnewsletter/fall2012/303132/cim_pub_anesthesiology.html">the AAMC article on the field of anesthesiology</a>, for which I was interviewed along with a number of much more distinguished and accomplished colleagues. If you're interested in the field of anesthesiology, either as a potential career or if you just want to know what exactly it is we do all day, <a href="https://www.aamc.org/students/medstudents/cim/choicesnewsletter/fall2012/303132/cim_pub_anesthesiology.html">check it out</a>.<br /><br />An excerpt:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>“Anesthesia is hands-on, fast-paced, and has tremendous capability to make a positive impact on our patients’ lives as anything else we do in the hospital,” says Dr. Au. “In my opinion, it's one of the most interesting, most exciting fields in medicine, and I firmly believe I have the best job in the world.”</i></blockquote><br />I've said it before and I'll say it again here because it's appropriate: it's a difficult juggle to balance work and family, but it's all the more difficult because I do indeed love my job. If I didn't love what I did at the hospital as much as I love what I do at home, my choices would perhaps be easier, though maybe not as satisfying. So really, in the end we should be grateful for the difficult choices, and the chances we have to make them.<br /><br />(And on an unrelated note: the above photo panel is from pictures I took with my phone during residency--isn't it amazing to see how far cell phone photography has come? Wow! The future! hovercrafts that fold up into briefcases! And etcetera!)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-65358739588982099142012-09-23T15:44:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.546-07:00thar's a snake in mah boots!Undoubtedly the scariest call I've gotten from work happened this Thursday, when the director of the chess club that Cal attends after school called that afternoon to say that Cal never showed up, and did I know where he was? (I was at work and of course freaked out because OMG MY BOY IS LOST. Long story short, Cal just forgot it was chess club day and so missed the bus that was to take him there--we tracked him down ten minutes later patiently waiting in the principal's office for someone to pick him up.) So yes, that was scary. But the <i>second</i> scariest call from home I received the day after that, when our nanny told us that she came home from school pickup to see two large <a href="http://www.copperhead-snake.com/">copperhead snakes</a> sunning in our driveway.<br /><br />Joe and I pulled in from work at the same time, and there were no snakes visible, sunning or otherwise. Joe went peering by the back door to see if the snakes were hiding under this storage unit we keep there for balls and frisbees and assorted outdoor detritus, and said, "I don't see anyth--" before jumping back in the air about three feet. Because there was this:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6M6moiGFkg/UF8LfyVcFqI/AAAAAAAAE0Q/7WzEBhjdUFo/s1600/IMG_8954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6M6moiGFkg/UF8LfyVcFqI/AAAAAAAAE0Q/7WzEBhjdUFo/s640/IMG_8954.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I don't think I realized that I was scared of snakes until that day. I knew I was scared of cockroaches--growing up in an apartment in New York made me more than familiar with that particular evolutionary success story--but I honestly can't say I've really <i>seen</i> a snake that big outside of a zoo, behind a guardrail and an information placard and a thick, reassuring layer of plexiglass. But now, peering out from the inside of my house at the venomous snake chilling outside, I can confirm that <i>yeah, for sure, I'm afraid of snakes.</i><br /><br />I mean, LOOK AT IT.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPRLSwUM8y4/UF8MxY0aScI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/NIzyZcwcNwc/s1600/snake+big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPRLSwUM8y4/UF8MxY0aScI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/NIzyZcwcNwc/s640/snake+big.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />LOOK AT THAT FUCKING SNAKE!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xRcjfawSPrE/UF8MyU4ML_I/AAAAAAAAE0g/bLV8HVsUfwQ/s1600/snake+bigger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="478" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xRcjfawSPrE/UF8MyU4ML_I/AAAAAAAAE0g/bLV8HVsUfwQ/s640/snake+bigger.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Borderline related: did anyone who got the iPhone 5 on release day have any input as to its improvements when it comes to low-light photography? As someone who lives in a low ceilinged ranch house with not enough windows, I am interested. Please weigh in if you're in the mood!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, I looked at it and screamed girlishly. Then we called the kids to look at it and they did not seem particularly perturbed (or indeed even that interested), though I gave them both a stern talk nonetheless about <i>if you see a snake don't go near it, it doesn't want to hurt you but it could bite you if it gets scared</i> (I left out the part about tissue necrosis and the potential need for serial debriedments and fasciotomies because WHATEVER, TMI). They shrugged, glanced and the snake through the window again before going back to their Legos. But I could not be so blase about it because the <i>snake</i>, OMG the <i>SNAKE</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MNpkix7_vRs/UF8Z_Pfd8XI/AAAAAAAAE1c/KvKXG5kbuyY/s1600/IMG_8955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MNpkix7_vRs/UF8Z_Pfd8XI/AAAAAAAAE1c/KvKXG5kbuyY/s640/IMG_8955.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">About half an hour later the snake slithered away under some shrubbery along the side of the house, at which point we could see that the tip of its tail was a little squashed from our nanny accidentally running over it with her car when she first pulled into the driveway. We noted where the snake was headed as we had already called A Snake Guy (I believe his official title was "Wildlife Removal Specialist") to come by and check our property the next morning, and wanted to give him a little help in finding what might be the nest, or as I called it, Snake HQ. <br /><br />I was on call this weekend, so when I walked to the car Saturday morning (down a poorly lit driveway that my mind inconveniently imagined to be PAVED WITH SNAKES) I did again see one snake lying there in the middle of the driveway, not moving. I didn't know if it was the same snake as yesterday and frankly I didn't care--I hurriedly got into my car (which was probably teeming with SNAKES) reached into my bag (also stuffed full of SNAKES) and started the engine (ditto SNAKES).<br /><br />The Wildlife Removal Specialist showed up later that morning while I was at the hospital, and though I wasn't there, Joe said that he got rid of that one driveway snake (it was the same snake from the day before, already dead, probably from the inadvertent tail squishing--and it <i>was</i> inadvertent, because even though none of us like snakes and even though the snake could bite our kids/dog/selves, I don't think any of us has the stomach or <i>cojones</i> to kill a snake), sprinkled some "granules" in the high-suspicion region by Snake HQ (purportedly a repellent of some sort) and put down two glue traps that looked for all the world like the ones I could buy at Home Depot. Total bill: $230 for half an hour of work. He did not find a nest or any other snakes in the area, though it's not clear to me how hard he looked--half an hour in an area as dense with ground cover as our yard doesn't seem like a whole lot of time to spend combing the premises. And the glue traps were covered with leaves by that evening, so it's really uncertain how effective those are going to be. <br /><br />(This is probably a good point to tell you guys that I'm quitting my job and becoming a Wildlife Removal Specialist. They have a higher hourly rate than I do and they don't have to pay malpractice insurance. All those years of medical training wasted, but whatever, sunk cost.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So that's that. But what bothers me now--what <i>really</i> bothers me--is this: our nanny said that she returned from school pickup to find <i>two</i> copperheads sunning on our driveway. <i>Two</i>. One of them got accidentally squished by her car, and that's the one that we found, and that the wildlife guy removed. (YOU GUYS HE DIDN'T EVEN KILL THAT SNAKE HIMSELF. $230? Really?) But the other one we never saw again. So in all likelihood, we may still have a large and extremely poisonous snake still hanging around our property. He could still be in our yard. He could be hiding under my car. He could be calling me on the phone and oh my god, <i>get out, the call is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE</i>.</div><br />So basically we have to move now, right?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-78446499845999973352012-09-20T10:56:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.638-07:00great and lesser expectations<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umQzg9Kjz6M/UFtJN1qMaAI/AAAAAAAAEzM/h4NKx3v6LhI/s1600/patch2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umQzg9Kjz6M/UFtJN1qMaAI/AAAAAAAAEzM/h4NKx3v6LhI/s640/patch2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I had Cal three weeks after starting my training in anesthesia--a highly conspicuous move that I think indelibly branded me for the rest of my academic career as "that pregnant resident"--so I think it's fair to say that I have some insight into the assumptions that people tend to make about people mixing family with a career in medicine.<br /><br /><span id="goog_1692494062"></span> In most ways I imagine it's not unlike mixing family with any intense or high-powered careers--look at all talk that Marissa Mayer's pregnancy incited after she was named the new CEO of Yahoo. (Aside: I'm not saying that my career is anywhere <i>near</i> as high-powered as that of Marissa Mayer, just that the case is emblematic). Particularly in the field of anesthesia, where I'm in the room but often lurking in the background or behind a drape, I've heard a lot of conversations about medicine, other physicians, and things that fall in the rubric of "lifestyle choices"--conversations that maybe weren't meant for me to hear. But as a result, and as a result of living my own life, I can say for sure that women in medicine (physicians in particular) who choose to have children during the most active parts of their careers suffer under what I'd describe as a handicap of perception.<br /><br /><i>Perception</i>. Not an <i>actual</i> handicap, but one of perception. There's a Chinese saying that my dad always uses that roughly translates to, "When you're walking through someone else's pumpkin patch, don't bend over to tie your shoes." (OK, that's a very rough translation--I don't think the parable from which the saying was taken originated during a time when shoelaces were a particularly popular feature of Chinese footwear.) What it means is:<i> if you're in a setting that breeds suspicion, try hard not to do suspicious-looking things, no matter how innocent they actually may be.</i> Because you may be just tying your shoes in the middle of that pumpkin field, but a casual observer might be inclined to think you're actually stealing those pumpkins.<br /><br />I think that in medicine (and perhaps in the working world in general but what the hell do I know, I've never had a real job doing anything else) people are quick to assume things about working mothers, not too many of them flattering. I'd like to say "working parents" because believe me, I'd <i>love </i>for us to get to a point where there is actual gender parity on the issue (to be fair, I do think that Joe and I <i>do</i> have gender parity when it comes to parenting, but...we <i>do</i> have to leave our household occasionally and interface with the world) in the year 2012, this <i>is </i>still more of an issue of perception for working mothers. The following is a list of some of the things that some people are quick to assume about women with children who work outside of the home.<br /><br /><br />1.) We don't work as hard.<br /><br />2.) We complain when we <i>do </i>have to work as hard as everyone else.<br /><br />3.) We want special favors and allowances in the workplace because having kids somehow entitles us to them.<br /><br />4.) We are unreliable because something's going to come up with our kids and we're either going to leave our co-workers with the extra work, or sometimes leave our jobs entirely.<br /><br />5.) We just don't care as much about our jobs as our counterparts.<br /><br />5.) All this is somehow inevitable.<br /><br /><br />The problem with other people's perception, especially those colored by preconceived notions, is that there's very little that you can <i>do </i>about it. It has very little to do with <i>you</i>, and sometimes even very little to do with reality itself. And that perception can be insidious, like a Chinese finger trap--the harder you struggle against it, the tighter it binds you. (Yes, <i>again </i>with the Chinese. WE HAVE A RICH CULTURAL HISTORY, OK? Actually I have no idea whether Chinese finger traps are <i>actually </i>Chinese, or just "Chinese," like fortune cookies or General Tso's chicken, but whatever, it's not germane to the metaphor.) You want for all the world to defy the lowered professional expectations that people have of you, to prove them wrong, but sometimes it feels that the harder you try, the more you're reinforcing them nonetheless. <br /><br />So what I think a lot of female physicians with kids do--and what I know I certainly do--is overcompensate. You do it all and then some. You work even harder. You try to never complain about your schedule or your hours while you're at work. Not only do you not ask for special favors, you embrace situations that allow you to prove that fact. In other words, you try to work as much and as hard as everyone else, and then you go a little bit farther, just to make sure. You try to be above reproach.<br /><br />Sometimes this works. Sometimes it doesn't.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-07tKXhiGWxw/UFtJwyxc3-I/AAAAAAAAEzU/6fAUTfejgEQ/s1600/fist-bump-obamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-07tKXhiGWxw/UFtJwyxc3-I/AAAAAAAAEzU/6fAUTfejgEQ/s400/fist-bump-obamas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />I think often now about Michelle Obama, particularly during the president's first presidential campaign, and how hard she and her team had to work to control her image. The reasons people might have a negative impression of her are perhaps multifactorial and not entirely flattering of a portion of the electorate, but there seemed a point where every little thing she did or said, no matter how innocent, was misconstrued as playing right into her detractors' expectations. (The endearing but now notorious fist-bump comes to mind.) Sometimes it feels that way to me too. Representing not only myself, but working mothers in medicine as a group, I am very aware of trying to present myself, present <i>all </i>of us, in the best possible light. Again, overcompensating. I think this explains a lot of my personality at work, which I have often classified as "aggressively pleasant." As in: <i>I will be easy-going and pleasant to work with if it kills me</i>. <br /><br />Sometimes this gets pretty tiring.<br /><br />I also will note that there's a segment of people who will respond to this blog entry with the opinion that I and others like me are far too sensitive about these issues, reading meaning into things that have no meaning, turning mountains into molehills. I am perfectly fine with people responding however they want (as someone who has been writing online for more than a decade, I think that if it's your right to publish something online it's the right of your readers to respond, even if they disagree with you) but I also think that actually being a working parent in medicine, a working mother in particular, lends you a perspective that you don't have access to otherwise. So saying that we're overly sensitive to the issue of low expectation or perception bias is, to me, a little like a straight person saying to a gay person that they're being too sensitive about homophobia, or a white person saying to a Latino that they're too sensitive about racism. Or, maybe, like Mitt Romney condescendingly telling poor people that they just don't work hard enough. If you don't know what you're talking about, sometimes it's best not to talk.<br /><br />I would love to hear your own stories about whether or not you feel that working parents in medicine are stymied by lowered expectations or perception bias, and what you all do in your lives to roll with the punches. Because though the natural (or perhaps easiest) reaction is, "Screw 'em! Who cares what people think?" (this is Joe's response, for example) the fact of it is--I <i>do</i> care. I care what people think of me in my career. I care not only about being a good doctor, I care about being <i>perceived</i> as a good doctor. I care not only about having a good work ethic, but about having that work ethic be a key part of how people see me. <i>I care.</i> Maybe not as much as when I was in training (when I wouldn't even have dared to write a blog entry like this at all, for fear that I'd be seen as "whining") but I still care a lot. So until I stop caring, or society changes as I continue to hope it will, I guess I'll keep walking through this field, head up, eyes straight ahead, and try not to look like I'm stealing pumpkins.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-40504748945799658012012-09-15T13:28:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.730-07:00physician heal thyself *Six hours into my second day back at work, while on call over Labor Day weekend, this happened.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9qmp-mZSrDw/UFTUFk9wYnI/AAAAAAAAEvY/fTBz2Bk5gfw/s1600/IMG_8788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9qmp-mZSrDw/UFTUFk9wYnI/AAAAAAAAEvY/fTBz2Bk5gfw/s640/IMG_8788.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I thought twice about posting this picture right up at the top, above the fold, but in the end, figured--you know this is a medical-ish blog, right? It's just a little blood, right? YOU CAN HANDLE IT. (You can tell me if I should have thought three times about it instead.)<br /><br />Anyway, I won't get into too many of the details of how the injury happened--mostly because in the past two weeks I've told this story at work about fifty skrizillion times and am bored of repeating myself--but let's just say that it was obtained while doing a procedure on the general medicine floor, and happened due to a combination of 1.) suboptimal conditions, 2.) poor equipment design, and 3.) poor judgement (my own) in persisting to use said equipment despite #2 in the setting of #1. Be careful with your sharps, everyone. They are...sharp.<br /><br />Anyway, after finishing the procedure (I luckily had a second set of sterile gloves in my pocket that I was able to put on to finish off the task--a task on a patient that was not at a point where I could walk away) and though the glove was all flabby like a water balloon of blood by the end of the procedure, had a nice tight cuff that contained all my lifeblood quite nicely. Then I irrigated my wound, finished the procedure note, and made haste down to the emergency room, where they took very good care of me.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YptZSzdMxrM/UFTUHfHhyjI/AAAAAAAAEvg/vEqU0Rt7d9k/s1600/IMG_8789.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YptZSzdMxrM/UFTUHfHhyjI/AAAAAAAAEvg/vEqU0Rt7d9k/s640/IMG_8789.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I was instructed to get my stitches out in ten days, but the problem with wound care on your hand when you work in a hospital is twofold. One, you have to keep your wound pretty covered up at all times--I basically had it laminated with a combination of Steri-strips, Tegaderms, and various configurations of bandages for the entire ten-day course the stitches were in. Secondly, as I think I have mentioned before, I was my hands a lot during the course of an average work day, and no matter how occlusive I tried to make the dressing or how "waterproof" the various products used purported to be, my wound spent the better part of the ten days marinating in a brine of Band-aid water. I tried to take the dressings off when I got home to let the laceration breathe, but the tails and knots of the stitches kept getting snagged on various things (clothing, towels, the kids' faces) so I ended up keeping the bandages on most of the time I was home too--another place where, between food prep and giving baths and changing dipaers--I had to wash my hands almost as often as I did at work.<br /><br />So when my stitches came out this past Wednesday, the wound looked...<i>rough</I>. First of all, it didn't really look like it had healed at all. It was still gapping significantly, I could still see adipose through the edges of the wound, and the surrounding flesh and skin looked all ragged and macerated. Joe offered to close it for me again, in layers this time with subcuticular stitches, but after mooshing it around and considering, I decided that I would just take off all my bandages whenever I wasn't in the hospital and let the whole thing dry out and <a href="http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/531732/secondary-intention">close by secondary intention</a>. I was going to take a picture of the wound at this point, but be thankful I didn't, it looked even more gory on Wednesday than it did when I got the injury in the first place. But anyway, it looks like Project Dessicate and Granulate is working, because now, three days after my stitches were removed, my hand looks much, <i>much</i> better than it did a few days ago.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MAsGhUyJGJg/UFTUIwLAzRI/AAAAAAAAEvo/8C8uunhZaPo/s1600/IMG_8893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MAsGhUyJGJg/UFTUIwLAzRI/AAAAAAAAEvo/8C8uunhZaPo/s640/IMG_8893.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />(You'll just have to trust me on that last point.)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br /><br />So, I'm back at work! And it is...OK. Actually, it's kind of hard to say how it's been and how it's going to be, since we haven't really officially pressure-tested the system yet. Joe's mom, upon hearing how stressed we were about juggling everything, swooped into town the Tuesday after Labor Day and has been helping out with us at home for the past two weeks--getting dinner on the table, helping Cal with his homework when I'm working late, holding the baby so that Joe or I can go to the bathroom, entertaining-slash-distracting Mack, and any of about a billion different things that tip the balance of our mornings and evenings from smooth to totally unmanageable. The kids have been delighted to have grandma in town, and it's made the transition overall much smoother.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-knDg-ngzx3k/UFTbV9_KUhI/AAAAAAAAEwg/s4ZP23rzLGY/s1600/IMG_8866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-knDg-ngzx3k/UFTbV9_KUhI/AAAAAAAAEwg/s4ZP23rzLGY/s640/IMG_8866.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Unfortunately, she has to go home tomorrow. So after that, it's sink or swim. Well, sink, swim or bob, I guess.<br /><br />Overall, the difficulty with finding our new balance point now that I'm back at work is not so much getting everything done, but deciding if how we're choosing to allocate our time really is the best. Essentially a quality versus quantity argument. Well, let me revise that--it's not quality <i>versus</i> quantity so much as the concern that, with our current setup (three kids, Joe and I both working fairly extensive hours) that we may have neither. Part of the quantity element might be improved in a few months after my call schedule settles out--like I mentioned before, I have a pretty bad schedule for the rest of the year, I assume in part due to the leveling algorithm imposed by the computer system that my practice uses to assign our work assignments. And presumably, the quality of our time might improve when things settle down too--once the newness of the transition wears off, once the kids are more settled into their routines, once the baby gets a little older, <i>etcetera etcetera</i>. Maybe. <br /><br />In the end, it's all doable, but we'll have to evaluate in another couple of months if the quality of the doing is really the best for everyone. Because I can't help but think--and this is judgement on no one but ourselves--that it feels awfully irresponsible to choose to have three kids and not choose to find some way to spend a little more time with them all.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br /><br />You'll have to indulge me this last bit, but Cal's been just exploding with creativity since school started, and just recently, the stuff he's been writing is getting (in my utterly biased opinion) kind of good. He's been saying for a year or so now that he wants to be an author when he grows up, and while until now I've sort of considered it one of those classic Kid Aspirations (teacher, astronaut or similar--interesting to note, however, that Cal has absolutely <i>no</i> interest in becoming a doctor) this is the first time that I've thought there may actually be something to his plan. This (page one of his latest story) has a evocative "Hunger Games" or "Lord of the Rings"-esque feel to it, doesn't it? <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CaRigzbYXew/UFTi068h7dI/AAAAAAAAExY/Gr0TSKPW1UM/s1600/page+1+cal+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CaRigzbYXew/UFTi068h7dI/AAAAAAAAExY/Gr0TSKPW1UM/s640/page+1+cal+story.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><br /><br />(Cal hasn't watched "Lord of the Rings," by the way. When I suggested that he might enjoy it, Joe shot me down saying that it was far too scary for a seven year-old. I don't remember it being particularly terrifying, but what the hell do I know, I slept through the first two movies and didn't even watch the third. What do you think? Is it "Star Wars" level scary, or "Willow" level scary? What is a scary kids movie, anyway? Everyone talks about how magical "E.T." was, but that fucking thing terrified me as a child and still to this day. That neck! Those fingers! THOSE WATERY TREMULOUS EYES.)<br /><br />Anyhoo. Everyone here's surviving. Even doing well at times. Hope you all are too.<br /><br />-----<br />* I am fairly certain that I have used this title for another post before, but I've been keeping this blog for almost twelve years now so I'm fine with some creative reuse if you are.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-88243006133006717612012-08-30T07:07:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.823-07:00the day before tomorrowToday is my last day of maternity leave, and if you're thinking to yourself, "well, <i>that</i> went quick," I totally agree. Not as quick as my five week leave with Cal, or my six week leave with Mack, but it still didn't seem much longer than those other times, somehow. One's perception always expands to fill the timeframe allotted I guess, which is probably why, no matter how long I had or when I started, my papers in college were always finished at midnight the night before. (See also: why I did not major in the humanities.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IRW4Jt46JQc/UD90KTJFPwI/AAAAAAAAEuc/_Qqn8kzozQk/s1600/IMG_8743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IRW4Jt46JQc/UD90KTJFPwI/AAAAAAAAEuc/_Qqn8kzozQk/s640/IMG_8743.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />I am something of a planner (this is what Joe calls me, though I think this is charitable--I have what might more accurately be described as a crippling attention to detail with a vivid imagination for catastrophe and outlay for at least three contingencies) so I've been gearing up for going back to work for, oh, at least the last month. I knew I had to go back to work August 31st, so naturally I started stressing about it August 1st. SHUT UP, I'M NORMAL. So here's what we have going on.<br /><br />Naturally, the milk. I started pumping when Nina was probably about three weeks old (with the boys I started pumping sooner, both because I had less time was not as worried about weight gain with them than with Nina--she was <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/07/independence-day.html">on the smaller side when she was born</a> and I didn't want to, you know, screw with the system until breastfeeding was firmly established) and I think we have amassed a goodly stockpile for my re-entry.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-znLWj9sAWG0/UD37s7_g-GI/AAAAAAAAEoY/-SVG0UhwXOs/s1600/symphony.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-znLWj9sAWG0/UD37s7_g-GI/AAAAAAAAEoY/-SVG0UhwXOs/s400/symphony.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>As I think I've mentioned before, the pump I'm using is the <a href="http://www.medelabreastfeedingus.com/products/223">Medela Symphony</a>. I used the Symphony with Cal, lugging it into work with me for six months on the subway (it's not, like, 50 pounds or anything, but it's a hefty hospital grade pump so I crammed it into a giant L.L. Bean backpack and looked every bit like the former <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunter_College_High_School">Hunter</a> student that I once was: monstrous square backback on the subway at dark o'clock every morning--at least I wasn't reading "The Grapes of Wrath" or "The Chosen"). When the rental company I was using with the Symphony folded, I bought a <a href="http://amzn.to/PPZYnz">Pump in Style</a>, which I used for another six months with Cal, and then for almost a year with Mack, and it worked fine. But now, returning to the Symphony, I have to say--it's a <i>much</i> better pump. It's just <i>solid</i>, and it works more efficiently too, which is great when you need to pump but have only a short amount of time to get the job done. Obviously it costs more too, but you can rent it, or buy it an resell it like I plan to. (Since it's a hospital-grade pump, it operates on a closed system and is therefore approved for multiple users--the new owner would just need to get <a href="http://amzn.to/RrV5nM">a new collection system and fresh tubing</a>.) I would also like to point out, for anyone else in the same boat, that <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/juggle/2011/02/10/breast-pumps-now-deductible-irs-says/">the purchase of a breast pump can be deductible on your medical flex account</a> if you have one for work. (I printed out <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/juggle/2011/02/10/breast-pumps-now-deductible-irs-says/">that article</a> and stapled it to the receipt when I submitted it to my business office, and had no problems.)<br /><br />I know a lot of people use <a href="http://amzn.to/Rmmtj3">those plastic baggies</a> to store their milk, but I never have--experimentation in the medium led to a lot of spillage and of course the solid waste over the course of a year is not inconsiderable. So for the third time in a row now I'm using this <a href="http://amzn.to/NW9mtR">Mother's Milkmate system</a>, which is basically a series of wire racks and little bottles (the bottles store up to five ounces I think but I never fill with more than four, because it can get messy, and of course if you end up freezing the bottle there's no room for expansion). I obviously think this system is the way to go since I've gone back to it twice, because it easily shows you how much milk you have and dispenses the stash from oldest to newest in a way that satisfies my <strike>neuroticism</strike> attention to detail. (If my use of <a href="http://amzn.to/Q182UH">masking tape labels color coded by day</a> doesn't tell you everything you need to know about my personality, I'm not really sure what will.) <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YG4QO7TayR4/UD9bau4AYYI/AAAAAAAAErs/BKIoaQ2daDw/s1600/IMG_8703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YG4QO7TayR4/UD9bau4AYYI/AAAAAAAAErs/BKIoaQ2daDw/s640/IMG_8703.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Some pro tips: get a few packs of <a href="http://amzn.to/NW9LMP">extra storage bottles</a> to have around, because between having some in the freezer and having dirty ones in the dishwasher, a good percentage of the bottles are going to be out of circulation each day and you want to have enough clean ones lying around to pump and store. The rack itself comes with ten bottles those bottles screw directly into <a href="http://amzn.to/RrV5nM">the boob horns of the pump setup</a>, which means less pouring and transferring of your hard-won bounty. As an added plus, you can also screw on any standard-sized nipple (the <a href="http://amzn.to/Psm2D8">Medela ones</a> or <a href="http://amzn.to/RrXI93">the freebies they give you at the hospital</a> fit fine) and feed directly from the storage bottle itself, which is very convenient as long as your baby isn't particular about bottle feeding. (We didn't get one of these non-particular babies, however. She's a woman of discriminating tastes, about which more later.)<br /><br />I work at the same place now as I did when Mack was born, so luckily I have my pumping logistics and geography pretty much down. Since the year I pumped with Mack, the hospital has actually added a lactation room pretty close to the OR, but from what I've heard they've missed the mark a bit because while it is a room with a door and a chair, it apparently doesn't have a sink. People, <i>you need a sink</i>, both to wash your hands before and to rinse your pump parts after. Sure, you could carry your stuff down the hall and rinse them in the lounge, but believe me, people get awfully squeamish when they have to see your lady gear. So I'll do what I did last time, which is pump in the bathroom of the female doctor's locker room. It sounds kind of grim, but it's actually <i>leagues</i> better than where I pumped as a resident--it's reasonably clean first of all, and there's an overhead light, which seems redundant to mention in this modern age, but believe me, <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2005/11/ballad-of-sad-boob-when-you-think-of.html">it's not a given</a>. Also, 100% fewer dirty mops are stored in this particular bathroom. So basically it's like Shangri-La. <br /><br />So you need a place to pump at work. Here's what you really need: a pump, a platform to put it on (desk, table, bench, what have you--I put my pump on a hamper), a sink, a door (for the sake of workplace discretion), an electrical outlet, a fridge, and an insulated bag with some ice packs to get it all home. The electrical outlet is technically optional I guess, but using a battery pack to power a pump over the long term is going to cost you bank because those things eat batteries like Cookie Monster eats cookies, so just do yourself a favor and just park near an outlet. <br /><br />Let me say here that although I've nursed all three of my kids, I have a problem with people being a little <i>too</i> adamant about breastfeeding as the be all end all. Feeding your kid formula is just fine as I and millions of other formula-fed humans will attest, and <i>what</i> you feed them is probably somewhat lower on the list of things that are essential to their health and well-being than, you know, loving them and being attuned to their needs and safety, all that jazz. So I have a problem with people making moms feel like they're <i>failures</i> if they can't/choose not to breastfeed. Look, breastfeeding is great if it works for you, but it's not as important as many, <i>many</i> other things you can do for your baby, like, for example, getting them vaccinated against dangerous childhood diseases. BUT I DIGRESS. <br /><br />Anyway, what got me to that last point is that I was going to say that the more militant of the breastfeeding literature says that if you're going to <i>dare</i> to go back to work and tear yourself away from your tiny human, that you should ideally be pumping every two or three hours during the day. (Pause for laughter.) I don't know <i>anyone</i> who has a job that allows them to pump every two or three hours, do you? I mean, <i>maybe</i> if you work from home, but even then, I bet it would be rough, because of the actual "work" part. So just get that out of your head. It is impossible. I pump maybe two or three times a day total. Once in the morning before I leave for work. Once midday, around lunchtime. And once later in the evening, if I'm working late. I also usually take some sort of galactagogue--with the boys I took <a href="http://pediatrics.about.com/cs/breastfeeding/a/domperidone.htm">domperidone</a>, and with Nina I've been taking this <a href="http://amzn.to/OANpPo">Lactation Support</a> stuff (basically fenugreek with other herbal jazz) and supply has been pretty good. Once I get home, I just nurse on demand, which basically means I have a baby attached to me all evening and all night. Good stuff.<br /><br />Ironically, it was much easier to find time to pump as a resident than it is now that I'm an attending. This seems counterintuitive, but the reason is that as an anesthesia resident we were mandated to get a thirty minute lunch/bathroom break midday, during which time I knew someone was covering my patient and I had no explicit clinical responsibilities. As a grown-up (that is to say, now that I'm an attending), I don't <i>get</i> lunch breaks anymore. I mean, I <i>eat</i> lunch (usually), but I just grab it between other things to do, because I can be (and am) called to do <i>something</i> constantly throughout the day. A thirty minute break is the stuff of pure fantasy. So when I pump at work, it's kind of like playing Frogger. I eye the rooms I'm supervising, calculate how long it will be until they need me or until my next patient shows up in pre-op or how long it's going to be before the surgeon removes The Big Clamp or starts dissecting around The Pulsating Thing--and then I just run for it. Really, I just need ten or fifteen minutes, because I have everything in place and for the most part assembled. So I run in to pump, give the parts a cursory rinse and dry (I do the real wash at home, in the dishwasher--the heat effectively sterilizes everything) and run my stash to the refrigerator, all hopefully before I get called to do the next thing.<br /><br />Of course, pumping the milk is just the first part of going back to work if you breastfeed; you also have a way to, you know, get the milk inside your baby. With Cal and Mack, I introduced the bottle in earnest at about two weeks, and they had very little trouble transitioning between the two (something that made me seriously doubt the phenomenon of "nipple confusion" that people talk about) but Nina has been a little more of a tough nut. She really, really, <i>really</i> strongly prefers to nurse over bottle feeding. I started having my high-level surrogates (sorry, I just rewatched the entire run of "The West Wing" in its entirety over my leave and my mind is still half in the Santos-McGarry campaign) giving her a bottle or two a day starting around three or four weeks, but she just kind of hated it for a while. We tried a bunch of different nipples and bottles, but so far what works best for her is the same thing we used for her brothers, which is this <a href="http://amzn.to/Pso2v0">Playtex nurser system</a> set.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5zLr7z0wDUE/UD9hY8VshoI/AAAAAAAAEsk/plHF1OyMxyI/s1600/playtex1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5zLr7z0wDUE/UD9hY8VshoI/AAAAAAAAEsk/plHF1OyMxyI/s640/playtex1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />It's marketed as better for breastfeeding babies, and I don't know if that's just a bunch of hooey but it does have <a href="http://amzn.to/RmdUop">the widest nipple base</a> of any that we tried (how many times have I said the word "nipple" in this entry? NIPPLEZZZ!) and I think that she's the most comfortable with it because it's the most boob-like non-boob that we have in our arsenal. I also like it because it uses these <a href="http://amzn.to/SXikpR">drop-in liners</a>, which not only means that we don't have to actually wash a bottle (the plastic "bottle" is really just a tube-shaped frame to hold the plastic liner and for you to grab onto) but it allows you to really squeeze out all the air from the milk reservoir before feeding, not unlike priming a syringe. (Yeah, I just said that. WHAT?) For a happy refluxer like Nina, this ability to minimize the air swallowed is a nice benefit.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ajcOn2fa7AQ/UD9ilfij36I/AAAAAAAAEss/j7FnUD2aCoE/s1600/IMG_8727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ajcOn2fa7AQ/UD9ilfij36I/AAAAAAAAEss/j7FnUD2aCoE/s640/IMG_8727.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Nina's smart though, in that she will <i>rarely</i> agree to take the bottle from me, probably because she knows that when I'm there she has better options. Sometimes she won't take the bottle (or will at least fuss more) if she knows I'm even nearby--this leads to the hardest part of transitioning out of maternity leave, which is: <i>leaving before you really have to leave</i>. <br /><br />I knew I was going to be on call my first day back at the hospital, and would be away from her for maybe fourteen hours or more. Obviously that's a long time, and I didn't want my first day back (stressful for many other reasons) to be all the more shocking to the baby because OMG WHERE DID THE BOOB LADY GO? I wanted Nina to know well before it was time for me to go back to work for real that even if I wasn't there, there were other people there to hold her and feed her and love her. Maybe it was more for myself than anything else, but I needed to see for myself that she was going to be OK before I actually left. So starting a few weeks ago, I started "leaving" during the day, for increasingly long periods, a few hours at a time. <br /><br />We are very lucky to have a nanny that has been with us since before Mack was born, and she knows and loves our kids, which has made it a lot easier. But still, I will tell you that the hardest part of these "trial separations" is being in the house, hearing her cry, and letting someone else get her. I've literally had to sit on my hands a couple of times. Which is probably why I end up leaving the house during most of these "training" periods, and why Target has all of my money. But Nina now takes the bottle during the day, she and our nanny now know each other pretty well, and we have our little schedule and routine pretty set, including coordinating school pickups and drop offs for the boys with the baby in tow. I'll be sad leaving tomorrow morning but I won't really be <i>too</i> worried, because hey, we practiced. <i>We got this.</i><br /><br />It's both wonderful and terrible to be needed so much by someone, but then also see that they're OK with someone else too. I remember when I went back to work after Cal was born, thinking, "How can this little person possibly survive without me?" But he did. They all do. But I guess this period is the act of parenting a child in a nutshell. They'll do fine, but you try your hardest to prepare them for success and happiness the best that you can. And look, I know, DRAMA QUEEN, you're just going back to work, not joining the Foreign Legion. But these little transitions can be hard on everyone, though hopefully with all the prep it will be harder for me than for her.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKcAjN_paKA/UD9vDv4SIpI/AAAAAAAAEtk/_Oub9jBQ8_M/s1600/Nina+smiling+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKcAjN_paKA/UD9vDv4SIpI/AAAAAAAAEtk/_Oub9jBQ8_M/s640/Nina+smiling+collage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><a href="http://psa-online.net/">Hey guys</a>. See you at work tomorrow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-4315672626441306242012-08-28T05:06:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:39.917-07:00emergenceThe remarkable thing about maternity leave is how much free time it seems like you <i>should</i> have, but how little free time it is you <i>actually</i> have.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QZEmsOzwBA/UDeDVFXe4cI/AAAAAAAAElI/Tyt8zjaHF4w/s1600/Nina+passport+outtakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QZEmsOzwBA/UDeDVFXe4cI/AAAAAAAAElI/Tyt8zjaHF4w/s640/Nina+passport+outtakes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Nina is a sweet, delicious baby (again, I note our culture's predilection for comparing babies to confectionary--however, if you've been with this baby, you would understand, she's basically a giant lump of fondant shaped into human form) but she, like all babies, is fairly time-consuming. That, and she enjoys being held, ideally constantly, unless she's asleep. Actually, even when she's asleep, she prefers to sleep like this, which is why I have since switched to one of those <a href="http://amzn.to/Po8SHp">Tom's of Maine hippie dippie deodorants</a> that--sorry Tom--<i>barely</i> deodorizes. Everyone step back three feet.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PYoK8Fn0A2M/UC6XGLv5MJI/AAAAAAAAEjA/E7q3yllNejg/s1600/IMG_8461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PYoK8Fn0A2M/UC6XGLv5MJI/AAAAAAAAEjA/E7q3yllNejg/s640/IMG_8461.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />People probably have different schools of thought on this when it comes to babies, but I sort of tend towards the thinking that newborn babies can't really be spoiled, and that all they need to learn at this point is that they're going to be taken care of. So if she wants me to hold her all day long, well then, by gum, that's what I'll do--it's why I'm <i>on</i> maternity leave, after all. However, it also means that I can't really do much of anything else (I do have a growing list of dinners that can be cooked one-handed while the other hand is holding a baby, the Cliff Notes version of which is: <i>cook not anything that requires peeling or a can opener</i>) and that's my roundabout way of explaining why I haven't updated this blog in more than a month. It's not that I can't type, but anything that requires more typing than can be accomplished with one thumb on an iPhone is perhaps more bimanual dexterity than I have been able to reasonably accomplish recently. <br /><br />Cue gratuitous baby photos...and <i>go</i>.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t-wAyoIrSFE/UDyq-z6QvgI/AAAAAAAAEmA/NlGXwrjWh2U/s1600/IMG_8275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t-wAyoIrSFE/UDyq-z6QvgI/AAAAAAAAEmA/NlGXwrjWh2U/s640/IMG_8275.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fYzoftqPQHA/UDyrDMhb39I/AAAAAAAAEmI/Yz1c8_lFRYs/s1600/IMG_8467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fYzoftqPQHA/UDyrDMhb39I/AAAAAAAAEmI/Yz1c8_lFRYs/s640/IMG_8467.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M8tJ3N6GZvM/UC6XM3TkjcI/AAAAAAAAEjg/ZQsLy8hsLcA/s1600/IMG_8556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M8tJ3N6GZvM/UC6XM3TkjcI/AAAAAAAAEjg/ZQsLy8hsLcA/s640/IMG_8556.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0CsVg9RGVwE/UDyrJtJRrEI/AAAAAAAAEmY/gI0sgVJ-DPs/s1600/IMG_8672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0CsVg9RGVwE/UDyrJtJRrEI/AAAAAAAAEmY/gI0sgVJ-DPs/s640/IMG_8672.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QKbl52G-KRU/UDyrMCoyHuI/AAAAAAAAEmg/D5kxwDNA_Cg/s1600/IMG_8685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QKbl52G-KRU/UDyrMCoyHuI/AAAAAAAAEmg/D5kxwDNA_Cg/s640/IMG_8685.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hSgjWbHyeWU/UDyrRFXCaBI/AAAAAAAAEmo/l07n0LN0HKk/s1600/IMG_8686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hSgjWbHyeWU/UDyrRFXCaBI/AAAAAAAAEmo/l07n0LN0HKk/s640/IMG_8686.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />(On a related note: if you've e-mailed me in the past month or so with a non-emergent message, I really apologize if I haven't returned it. Life is triage, and so I've been somewhat unplugged from some of my outside obligations as of late. <i>Lo siento</i>, etcetera etcetera.)<br /><br />I started (well, multiple times) to write about the life of an anesthesiologist, pecking away at it until my fingers were damn near bloody bone stubs, because that entry was not even half finished and it was already, like, a skrillion pages long. But then about two weeks ago I got an e-mail from someone at the AAMC (funny trivia: if you Google "AAMC," it will ask you, "Did you mean <a href="http://www.aamco.com/">AAMCO</a>?" and divert you to a page with links to mufflers and transmission changes; but no, as many of you know, AAMC stands for the <a href="https://www.aamc.org/">Association of American Medical Colleges</a>) who is doing an article series on medical specialties, and will be featuring the noble specialty of Anesthesia in September. So since I'm going to be doing that interview anyway, I figured I'd just link to that when it came out instead, and add bits and pieces to it or field questions as opposed to posting a dense and possibly stultifying brickwork of text not unlike The Cask of Amontillado. Fair?<br /><br />So here's what else we've been up to.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2XPb9rON_NY/UC6XLNM1W2I/AAAAAAAAEjY/OBzFJyWhv4E/s1600/IMG_8534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2XPb9rON_NY/UC6XLNM1W2I/AAAAAAAAEjY/OBzFJyWhv4E/s640/IMG_8534.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Well, school started. Actually it started the second week of August, which seems just shy of barbaric to me, but such are the regional variants of the academic year in the South. I think the reasoning is that they time it such that the first semester ends right as the kids are breaking for Christmas (as opposed to having the semester end at the end of January like it did for me growing up--a two and a half week holiday vacation <i>is</i> a more natural break point) and as another plus, school ends usually the week before Memorial Day, which enables us to do things like <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/05/almost-heaven.html">this</a>. But the downside is that we live in Atlanta, and August is monstrously hot. So pick your poison.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5_3rB0Vp5f4/UC6XcgQdpYI/AAAAAAAAEkI/dNifFiBQauM/s1600/IMG_8599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5_3rB0Vp5f4/UC6XcgQdpYI/AAAAAAAAEkI/dNifFiBQauM/s640/IMG_8599.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />The transition to third grade has been pretty good so far. As expected, the fact that we were making this transition after finishing up first grade in full made the switch much more natural--new class, new teacher at this point in the year is par for the course, so Cal blended in with his classmates pretty seamlessly. There is one girl in his class who <i>towers</i> over him by a full head, but on the whole, he's not <i>that</i> much smaller than his classmates (despite being one to almost two full years younger than some of them), and that has helped. He's also making friends, which is a <i>huge</i> relief. (Somewhat on-topic: I still remember when the term "playdate" entered my lexicon--growing up we just called it "going over to [<i>insert friend name here</i>]'s house" but my sister, ten years younger than I, was set up on "playdates" in a semi-regular fashion--and at the time, the terminology seemed overly formal, like saying that your four year-old had a pressing engagement at the sandbox.) <br /><br />Veering back on topic, Cal is making friends, and while it seems that the size and age difference isn't a really big deal so far, Cal's lack of working knowledge about miscellaneous juvenile pop culture ephemera is. "You don't know who Usher is?" one of his new friends asked Cal. Cal did not. Ditto Justin Bieber. He did, however, just finish reading a biography about Albert Einstein, but somehow the conversation didn't quite take off with that one. So maybe we should consider some remediation with respect to such topics, though honestly, I myself wouldn't know where to begin. (Something something vampires?)<br /><br />The schoolwork is very manageable so far, Cal doesn't seem to be having a problem with it (even with French class, which I was the most worried about because it seemed like the class that most needed to build logically from one year to the next and for which Joe and I are the least equipped to provide help). But there <i>is</i> more homework, and it's a little more free-form and independently generated (for example, learning to write expository essays and do research, as opposed to mindlessly filling out worksheets as in first grade) and that has created some dramatic frission in the afternoons. I'm still on leave until the end of the week so I've been able to help him get it going up until now, though I have some concerns with how he's going to handle it after I go back to work and won't be home until after The Homeworking Hours at least four out of five days of the week. But we'll deal with those problems if and when they come up. We have a meeting with his teacher on Thursday to discuss how the transition is working, but from all indications, he's doing well. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jh_nauQ1gYU/UC6XDwmIw5I/AAAAAAAAEi4/KE4SuY840SA/s1600/IMG_8323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="618" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jh_nauQ1gYU/UC6XDwmIw5I/AAAAAAAAEi4/KE4SuY840SA/s640/IMG_8323.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Mack has been on the difficult side of perfection lately. Likely it's his age more than anything else--Cal at three and a half made me seriously consider the risks and benefits of tubal ligation--but I'm not ruling out that some of it may be reacting to being usurped as The Baby by, you know, <i>a real baby</i>. But it's nothing unusual, just the usual battles over control, stubbornness, whining, perseveration on details and assorted other miscellany. If there's a reason that siblings are rarely spaced four and a half years apart, I am convinced it is because most three and a half year-olds are nightmarish maybe 20% of the time, and what might be euphemistically described as "cheeky" another 40% of the time. But on the whole he's a pleasure. <br /><br />The thing about Mack is that, after Cal, he's just so <i>reassuring</i>. Cal is, to put it gently, a little bit of an unusual child (nothing pathologic, he's just kind of peculiar--overly cerebral is probably the best description, with an overlay of quirky) and so we naturally worry about him because worrying is what we do best. But Mack is, in contrast, the prototype of Boy In Early Childhood. He runs and plays and pretends and makes his action figures talk to each other. He jumps off things while making rocket blaster sounds. He loves cars and light sabers and wrestling, and has a bin full of superhero costumes that he cycles through on a near-constant basis. (Current favorite: <a href="http://amzn.to/NTG1jy">a Spiderman costume with foam muscles built into it</a>.) He can be a stubborn fool, and he can scream very loud when he wants to, but he's <i>our</i> screaming stubborn fool, and he's a delight. You know...most of the time.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QYRWHNkk5Z0/UC6XXrNMBXI/AAAAAAAAEkA/7hFMyasQUtI/s1600/IMG_8580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QYRWHNkk5Z0/UC6XXrNMBXI/AAAAAAAAEkA/7hFMyasQUtI/s640/IMG_8580.JPG" width="466" /></a></div><br /><br />I'm on call Labor Day weekend (everyone I tell this to thinks this is cruel and unusual somehow, but our holiday call schedule was actually determined almost a year ago, before I was even pregnant, and the timing is such that my maternity leave would be close to ending anyway so I'm more than pleased to fulfill that particular responsibility) so I'll be back at work bright and early on Friday morning. I won't lie, maternity leave has been really nice. Yes it's been nice to have a slightly different pace to my day (though I'm not really getting up much later nor getting any more sleep than usual), but mostly I appreciate having so much time to spend with Nina. For the rest of her life, she's going to have to share me with her brothers, and I'm going to have to share her with, well, <i>everyone</i>. But these past eight weeks have been, for the most part, just about the two of us being together. And that's been really, really special. <br /><br />I know that me going back to work doesn't mean I'll never see her again, and this being our third time around we have most of the larger issues of scheduling and childcare largely blocked out. But it's still going to be hard to leave that first morning, and every morning after that. I work full-time, take overnight call and work long hours, so it's hard not to feel (and I felt this way with Cal and Mack too) like I'm giving away huge swaths of her babyhood away for someone else to enjoy. Is this the ideal solution? Is this the correct balance for us? It's hard to say at this moment, and I know that this is something that everyone struggles with, and that I'll continue to struggle with--what worked well with two kids may work differently with three, after all. But I am lucky in that I love my kids, and I also really enjoy my job, so while my daily life does feel like living between a rock and a hard place, at least I like the rock, and I love the hard place, so finding the right space between is hopefully worth the blisters.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OpLBKGqtx5I/UDyx57GzNOI/AAAAAAAAEng/4WK8HBG7LjI/s1600/IMG_8643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OpLBKGqtx5I/UDyx57GzNOI/AAAAAAAAEng/4WK8HBG7LjI/s640/IMG_8643.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-2913907392635627442012-07-15T13:12:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.011-07:00holly hobbyThis is the first maternity leave where I haven't had a big heavy To Do list hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. And it feels <i>fine</i>, friends.<br /><br />My first maternity leave with Cal, you'll remember, was three weeks into my Anesthesia residency. So I spent much of that five weeks off from work trying to memorize <a href="http://amzn.to/Muyl0h">Baby Miller</a>, or at least, you know, sitting at a desk with Baby Miller open in front of me. That was...fun. <br /><br />With Mack, I had the second round edits due on <a href="http://amzn.to/MqkuhI">my book</a>--and this was a <i>big</i> edit, since the first round manuscript had the chapters arranged by theme instead of chronologically; it was basically akin to dismantling your entire house and then building it again but with the rooms all in different places, with, uh, new doors and hallways connecting them (that creaking sound is that of a metaphor becoming overly labored)--so that leave was also spent marinating in a stew of low-grade obligation and stress. <br /><br />But <i>this</i> maternity leave, I think I pretty much cleared the deck. I'm not even doing those <a href="http://www.michelleau.com/p/appearances_21.html">speaking engagements</a> anymore, so there's no more of that "I gotta do my slides, I gotta review my slides, I gotta practice running through my slides" that has catagorized most of last year up until the Spring when I quit traveling. <br /><br />So I'm doing some sewing is what I'm saying.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upqkiGUTTnE/UAIi3xnCXPI/AAAAAAAAEhM/xhJONDpq4WQ/s1600/IMG_8118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upqkiGUTTnE/UAIi3xnCXPI/AAAAAAAAEhM/xhJONDpq4WQ/s640/IMG_8118.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Some functional stuff I made for the baby. That blanket, based on the tutorial <a href="http://prudentbaby.com/2009/10/baby-kid/diy-simple-snuggly-baby-blanket/">here</a>, and that crib sheet, based on the tutorial <a href="http://www.danamadeit.com/2008/07/tutorial-crib-and-toddler-bed-sheets.html">here</a>. Both were actually really easy, so fellow novice sewers, have at it, you will be surprised and pleased.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHZcLI00kvE/UAIi7bTDcXI/AAAAAAAAEhU/lOSStcntN1s/s1600/IMG_8121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHZcLI00kvE/UAIi7bTDcXI/AAAAAAAAEhU/lOSStcntN1s/s640/IMG_8121.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Then I modified the measurements on the fitted mattress sheet tutorial to make a cover for the diaper changing pad here. This was especially pleasing because I got this piece of red striped cotton fabric from the "scraps" bin at the fabric store for 99 cents. It was just big enough for the project, which was a happy coincidence. (Joe also thought it was a coincidence that the cover matched the alphabet print hanging over the changing table, but I disabused him of that notion quickly--THE COLOR COORDINATION WAS PLANNED, DAMMIT.) <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0CFY7gRvsxs/UAIi95sqWKI/AAAAAAAAEhc/GAx9eMdQ7Qg/s1600/IMG_8127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0CFY7gRvsxs/UAIi95sqWKI/AAAAAAAAEhc/GAx9eMdQ7Qg/s640/IMG_8127.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Speaking of salvage, my new thing is sewing with knit fabrics from thrift store finds. Woven fabrics are nice and of course come in gorgeous prints, but in making things for kids, knit fabrics (think T-shirts, stretchy pants, etcetera) are much softer and more comfortable, especially for a baby. Even for older kids--Cal complained <i>endlessly</i> when he had to wear <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/michelleau/6248530996/in/set-72157627678357575/lightbox/">this button-down shirt</a> for school picture day, but he will wear any T-shirt or polo shirt until it basically disintegrates. So anyway, I found this soft cotton sweater at the thrift store--not my style, and also not my size, but appealing in its oatmeal and grey stripes. As you will soon see, <i>I love stripes</i>. So I hacked off the bottom part and hacked off the sleeves, and made these two new items, respectively.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfsbz7JbVug/UAIjEJqdDMI/AAAAAAAAEhs/dJLZgnCCgC4/s1600/IMG_8134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfsbz7JbVug/UAIjEJqdDMI/AAAAAAAAEhs/dJLZgnCCgC4/s640/IMG_8134.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The internet is full of variations on how to make a dress from a onesie, so I'll just point you to <a href="http://kojo-designs.com/2011/02/kojotutorial-a-pieced-jersey-matched-set-the-dress-to-match-the-pants/">this one here</a> and say that I just sawed off a tube of fabric from the bottom of an adult T-shirt just to make it that much easier. For comfort I decided to place the skirt part up higher, like an empire waist, so that the inflexible part of the stitching wouldn't be over the baby's stomach, where her width is the widest. <br /><br />The pants I made out of the sweater sleeves, which was great because I basically had only had to sew the crotch seam and the casing. (Tutorial for that little project <a href="http://prudentbaby.com/2011/03/baby-kid/diy-recycled-sweater-pants-2/">here</a>--but again, the internet is full of similar tutorials and variations therein, just look around.) The onesies I got from <a href="http://www.rockbottomt-shirts.com/">Rock Bottom T-shirts</a>, who I've mentioned before and with whom I have no relationship, but boy do I love them. (Another plug: I also ordered some polo shirts from them for Mack's school uniforms--they are of surprisingly good quality.)<br /><br />Using the bottom part of a T-shirt to make a dress was so easy that I just went ahead and made a couple more for the fall. MORE STRIPES, PLEASE. (No pants out of the navy and grey striped T-shirt, unfortunately--I would have loved to make them, but unfortunately that T-shirt was short-sleeved.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1MFPxu276wY/UAIjIDdn_4I/AAAAAAAAEh0/zr07vgRU8OU/s1600/IMG_8135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1MFPxu276wY/UAIjIDdn_4I/AAAAAAAAEh0/zr07vgRU8OU/s640/IMG_8135.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And just so you don't think I am totally anti-pink, this last one here, which I'm hoping will fit by around Thanksgiving.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rdGWOH-YkQQ/UAIjLONOCeI/AAAAAAAAEh8/DooJOscKOnI/s1600/IMG_8144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rdGWOH-YkQQ/UAIjLONOCeI/AAAAAAAAEh8/DooJOscKOnI/s640/IMG_8144.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Just an observation--your local Goodwill is where all Gap, Old Navy and Target-branded shirts (your Merona, your Cherokee, your Massimo for Target, what have you) go to <i>die</i>. It's like the elephant graveyard of soft T-shirts.<br /><br />Another thing that they have at thrift stores is old sweaters. Many of them are hideous, but some of them are decent, or, barring that, made of very soft wools or cotton (sometimes even cashmere) that you can rescue and turn into something else. I found this grey angora turtleneck sweater that I was able to turn into two things for the winter. (I kind of wish I had taken I picture of the sweater before I started, but this was my first time doing some of this stuff so in the event that it turned out crappy you understand I wanted to hide the evidence.) First, these pants:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h8nT8UfadRo/UAIiySZJ0qI/AAAAAAAAEg8/O7uGYOA6-50/s1600/IMG_8113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h8nT8UfadRo/UAIiySZJ0qI/AAAAAAAAEg8/O7uGYOA6-50/s640/IMG_8113.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Again, from the sleeves of the sweater. The angora is really pretty soft, but wool always has the potential to be scratchy so I decided to line the inside of the pants with the remnants of another thrifted T-shirt. I actually had used that T- shirt to make another pair of soft pants, but I screwed that pair up in that I wasn't playing close attention and ended up sewing half the seams on the outside, half on the inside. However, all was not lost--I just slipped that whole pair of pants inside the sweater pants, sewed them together and folded up the cuffs, and behold. Mistake rectified.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--Mrxdfl7W_Q/UAIi1HPEa3I/AAAAAAAAEhE/sNTkTytJDr4/s1600/IMG_8115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--Mrxdfl7W_Q/UAIi1HPEa3I/AAAAAAAAEhE/sNTkTytJDr4/s640/IMG_8115.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The rest of the sweater (meaning the body part) I used to make this little cardigan, and let me just tell you, I AM SO PROUD OF THIS CARDIGAN. I'd never sewn sleeves before, you see (something about the three-dimensionality of it seemed overwhelming to me) and I'd never drafted my own pattern before (I used a 6 month-sized onesie to approximate the size and dimensions), and while keen observation would undoubtedly reveal the amateur nature of this project, it actually turned out pretty well, and, I hope, very wearable. (I would have liked buttons ideally, but I haven't figured out how to do that yet, and I didn't want to screw up the sweater with my first attempts.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m2fpHf14cLg/UAMQmBIflUI/AAAAAAAAEiI/SkkxVJ51ez4/s1600/IMG_8150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m2fpHf14cLg/UAMQmBIflUI/AAAAAAAAEiI/SkkxVJ51ez4/s640/IMG_8150.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I mentioned this was a turtleneck sweater, right? Well, there wasn't quite enough fabric to make the sleeves long enough, so I used the ribbing from the turtleneck to extend the sleeve length and make cuffs. YOU'RE GOD DAMN RIGHT I DID.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P4dUg0ZHa2I/UAMQoua4SKI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/hj6d_oH8FUo/s1600/IMG_8152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P4dUg0ZHa2I/UAMQoua4SKI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/hj6d_oH8FUo/s640/IMG_8152.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I also used some of the leftover ribbing from the turtleneck to bind off the collar. My stitching has its lumpy bits, but it won't be spotted from a trotting horse. (Remember how <a href="http://amzn.to/PWU9rQ">Ramona's dad</a> said that about her lamb costume? I still think about that sometimes. That and how the older girls colored her nose with mascara.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb1vaFf9G60/UAMQriZW4nI/AAAAAAAAEiY/8nBk_c13n2c/s1600/IMG_8153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb1vaFf9G60/UAMQriZW4nI/AAAAAAAAEiY/8nBk_c13n2c/s640/IMG_8153.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And this was what was left of the sweater after I was done. Every part of the buffalo, baby.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DocrWGATuJQ/UAMQuAwr-fI/AAAAAAAAEig/MbLeTDlxQ1A/s1600/IMG_8155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DocrWGATuJQ/UAMQuAwr-fI/AAAAAAAAEig/MbLeTDlxQ1A/s640/IMG_8155.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now you'll have to remember that I only started sewing stuff like, what, a few months ago? So I'm fairly new at this game. However, as hobbies go, it's pretty fun. Someone in the last entry asked me what I thought people would need to get started, and I have a few things that I would suggest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">First: a sewing machine. I use this one, the <a href="http://amzn.to/SvEgYc">Brother CS6000i</a>, because while I didn't want to get the most expensive sewing machine in the universe, I also didn't want to get one that didn't have a good range of functions. This one is nice because it's computerized (meaning you can change the type of stiches by pushing a few buttons), has a lot of nice convenience features, is <i>really</i> easy to use, and most importantly comes <a href="http://amzn.to/SvEgYc">loaded up with basically every accessory that you could possibly need</a>. So I would recommend it, but it's also the only one I've really ever tried--there are cheaper models out there too, but I can't attest to their user-friendliness.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm going to assume you have scissors in your house if you're, you know, a human being, but I would also recommend (because I use it all the time) getting a <a href="http://amzn.to/LT2bSn">rotary cutter</a> (basically like a pizza cutter but for fabric and paper) and a <a href="http://amzn.to/SvFZwx">cutting mat</a>, unless you want to be like me with gouges all over one end of the table. Sure, you can use the scissors for cutting too, but for long, straight cuts, the rotary cutter is easier.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can get thread basically anywhere, and if you're starting out, I wouldn't go nuts--just go to any kind of craft store and get the handful of colors that you need. But if you're looking for more colors to match your projects, this company called <a href="http://amzn.to/NpVHsn">Threadsrus</a> (I keep reading that as "thesaurus" but I think it's supposed to be Threads R Us--whether the R is written backwards is unclear) offers good quality thread at a very reasonable deal. I am not at the point yet where I am ordering <a href="http://amzn.to/NpVHsn">200 spools of thread</a>, mind you, but I did order a smaller aliquot from them in an assortment of colors, and I've been pretty pleased.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, one last thing. If you are prone to jabbing yourself with pins while you work (and I don't know how I am so injury-prone when sewing but I am--if I had as many needle sticks at work as I've had at home I would live at employee health permanently) might I recommend <a href="http://amzn.to/P8q9YF">these</a>? They are these little fabric clips that hold your cloth together in lieu of pins in most situations, and they work <i>great</i>. Don't bother with the small pack, get the <a href="http://amzn.to/P8q9YF">big pack of 50</a>, you will definitely not regret it. They are super useful, and, you know, not so pointy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course there's a ton of other stuff that you can get if you're in the market and have money to burn, but for a start, that's what I would recommend. Anyway, sewing is fun, cutting up old busted clothes to make new cute clothes is fun, so let's all do it and humiliate our children by forcing them to wear our lumpy, ill-shaped handiwork into school! It'll be awesome!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Feel free to discuss other sewing recommendations--either for projects or tools--in the comments section, and we will all share in the goodness. And just so we don't get too far off course into turning this into a total other species of blog, my next entry will be the oft-requested "Day in the Life" post about private practice anesthesiology, or at least my experiences in that realm. It'll be a real humdinger!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hope you had a good weekend.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-20060940190108105682012-07-13T19:48:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.106-07:00party of fiveHey everyone. I meant to update sooner, but you know, NEW BABY. Always needing stuff, they are.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CNTrLlzCvUs/UADdbYHEwBI/AAAAAAAAEgo/VAeymQfgbDU/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CNTrLlzCvUs/UADdbYHEwBI/AAAAAAAAEgo/VAeymQfgbDU/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Nina's been doing really well. I was afraid, after having two pretty easy babies with Cal and Mack, that we were going to strike out with Thing 3 and be granted some kind of hellion. But Nina's much like her brothers were, in that she's a good, sweet baby who is easy to please and whose cuteness makes up for the rest. <br /><br />I do think that some of it is due to her innate good nature, but I also think that our easy time of things is framed by expectation. With a new baby, people mostly complain about the lack of sleep, and the constant neediness of the newborn--<i>so much feeding! so much holding and rocking! where one diaper change ends, the next one begins!</i> And so forth. The thing is--that's what babies are <i>supposed</i> to do. And what I'm doing on my end--holding her basically all the time when she's awake, feeding her on demand, changing many many teeny little poo diapers and scanning her pee diapers with almost clinical intensity to assess her degree of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urobilinogen">urobilinogen</a> excretion (though now, linking to Wikipedia, I am realizing for the first time that urobilinogen is colorless--all that wasted observation!)--that's what<i> I'm</i> supposed to do. So I don't really think I'm having an appreciably easier or harder time than anyone else with a new baby, we're just all doing what we're supposed to be doing, and everybody's happy.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm pretty firmly of the belief that if you want to sleep all night, you probably shouldn't have a baby, much the way that if you want to be well-rested, ever, you probably shouldn't go into medicine. See, it's all about framing your expectations. <br /><br />Hey, wanna see some pictures? Most of these are on <a href="http://michelleau.tumblr.com/">my Tumblr</a> already, but I know not everyone is my buddy on <a href="https://twitter.com/scutmonkey">the twitters</a> <i><a href="http://www.facebook.com/michelleaumd">et al.</a> </i>It's fine, little technophobe, we'll just churn some butter and make some corn husk dolls right here by the flickering light of this here computer screen.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JOarReeO_Hs/UADUA5lgI4I/AAAAAAAAEf0/10ZK3Vm9ufw/s1600/IMG_7961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JOarReeO_Hs/UADUA5lgI4I/AAAAAAAAEf0/10ZK3Vm9ufw/s640/IMG_7961.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kWbruyu5geo/UADUCr_-MkI/AAAAAAAAEf8/aZYNKiLVVb4/s1600/IMG_8008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kWbruyu5geo/UADUCr_-MkI/AAAAAAAAEf8/aZYNKiLVVb4/s640/IMG_8008.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A9B2w75_Erw/UADUEob9XRI/AAAAAAAAEgE/7cbKEp1meJY/s1600/IMG_8018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A9B2w75_Erw/UADUEob9XRI/AAAAAAAAEgE/7cbKEp1meJY/s640/IMG_8018.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Su84y-8_mzY/UADUGvOwI-I/AAAAAAAAEgM/EF6sHF4SL5o/s1600/IMG_8028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Su84y-8_mzY/UADUGvOwI-I/AAAAAAAAEgM/EF6sHF4SL5o/s640/IMG_8028.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I knew that Cal would do well with a new baby (little old man that he is, I knew he would relish the expertise conferred by being not only seven years her senior but also a veteran older sibling) but I'll admit that I was a little concerned that Mack, who has spent the last three and a half years marinating in his baby-of-the-family status, would be jealous. And I'm not saying that he's not <i>ever</i> going to be jealous or competitive (just wait until she starts getting mobile and his slavishly guarded collection of superhero action figures comes under siege) but so far, he is in <i>love</i> with his baby. <br /><br />"Mom, I love baby Nina," he'll say unprompted.<br /><br />"Baby Nina is so pretty."<br /><br />"Can I kiss her?"<br /><br />"Can I rub her and smell her?" (He means rub her head. We talked about the fontanelles and the importance of using his flat palm instead of poking her brain with his fingers, but then Cal was like, "She has a HOLE in her HEAD?" and then we had to kind of soft-pedal the anatomy lesson lest everyone freak out. Mack also particularly likes smelling the baby. I understand the appeal of smelling a new baby and much as the next weirdo, but the way Mack goes after her, you'd think she's one of those really fascinating second generation scratch 'n' sniff stickers that really really for real OMG smell like food. Like the buttered popcorn one. Or that one that smelled like pepperoni pizza that I was fascinated with as a child because wow, they made a <i>sticker</i> smell like <i>pizza? </i> THE FUTURE IS HERE.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k2yPHrLB7ew/UADak8xye_I/AAAAAAAAEgY/-8kZnaGgxQc/s1600/photo+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k2yPHrLB7ew/UADak8xye_I/AAAAAAAAEgY/-8kZnaGgxQc/s640/photo+(6).JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Anyway, sibling rivalry averted for now. Cal and Mack seem to have reserved all their petty animus for each other ("MOM! Cal <i>looked</i> at me!") but Nina, so far as they're concerned, is a princess.<br /><br />I'd meant to post this up earlier today (because I'm pretty sure no one's going to read this now when I'm posting it, almost 11:00pm on a Friday night), but see above: <i>baby, comma, care of</i>. There are a couple of other posts that I'm working on in my head to post hopefully in the next week or two when I have a free moment, including but not limited to:<br /><br /><ul><li><span style="background-color: white;">Private practice anesthesiology: a day in the life</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="background-color: white;">Breastfeeding and pumping after returning to work, my experience and strategies (warning: boobs will be alluded to though not depicted)</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="background-color: white;">More sewing projects that I done did, culled of the more embarrassing mishaps (like the time I got confused while making a pair of leggings and sewed half the seams on the outside, half the seams on the inside)</span></li></ul><br />Any other post topics you guys interested in hearing about while I'm on maternity leave and have some time for such extracurricular pursuits? Aside from wanting to see more pictures of Cooper to prove that she didn't die a year ago and I just somehow never mentioned it here? I'm working on that post too--I'll get her to hold a copy of today's Wall Street Journal in the pictures, you know, as a proof of life. (Not to joke about our dog dying or anything--obviously we care deeply about our dog. But we're just no longer in the phase of life where we treat her as a child by proxy. Rest assured that she is well loved and taken care of and just got a new memory foam dog bed that she is <i>very</i> pleased with.)<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-abuACpBn9yw/UADba0junUI/AAAAAAAAEgg/hsvj6-FNUM4/s1600/IMG_8039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-abuACpBn9yw/UADba0junUI/AAAAAAAAEgg/hsvj6-FNUM4/s640/IMG_8039.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Anyway. Have a good weekend, everyone.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-52731449242531077092012-07-09T08:42:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.199-07:00make your own baby video monitorHey all. Forgive me if this is too "uh...<i>duh</i>" for some of you, but I promised I would share the execution of this idea with someone at work who was having her first grandchild (hi Maree!) and am actually quite pleased at how well this is working.<br /><br />Like most people, we had a baby monitor. Actually, we only had one for Mack--when we lived in New York, I think we were actually able to hear Cal in the next room because that's apartment living for you--but it was <a href="http://amzn.to/Mdx7ap">just an audio monitor</a>, really nothing but a glorified one-way walkie-talkie. But it worked OK and Mack is still alive, so...monitoring success, I guess.<i> </i>We still have the audio monitor, I just kind of stopped using it when I got sick of it basically being a broadcast of the kids arguing with each other in the basement of our old house. Just <i>share</i> the damn toys guys, <i>dag</i>.<br /><br />With a fresh baby though, everyone gets a little more vigilant (read: paranoid), and though I like to think of myself as laid back, it crossed my mind that a video monitor might be nice for peace of mind, to be able to see the things that don't make any noise that a monitor can pick up (blanket over face, malevolent stuffed animals come to life, what have you). The only thing is, I can be kind of a skinflint about certain things, and it just seemed to me to be <a href="http://amzn.to/NeYYJT">an awful lot of money to spend</a> for something with somewhat limited lifespan and utility. And then I had an idea.<br /><br />(Again, forgive me if this is too obvious, but I was proud of thinking of it, especially since it used equipment that I had already.)<br /><br /><br /><b>What you will need:</b><br /><br />- A transmitter (I used an old iPhone that I saved--I was on AT&T originally but reception was crap at my hospital and I was continually paranoid about missing calls, since that's that primary way we communicate between ORs and such. Anyway, my point being that when the new iPhone came out I upgraded and switched to Verizon--therefore I have a phone-plan-less iPhone kind of lying around that still works on our home WiFi. But really you can use anything with a wireless connection and a camera.)<br /><br />- A receiver (you can use your phone, a 2nd or 3rd generation iPad, your desktop or laptop computer, whatever. I've been using my iPad because it's light and easy to carry from room to room, but again, it can be pretty much anything, it just has to have wireless connectivity and a camera.)<br /><br />- Two <a href="http://www.skype.com/intl/en-us/home">Skype</a> accounts (I just use mine and Joe's--the accounts are free to sign up for, and at bare bones, calls made over WiFi are free and unlimited so far as I can ascertain)<br /><br />- <i>Optional but helpful, depending on what you're using for your transmitter:</i> a tripod, some creative velcro strapping, etcetera.<br /><br />OK, so here's what you do.<br /><br /><b>STEP 1:</b> Get a baby that you want to stare at.<br /><br /><b>STEP 2:</b> Figure out where you want the monitor to be. You're somewhat limited by the fact that streaming a video call over Skype used a lot of juice, so I would choose a place near an outlet, but more importantly, find a place where you can fixate your transmitter, be it over a crib rail or on a nightstand or what have you. I apologize for the noise in these photos, but I was under low-light conditions for what I assume are obvious reasons.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OokKzUFb8UI/T_r2AYfMxzI/AAAAAAAAEfQ/vidVjHSueP0/s1600/IMG_7937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OokKzUFb8UI/T_r2AYfMxzI/AAAAAAAAEfQ/vidVjHSueP0/s640/IMG_7937.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />(Here you see I have my old hobbled iPhone on a tripod and then Velcro-ed the tripod to the corner of the crib. I don't think you absolutely <i>need</i> a tripod, but I had one from <a href="http://amzn.to/MdwltX">a lens kit that I got for iPhone photography</a> that I rarely use and it's pretty handy in general--it also allows you to put the transmitter on a flat surface instead if that's your preference. <span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Just make modifications as you see fit--for example, if your baby is old enough to pull up and grab things, you probably don't want to have that phone just dangling there on the edge of the crib rail, but in that case, you know, put a table next to the crib out of reach or put the camera on a shelf, whatever.</span><span style="background-color: white;">)</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7cMSC5tHUE/T_r2Ebd6w8I/AAAAAAAAEfg/lj-cKud4LP4/s1600/IMG_7939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7cMSC5tHUE/T_r2Ebd6w8I/AAAAAAAAEfg/lj-cKud4LP4/s640/IMG_7939.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />STEP 3: Make sure you have Skype downloaded on both transmitter and receiver devices. There's a <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/app/skype/id304878510?mt=8">free Skype app</a> for iPhone/iPad/iPod on iTunes (iKnow, this is starting to seem like I work for Apple but I swear I don't, it's just what iHave in my house.) Log in with one account on the transmitter and the other account on the receiver. (I use Joe's account as the receiver, and my account is the transmitter.) <br /><br />STEP 4: Use one end to call the other end. Doesn't matter which one initiates the call, just make sure you're placing a <i>video</i> call because that's the whole point. Accept the call on the other end. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XquLnYyXLm4/T_r2CBz7xHI/AAAAAAAAEfY/Cm65NFl15Dg/s1600/IMG_7938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XquLnYyXLm4/T_r2CBz7xHI/AAAAAAAAEfY/Cm65NFl15Dg/s640/IMG_7938.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">STEP 5: <span style="background-color: white;">If you're using something like an iPhone for your transmitter that has two cameras, make sure that you change the preferences such that you're using the "back facing camera" or whatever they call it--that's the higher quality camera anyway, it'll probably give you a better image, and that way you're not shining that screen in the baby's face. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P4Abr9vlga0/T_r2GOBDS-I/AAAAAAAAEfo/X8pXCpqU410/s1600/IMG_7940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P4Abr9vlga0/T_r2GOBDS-I/AAAAAAAAEfo/X8pXCpqU410/s640/IMG_7940.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />STEP 6: And there's your call on the other end. Now continue to silently and creepily spy on your offspring.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-7785204392640254342012-07-07T08:49:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.292-07:00in which I either save you money or get you to spend more of itHey, can I give you a completely unsolicited, unsponsored product recommendation, if for no other reason than to get that gory cord photo down below the fold? OK then.<br /><br />Like many people, I like the aesthetic of <a href="http://store.americanapparel.net/kids---babies.html">American Apparel</a> clothes for kids--for babies in particular, it seems like the only place to get plain, bold-colored (meaning non-pastel) clothes not cluttered with pictures and logos for various things. The only problem is the price. I mean, <a href="http://amzn.to/LwYCBf">$11.50 for a onesie</a>? Are you shitting me? I love my kid, and you know, it's nice that they're American made and everything, but...no.<br /><br />Then, when I was tooling around the internet looking for some plain T-shirts for our <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/06/edna-mode-and-guest.html">freezer paper stencil projects</a>, I found this company called <a href="http://www.rockbottomt-shirts.com/">Rock Bottom T-shirts</a>, and among many other things (I think they mostly deal in plain T-shirts and sweatshirts and things of that ilk) I noticed that they sell, huh, what do you know, <a href="http://www.rockbottomt-shirts.com/Babies/Baby-Bodysuit-Short-Sleeve-p178.html">plain, bright-colored onesies not cluttered with pictures or logos</a>. I thought there was a pretty good chance that they would be made of that really rough, scratchy cotton, but I ordered a few to check them out and no, the cotton is nice and soft, good construction, washes up well, and the colors really are very bright. I would compare them favorably to those Gerber onesies that you can buy in a big five-pack. These shrink up the same way, but to my hand, they are softer. And the <i>colors!</i> Love the colors, want to lick them. For the price, I could not say no. At the time I ordered the onesies, they were actually having a sale, so they were even a full <i>dollar</i> cheaper than they are listed for now (and if you don't need a snap-bottom onesie, these <a href="http://www.rockbottomt-shirts.com/Babies/Baby-T-Shirt-Infant-Lap-Shoulder-p102.html">short sleeved lap tees</a> are a good alternative and also at a full dollar cheaper) which means I was able to get this big, admittedly indulgent pile for the price of <i>two</i> American Apparel onesies.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WV-MMTpqu4Y/T_eWIZ-ei4I/AAAAAAAAEe4/WUvG5PXXLrA/s1600/IMG_7864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WV-MMTpqu4Y/T_eWIZ-ei4I/AAAAAAAAEe4/WUvG5PXXLrA/s640/IMG_7864.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Will they hold up? The real question is, do they <i>need</i> to hold up? We're talking about baby clothes, after all. It's a race to the Goodwill bin anyway, so who cares? <br /><br />(And yes, when I have things in different colors, I need to order them all ROY G. BIV--I can't help it, it's a disease.)<br /><br />At Nina's third bili check in as many days, she's down to 13.8, and an ounce shy of her birth weight. We're going to keep letting her get some sun (our house is unfortunately a low-ceilinged ranch devoid of natural light in most rooms, but the kids' playroom was a sunroom in its former incarnatiom so we'll just hang out there as much as possible for the weekend. One more weight and bili check on Monday, after which poit, hopefully, we'll be released on our own recognizance.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yWB6WDIA93M/T_hdiVxsveI/AAAAAAAAEfE/XCW4xCbQCcE/s1600/Nina+on+quilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yWB6WDIA93M/T_hdiVxsveI/AAAAAAAAEfE/XCW4xCbQCcE/s640/Nina+on+quilt.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">(Gorgeous quilt a gift from the lovely and talented <a href="http://rlbatesmd.blogspot.com/">Ramona Bates</a>, a plastic surgeon, prominent medical blogger, and quilt-maker extraordinaire. It must have taken a lot of hard work, thank you so much again!)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-59648904755391337722012-07-05T12:06:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.385-07:00glow wormHey, thanks for those in the comments who helped me convert the RAW files to JPGs. Insert Eddie Murphy's "Raw" joke here! (I don't even know what that joke would be, I just like to say "Eddie Murphy's 'Raw'".) A few more pics from Nina's birthday.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2jADjH2fpfU/T_XeRaPqwaI/AAAAAAAAEd4/Mc9Ce4jPkrg/s1600/P1020126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2jADjH2fpfU/T_XeRaPqwaI/AAAAAAAAEd4/Mc9Ce4jPkrg/s640/P1020126.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Yikes.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3I1ibxEhaRU/T_XeUjR1c1I/AAAAAAAAEeA/crrJ85xo4_E/s1600/P1020137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3I1ibxEhaRU/T_XeUjR1c1I/AAAAAAAAEeA/crrJ85xo4_E/s640/P1020137.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Big ups to Dr. Moore.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rUkJ_aokhRA/T_XeWXI3sUI/AAAAAAAAEeI/oE6qD2viocA/s1600/P1020150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rUkJ_aokhRA/T_XeWXI3sUI/AAAAAAAAEeI/oE6qD2viocA/s640/P1020150.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />And now, Deep Thoughts.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PlFnSyl1NdA/T_XeYeVXeZI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/XeXgIlPcUhA/s1600/P1020159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PlFnSyl1NdA/T_XeYeVXeZI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/XeXgIlPcUhA/s640/P1020159.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I had lying-down-for-too-many-hours hair.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U_kARUDU810/T_XhDWmaNHI/AAAAAAAAEec/RGbgOd6BQ0A/s1600/IMG_7802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U_kARUDU810/T_XhDWmaNHI/AAAAAAAAEec/RGbgOd6BQ0A/s640/IMG_7802.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />So today we brought in Nina for her first Peds check after being discharged from the hospital. We didn't have any real concerns--she's been doing all the things that she's supposed to do, she's less than an ounce shy of her birth weight (my milk came in yesterday afternoon--we'd been doing some supplementing with formula up until then to avoid dehydration and jaundice) and she's just been generally delightful. So we were a little surprised when a quasi-routine heel stick for bilirubin turned up levels in the high-risk range. (She was about 82 hours old when the blood was checked, and her level was 16 point something.) Honestly, she doesn't look <i>that</i> yellow to me, I almost wonder if hemolysis from heel-stick sampling plays a role in the number being high (does it do that?) but whatever, better safe than sorry.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q_W3d6Ycmsk/T_XhFqELlwI/AAAAAAAAEek/LnaGMCTYM_4/s1600/IMG_7813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q_W3d6Ycmsk/T_XhFqELlwI/AAAAAAAAEek/LnaGMCTYM_4/s640/IMG_7813.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">WHO'S THE GREEN LANTERN NOW, MACK?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apparently we have this really shit health insurance that doesn't cover bili blankets via home health nursing--the nurse says in the past when they've had patients with our insurance needing phototherapy the only thing that has been covered has been those baby tanning beds in the isolettes, which would be TERRIBLE, since you're supposed to just leave the baby in there all the time, by themselves, for 24 hours or more, only taking them out for feeds and diaper changes. Boo-urns to <i>that</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, the Peds group that we're with has a bili blanket system that they loan out for just this kind of situation--thankfully no one else was using it. (Actually, from the equipment log, it looks like no one has needed to borrow it since February, which either means no babies need phototherapy or everyone has better health insurance than us.) NO MATTER. We were so very grateful to have this option, and to be with a Peds group that has a loaner unit because they know that babies need to be held and touched even if they are busy isomerizing the double bonds in their excess bilirubin. Two thumbs up for the <a href="http://www.cmg-pc.com/">Children's Medical Group</a> of Atlanta.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We're going to go back in tomorrow afternoon for another bili check, aiming for at least a two point drop in her level after about 24 hours on the lights. Let's hope we're already moving in the right direction.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-48687420320676218292012-07-04T10:45:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.477-07:00independence dayI did want to put the birth announcement up here first, as this is something of my Primary Address when it comes to the internet, but something was weird with the wireless network at the hospital and my computer couldn't connect, <i>blah blah blah</i> (now I'm just boring myself) and besides, everyone is on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/michelleaumd">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/scutmonkey">Twitter</a> anyway, right? But just because I'm a completist when it comes to documentation:<br /><br /><i>Introducing:</i><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xg22vz5F7-Y/T_Rdsf3f_JI/AAAAAAAAEcY/I0TAcQGFD8Y/s1600/IMG_7720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xg22vz5F7-Y/T_Rdsf3f_JI/AAAAAAAAEcY/I0TAcQGFD8Y/s640/IMG_7720.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Nina Qiao-Ying Walrath<br />Born July 2nd, 2012 at 12:05am<br />6lbs, 13oz<br />19 inches long<br /><br />(Her Chinese middle name, picked out by my dad, means "witty" and "intelligent." We figured she'd have a lifetime of people telling her that she was "pretty"--I mean, not that we <i>knew</i> she would be pretty, though she is, but you know what I mean, people always tell little girls that--and we wanted to pick a middle name that would emphasize that there are more important things. When it comes to first names, we don't make a big thing about choosing first names that have a lot of symbolism, <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/03/name-game.html">we just go by the "like the way it sounds" school of baby naming</a>, but so far as I can tell, <a href="http://nameberry.com/babyname/Nina">Nina means "girl."</a> So, you know, story checks out.)<br /><br />Nina came into the world in her own way, which I am coming to understand is determinedly unique and certainly on her own timetable. You remember <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/06/false-labor-true-labor-and-that-liminal.html">I was admitted to the hospital for about 12 hours</a> in what was first deemed to be active and then downgraded to a sort of meandering prodromal labor last week--and I spent the time since then doing exactly what I <i>didn't</i> want to do with the final stages of my pregnancy, which was puttering around, hyperaware of my body, and sort of obsessively cataloguing every squeeze and twinge and thump. <i>This is so annoying,</i> I thought to myself. <i>If I was at work, I'd be busy, I'd have more to do than naval-gazing, and I wouldn't be so focused on every little thing going on all up in my junk. This is a waste of time.</i><br /><br />(She said with great PORTENT.)<br /><br />Sunday morning--the day I turned 38 weeks--I woke up, and Nina, intrauterine, was still asleep. I had gotten pretty accustomed to her sleep/wake patterns by this time, and usually she would perk up and start kicking around pretty soon after I got up myself, but this morning, she was a little slow to get going. So I did the usual things they tell you to do. I had some breakfast. I had some coffee. I started counting her kicks. It <i>wasn't</i> that she wasn't moving around AT ALL--obviously that would have been very worrisome--she was meeting her minimum kick count, which I believe is 10 movements in 2 hours, but it was just different from usual. She was just kind of pokey in there.<br /><br />I know that decreased movement at term can be normal--there's just less room in there, after all, and who knows, maybe they sense when birth is imminent and quiet down to save energy for getting borned and all that. But it was still a change, and though I considered long and hard just going about my day (see above: with the lack of my usual daily runaround, maybe I was just being too obsessive about what was going on inside) but in the end decided to just call my OB and get his opinion.<br /><br /><i><b>Sidebar: </b></i>I cannot recommend my OB highly enough, by the way. I can talk about it more with anyone who wants a recommendation, but his name is Dr. Brad Moore, <a href="http://mbog.net/">here</a> is the website for his office, and he is truly an excellent clinician and bedside doctor--and this is from someone who is well aware of the Pressures of Modern Medicine and therefore very forgiving when it comes to how other clinicians practice. He is quite simply and unequivocally excellent, so get thee to his practice, pregnant ladies of Atlanta. <b><i>End sidebar</i>.</b><br /><br />Anyway, I called my OB, kind of apologizing for calling on the weekend about something that could be <i>nothing</i>, I'm not a hysteric, I <i>swear</i>, but he listened and he did take it seriously. "Come on in,"<i> </i>he told me, "we'll check you and check the baby. You're 38 weeks, contracting, with advanced dilation, GBS positive and a history of fast labors. If things are in line, maybe we'll just get in your antibiotics, augment you with a whiff of Pitocin, and have this baby tonight."<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bSuYZplN4Sw/T_Rdie9QmhI/AAAAAAAAEb4/jOeJ_Fl1XW8/s1600/IMG_7697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bSuYZplN4Sw/T_Rdie9QmhI/AAAAAAAAEb4/jOeJ_Fl1XW8/s640/IMG_7697.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I think his intent had been for me to check into L&D right from the beginning (since he was on call that weekend he was already in the hospital, puttering around) but because my chief complaint was "decreased fetal movement at term" they sent me to triage first, where the nurse was <i>very clearly</i> of the opinion that I <i>was</i> a hysteric and should be sent home. "The <i>best</i> outcome here would be to send you <i>home</i>," she told me brightly with one of those tight, forced smiles as she was doing the admissions paperwork, and after she got the phone orders from my OB that I should indeed be admitted to L&D, she made it clear that she disagreed in the way that people do without coming out and saying so outright. "Well, you're getting <i>admitted</i>. It's what your <i>doctor</i> wants, I guess..." I don't begrudge her the sentiment--I don't like being on call for the weekend either, I guess--but I was also glad that I'd called my OB first and that the decision was not up to her.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kXfQfnd3az4/T_RdopluxrI/AAAAAAAAEcI/skxTFRyvjLs/s1600/IMG_7701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kXfQfnd3az4/T_RdopluxrI/AAAAAAAAEcI/skxTFRyvjLs/s640/IMG_7701.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The actual lead up to delivery was completely uneventful, much with with Cal and Mack. I got my antibiotics, started some low-dose Pitocin, got my epidural (great stuff, by the way, though it's not an entirely pleasant process getting it placed, and fact that I'm pleased to be reminded of every 3.5 years just for the purposes of patient empathy) and then had my membranes ruptured with my second dose of penicillin hanging. We were on our way. At 11:56, the baby's head was at +2, all the players were in the room, and we were ready to push.<br /><br />"We've still got four minutes to make a July 1st birthday!" Joe kidded, and my OB made a little jokey show of putting on his glove and gowns real fast. Then we started pushing. <br /><br />I should mention that up until this point, for the hours we'd been there, the <a href="http://www.perinatology.com/Fetal%20Monitoring/Intrapartum%20Monitoring.htm">fetal heartbeat monitor</a> was looking really good. Lots of good variability, perky, with a rate right in the normal range. When the head was all the way down and we started getting ready to push however, the tracing looked a little more flat, meaning that the rate was still normal, but it wasn't quite as variable as it had been. I assumed she just didn't like getting squashed. But then after the first two rounds of pushing, it all kind of fell off a cliff.<br /><br />Even in an adult, a heart rate of 50 in an adult is slow. That's what Joe's heart rate is, and he's on beta blockers, for chrissake. A heartrate of 50 in a neonate is...well. Let's just say that if I was in the NICU and there was a baby with a heart rate of 50, I would be doing chest compressions on that baby. After the first two pushes, that's what our baby's heart rate did on the monitor. The nurse adjusted the Doppler, thinking maybe that the baby was so low down that it wasn't picking up, but no, it was picking up, and it was 50. So my OB--in a way that was very calm but also very quick and decisive, and I'm convinced that it was this quick response that really saved us from those things we don't like to think about--busted out the obstetric vacuum, applied it to the baby's head, told me to push one more time quick, and pulled that puppy out of there.<br /><br />Nina was born vigorous, with good tone, and she cried right away. Her Apgars were 8 and 9. As they were warming her up and drying her off, I heard my OB, from the region I like to call Down There, say, "Oh my gosh, look at <i>this</i>." Which is not a thing that I like to hear from Down There. Because when he delivered the rest of the placenta and cord, it looked like this:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P1MqnYtq_Wg/T_Rg0bLn0qI/AAAAAAAAEdk/h0rUk93NPyI/s1600/PLAC010.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="418" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P1MqnYtq_Wg/T_Rg0bLn0qI/AAAAAAAAEdk/h0rUk93NPyI/s640/PLAC010.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />(Let me just insert here that this is not a picture of <i>our</i> umbilical cord, it's a picture I got off Ye Internet, though ours looked remarkably similar, only tighter. That is not to say that we didn't take pictures of this phenomenon, because WE TOTALLY DID, once the placenta and associated works were safely and discreetly deposited in the specimen basin, but they're on our "real" camera and I can't figure out how to get them off, because someone switched the settings so that all our photos from that day are in RAW format. If someone knows a good strategy to batch convert them in Photoshop so we don't have to do them one by one, let me know in the comments section, thanks--I'll update with those photos once I'm able to extract them.)<br /><br />In case you can't see for yourself, it was a knot. What they call a <a href="http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/262470-overview">true knot in the umbilical cord</a>, which is pretty rare, and even rarer for it to actually get pulled tight enough to manifest with fetal distress. The knot had probably already been there for months--Nina had probably tied it earlier in gestation when she was much smaller and there was more room to maneuver, and if you don't <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/17803086">read about all the terrible things</a> that can happen with a true knot in the umbilical cord, it's actually a little amusing to thing about her doing the loop-de-loop, then threading the needle while swinging her cord around like a lariat. A little amusing, until she started to pull down on the cord on her way out and tightened that knot up but good. Obviously we had no idea until after, it's not exactly something you screen for routinely without lack of other indicators for risk, and there's nothing you can really do to cause or prevent it. We were incredibly lucky, and we know it. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VMyFQQwM3y4/T_RdzWMJeBI/AAAAAAAAEcw/O8CgRmxOPPE/s1600/IMG_7731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VMyFQQwM3y4/T_RdzWMJeBI/AAAAAAAAEcw/O8CgRmxOPPE/s640/IMG_7731.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />I also do have to say this here, because these days, what <a href="http://blogs.msf.org/veronicaa/">my friend Veronica</a> (also an OB-Gyn) has called "the fetishization of the natural" goes hand in hand with the demonization of the medical. By no means am I saying that <i>everyone</i> should have the maximal interventions possible (Pitocin and epidurals and C-sections for everyone!) or that people's hearts aren't in the right places when they choose to have births outside of the hospital. But if I were of the type to elect for a home birth (and let's be clear: I'M TOTALLY NOT) I would have, on paper, been the perfect candidate. Multiparous with two prior uncomplicated vaginal deliveries, full-term with normal-sized fetus and an uncomplicated gestation. But if this pregnancy experience has taught me anything, it's that you can't plan for everything, and there's always going to be things you can't expect. And maybe because it's the anesthesiologist's credo (aside from vigilance), but I live by the idea of hoping for the best and planning for the worst.<br /><br />This could have been bad. It could have been catastrophic. But it was not, and for that, and for our sweet baby Nina, we could not be more grateful.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pd05ij44bXg/T_Rd8ZXL50I/AAAAAAAAEdQ/gzcO_JyWgL0/s1600/IMG_7758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pd05ij44bXg/T_Rd8ZXL50I/AAAAAAAAEdQ/gzcO_JyWgL0/s640/IMG_7758.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Cal, upon meeting Nina for the first time in the hospital the next day, gave this assessment. (Cal's demeanor is often overly serious--we keep telling him to <i>lighten up, kid, for god's sake</i>--and while we mentioned to him about the interesting little finding on Nina's umbilical cord we didn't really go into detail about what it could have meant; Cal's grave little pronouncements just happen on their own.)<br /><br />"She's perfect." he told me. "She's the perfect baby and we get to take her home with us."<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PvAZ5Sz4UiM/T_Rd5ev3t5I/AAAAAAAAEdI/sINNlY3fp5A/s1600/IMG_7750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PvAZ5Sz4UiM/T_Rd5ev3t5I/AAAAAAAAEdI/sINNlY3fp5A/s640/IMG_7750.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Yes she is, and yes we do. And we love her so much already. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--mSl3TJfIfE/T_Rd3e_rJSI/AAAAAAAAEdA/U4kJ6NlP2_o/s1600/IMG_7749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--mSl3TJfIfE/T_Rd3e_rJSI/AAAAAAAAEdA/U4kJ6NlP2_o/s640/IMG_7749.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Welcome to the family, Nina. Now get ready to have some fun.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-65897694831789045942012-06-29T06:21:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.570-07:00true labor, false labor, and that liminal space betweenHey there! Are you alive? Me too!<br /><br />I'd been having a pretty rough week at work--on call over the weekend, later days, tough cases--and starting Wednesday morning, I noticed a change in how my body was feeling. First of all, Thing 3 felt <i>much</i> lower, like a bowling ball sitting on my coccyx. I was also noticing an uptick of contractions accompanied by back pain, which is not the usual for me (Braxton Hicks contractions usually concentrate on the front, and I'm lucky that I haven't had much musculoskeletal back discomfort with this pregnancy at all) that would come and go--I'd like to say that I was scrupulous about timing these contractions, but I was at work and running around and I really didn't have time to attend to their frequency until much later in the afternoon, when I finally had a chance to sit down. I will also say that there were a spectrum some other symptoms that I'm too polite (read: shy) to talk about but that you can read about after searching "signs of labor" in Google. Something was different. Something was happening.<br /><br />I'm more of the type to sort of wait things out until something declarative occured, but the one thing is that for these past two pregnancies (three? I can't remember with Cal) I've been GBS positive, which means that I need to receive at least one round of penicillin prior to delivery. The window for getting the antibiotics (I've been told--it's been a long time since I've done Peds and I don't purport to know anything about OB except what applies to the anesthetic management therein) is four hours, and my OB pointed out on my last visit, when I was 2-3 cm dilated on exam and 50% effaced, that this is my third child, and as a faster delivery could be expected, that with signs of impending labor I should high-tail it to the hospital sooner rather than later. "Usually I say when the contractions are every 5 minutes apart," he said, "but for <i>you</i>, maybe every 8 minutes." At the point in the afternoon when I could actually sit down and look at a clock, I was having contractions about every 5-7 minutes apart.<br /><br />I sat and debated what I should do for a while. On one hand, I'd been working all day, which tends to make the old uterus a little more irritable--it could all settle down once I got home. But other the other hand...the other thing. I thought some more. The kids were at home, with our nanny. The hospital where I work is directly across the street from the hospital where I plan to deliver. Did I want to go home, relieve our childcare, and then find myself in a situation where I had to rush back in, with two kids in tow? Also, Joe was working at an office location more than an hour away that day. Did he need to rush back into town? Did he need to reschedule any of his patients for the next day, or the rest of the week? I had no real answers, and I figured the only way to get more data was just to go in to L&D and get checked, even if I did run the risk of being perhaps overly cautious.<br /><br />On L&D, they noted that I was 4 cm dilated, 70% effaced, and contracting about every 5-7ish minutes. So they had me on a monitor, put me in a bed, and said they'd be back to check me again in an hour, to see if I'd progressed. An hour later, the same nurse came by to check--I was now having contractions every 2-3 minutes, and by her exam, I was dilated to 5 cm. She called back the OB on call, who decided to admit me to the floor.<br /><br />"I guess I should call my people at work," I said hesitantly to the nurse. "I mean, should I? Should I tell them I night not be at work tomorrow?"<br /><br />"Oh <i>no</i>, you're not going in tomorrow," the nurse said. "You're having a baby tonight."<br /><br />So...OK. I got an IV. I got my antibiotics. I settled in for the night with a toco monitor and a fetal heart rate monitor strapped to my gut parts. Our nanny stayed overnight with the boys. Joe came in with the bags and slept on the most uncomfortable couch sleeper ever. Since I was only 37 and a half weeks at the time (I'll be 38 weeks on Sunday) they actually couldn't give me anything to hurry the process along (I've gotten Pitocin aumentation for my prior two deliveries) and I guess that was fine, because overnight, the contractions started getting more irregular, spaced out, and then kind of petered out to every 10-15 minutes. In the morning, a new nurse came in, the kind of nurse that I would have been terrified of as a med student but now as an attending I love--a gruffly, senior nurse, direct and to the point--and told me, "You know, I don't think you're in true labor."<br /><br />I said I kind of wish I had been told that <i>before</i> our little slumber party, but I knew in actuality it had been a tough call. 3rd pregnancy, GBS positive, seemingly regular contractions with progression on exam on admission--I don't fault the original team for tilting towards caution and admitting me "in labor." I think my OB was torn too. "We have two choices here," he told me. "The risk of fetal lung immaturity at this stage is really very low, but because it's a <i>possibility</i>, the literature tells us not flat-out <i>induce</i> prior to 39 weeks. However, it's hard sending someone home who's 4-5 cm and contracting. I guess if we gave you Pit it wouldn't really be an <i>induction</i> so much as an <i>augmentation</i>. But then again..." he thought some more, "you're not contracting as much now. You said you came straight from work yesterday?" I confirmed that I did. He kind of cocked his head, considering the options. "It's a bit of a tough call. I think we have two choices. One is we can keep you here and watch you. The other thing is we can send you home and wait until you declare yourself there."<br /><br />Having already spent a night in the hospital, I was not crazy about spending another day there unless, you know, I knew I was getting a baby out of the deal. Also, as a former Peds person, I knew he was right--that at 37 and 4/7 the likelihood of lung immaturity, especially for a baby girl, is very, very low. Yet...we spend our lives minimizing risk for our kids, and if she wasn't quite ready to come out yet, then I didn't want to be the one making the decision to force her out. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I'm as ready for this pregnancy to be over as the next lady, but also, you know, I want to be a rational person about things, not like those ladies who show up to L&D at 37 weeks on the dot demanding TAKE THIS BABY OUT OF ME NOW. I could handle a little more discomfort and waiting. The uncertainty I'm not crazy about, nor the idea of having a precipitous delivery in the car, but...we live pretty close to the hospital, and we have a pretty fast car. I told him I that if it was OK in his judgement, I would like to go home.<br /><br />So, that's why I'm home. After some deliberation (and I know this will seem crazy to many of you, but my OB even said that medicine is the only field where he's encountered people that are determined to work up until the very second the baby is crowning) I have decided to start my maternity leave five days earlier than scheduled. On one hand, it <i>kills</i> me to not be at work when, you know, I'm not <i>doing</i> anything else (I've always said that a single day spent on maternity leave without a baby is a DAY WASTED--yes, I get paid for work, but it's more than that, it's the idea of being at a place where people need you and you're useful and where you're sharing responsibility with others) but I think that at this point it's the best idea. I have to remind myself that I'm not doing my patients or my partners any favors by weeble-wobbling in at 5 cm dilated with the omnipresent risk of having to leave their case unexpectedly and emergently right before, you know, the cross-clamp comes off the aorta. I know it sounds like an obvious decision to most people, but believe me and try not to judge too hard the medical culture when I tell you: it feels a little like a cop-out to me.<br /><br />So! Here I am! At home! Contracting some, a little uncomfortable but feeling basically the same (they confirmed that Thing 3's head is at -1 station which probably explains why I feel like I have a baby coming out of my butt) and I'm hoping that we'll declare ourselves one way or the other and head back into L&D sometime soon. Today my plan is to walk around, like, <i>a lot</i>, though <i>yes</i>, I will be safe and not over-exert and hydrate adequately, given that the 5 day weather forecast for Atlanta looks a little something like this:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bpsa3wilHuE/T-2pBMmTceI/AAAAAAAAEbg/3ux537SiMqE/s1600/ATL+five+day+weather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bpsa3wilHuE/T-2pBMmTceI/AAAAAAAAEbg/3ux537SiMqE/s640/ATL+five+day+weather.jpg" width="616" /></a></div><br /><br />Did I mention that I'll be 38 weeks on Sunday? And the next time we feel the need to go into L&D for a little visit, we're not leaving without a damn baby? Lord.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d9oGg-yzFiQ/T-2qJCL2B0I/AAAAAAAAEbs/iXpaVraszXw/s1600/37+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d9oGg-yzFiQ/T-2qJCL2B0I/AAAAAAAAEbs/iXpaVraszXw/s640/37+weeks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />For the craft-minded, I made that skirt (love seersucker), made a pair of boxer shorts for Cal out of the same leftover fabric, and last night made a flannel fitted crib-sheet for the baby after I realized while in the hospital that if we'd actually brought her home today, she'd be sleeping on a bare Ikea mattress. Might as well be useful somehow, right?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-26441407798169368192012-06-20T18:08:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.664-07:00the first step is admitting you have a problem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OK, so this ain't no <i>craft fair</i> or anything, but just humor me on this one, because I am so proud of my ingenuity which is probably <i>not at all</i> ingenious and no doubt detailed in similar form in at least 100 different sewing blogs, all probably featuring the word "upcycling." I'm talking the talk you guys!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I think we've probably established that Thing 3 <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/06/its-in-bag-baby.html">has no pants</a>. First of all, she's going to be born in July, and second of all, the clothes we got for her were on sale after Christmas, when we thought she was going to be a boy. I have been on this sewing kick lately (YOU THINK?) and have thus been trying to make her little things here and there, but one night when I was lying in bed awake (because that's apparently what I do now in glorious third trimester fashion) I had an idea that was beautiful both in its economy of time and money. I could turn my old T-shirts into baby pants.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ai--efsNOpI/T-JliZce1bI/AAAAAAAAEZo/gfbCXu-JFhE/s1600/IMG_7598.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ai--efsNOpI/T-JliZce1bI/AAAAAAAAEZo/gfbCXu-JFhE/s640/IMG_7598.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />See, because I have a lot of old T-shirts that look like this. Especially in the winter, I wear a long-sleeved shirt to work under my scrubs, and despite the fact that I have quite a few colors in my rotation (I prefer getting long-sleeved kids T-shirts from Target in a large size because they're cheaper, come in a lot of colors, and because they're for kids have slightly shorter sleeves than adult long-sleeved tees, which seems somewhat more hygienic for work), after a year or two of weekly wear they get a little icky. Note the lovely underarm deodorant patina--I almost didn't post the picture because I thought it would be unseemly, but look, this is real life, and it's not like I'm running for president or anything like that. Anyway, they're nice T-shirts, soft and comfortable, but you have to retire them at some point, right? Purple T-shirt, your time has come.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0GfzDSsuCeg/T-JlkzHDTQI/AAAAAAAAEZw/d8ZKTtXQoi4/s1600/IMG_7599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0GfzDSsuCeg/T-JlkzHDTQI/AAAAAAAAEZw/d8ZKTtXQoi4/s640/IMG_7599.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />It is a factory-made T-shirt, though, so as such is has a nice factory finish, with machined hems and whatnot. Hems are a pain in my ass. So it occurred to me during one of my many insomniac nights, I could not only repurpose the fabric of the T-shirt itself, but I could preserve the hem at the bottom and save myself some work. Less work means more time for tomfoolery!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KL9sNkDQfU0/T-JlnAwh1UI/AAAAAAAAEZ4/ISJIk22IOBg/s1600/IMG_7600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KL9sNkDQfU0/T-JlnAwh1UI/AAAAAAAAEZ4/ISJIk22IOBg/s640/IMG_7600.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8gYhnPNsVs/T-JlpjjaMbI/AAAAAAAAEaA/9rj0YUch1CQ/s1600/IMG_7602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f8gYhnPNsVs/T-JlpjjaMbI/AAAAAAAAEaA/9rj0YUch1CQ/s640/IMG_7602.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />So see, I sliced off the bottom of the shirt just under the fossilized armpits (some deodorant sludge still remained but fear not, they will be excised in the next step), leaving basically a tube of fabric.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RUF81m3aNnY/T-Jls6Umj3I/AAAAAAAAEaI/TLB7plv5A7E/s1600/IMG_7603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RUF81m3aNnY/T-Jls6Umj3I/AAAAAAAAEaI/TLB7plv5A7E/s640/IMG_7603.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I folded the tube width-wise (keeping the hem on the bottom even--it's on the right side of the picture) so that I basically had four layers of fabric with an axis of symmetry down the long way (oriented parallel to the top of the screen)...<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ezW2yqFYVZY/T-JlvrjzDaI/AAAAAAAAEaQ/QG-djjJA80c/s1600/IMG_7605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ezW2yqFYVZY/T-JlvrjzDaI/AAAAAAAAEaQ/QG-djjJA80c/s640/IMG_7605.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rE2RB74m-u8/T-JlyA3yhyI/AAAAAAAAEaY/dcozm2cLuOY/s1600/IMG_7606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rE2RB74m-u8/T-JlyA3yhyI/AAAAAAAAEaY/dcozm2cLuOY/s640/IMG_7606.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And then using a folded in half pair of 3-6 month baby pants that we do have as a guide (they are baby blue, of course), I cut out two symmetrical pieces of pants from the T-shirt fabric. The sides that I cut off were where the side seams of the old T-shirt were--I figured the fewer the seams, the more comfortable--and I allowed a little extra fabric up top for the hem and elastic casing.<br /><br />I'm not really good at this kind of thing, nor do I need to re-invent the wheel, but the way I sewed the pants together after this point was <a href="http://www.makeit-loveit.com/2011/09/super-simple-leggings-only-2-fabric-pieces.html">based on this tutorial</a>--it's for leggings instead of pants, but the concept is the same--I just like a wider leg because I figure it will fit better for longer. As for the results, I'll let you judge for yourself. The pants on the left were the store-bought pair that I used as a model, and the purple ones on the right were the ones I made.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YvfsPURjJdg/T-Jl04QzL0I/AAAAAAAAEag/o1u29hoQMw8/s1600/IMG_7609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YvfsPURjJdg/T-Jl04QzL0I/AAAAAAAAEag/o1u29hoQMw8/s640/IMG_7609.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even for a novice like me who was kind of flying by the seat of her (ho ho) pants, it was actually pretty easy, and didn't take that long, so then I went ahead and hacked up another old T-shirt (this one wasn't stained but it was always overlarge and unflattering so I never wore it) and made these. Like I said, this T-shirt was slightly bigger, so I was able to make the pants a little bit bigger too, for room to grow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bEeKU-_gA4g/T-Jl6rQ567I/AAAAAAAAEaw/a97o8t1439g/s1600/IMG_7613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bEeKU-_gA4g/T-Jl6rQ567I/AAAAAAAAEaw/a97o8t1439g/s640/IMG_7613.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And then <i>that</i> went pretty well, and was pretty easy, so then I made these, out of <i>another</i> unflattering T-shirt (teal makes me look like the undead, and an overdeep scoop neck is not a good look for the flat-chested--that shirt had a more narrow cut, so with less fabric I made these more leggings-like than the other two). Why do I have so many clothes in my closet that don't look good on me? These are the mysteries of the ages. At least they're proving their usefulness now.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0yL_eBgm3Gs/T-Jl9_1NuMI/AAAAAAAAEa4/-vwX0zM7liM/s1600/IMG_7614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0yL_eBgm3Gs/T-Jl9_1NuMI/AAAAAAAAEa4/-vwX0zM7liM/s640/IMG_7614.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />I think you can see where I'm going with this.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEV7NPzANJo/T-JmC9mL1LI/AAAAAAAAEbI/dBOmG6_x3EE/s1600/IMG_7616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEV7NPzANJo/T-JmC9mL1LI/AAAAAAAAEbI/dBOmG6_x3EE/s640/IMG_7616.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />SOMEONE HELP ME I'M TRAPPED IN A PANTS MAKING VORTEX.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yaQ1biToB7c/T-Jl3raGLMI/AAAAAAAAEao/erQuyn8R3y4/s1600/IMG_7610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yaQ1biToB7c/T-Jl3raGLMI/AAAAAAAAEao/erQuyn8R3y4/s640/IMG_7610.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The good (bad?) thing is that we actually live right near (I mean <i>right</i> near--we could walk to it if anyone in Atlanta ever walked anywhere) a consignment store, where you can get a whole mess of pretty decent soft T-shirts in all kinds of colors for, like, <i>a dollar</i>. Jersey knit fabric bought by the yard at the fabric store is kind of boring, not to mention expensive, but for little baby sewing projects, you don't need a whole lot of fabric. So in order that I don't slice up all the rest of my clothing, I also have a reserve stash of thrifted cotton T-shirts for future projects. Don't worry, I'll make something other than pants at some point. But oh, I <i>do</i> love those stripes.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QNrXYBNek9A/T-Jz3BY5ysI/AAAAAAAAEbU/701YQlM28GU/s1600/IMG_7634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QNrXYBNek9A/T-Jz3BY5ysI/AAAAAAAAEbU/701YQlM28GU/s640/IMG_7634.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">HELP SEND LITHIUM.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-43268557137512028792012-06-17T15:51:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.756-07:00edna mode (and guest)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wonder if it's a more common phenomenon for medical bloggers to update on a reverse schedule, meaning updates exclusively on the weekends, and rarely during the week. Because who has the time? Anyway, it's been a particularly hectic week at work, stacked with all the things that make life exciting (occasionally to excess): codes, emergencies, various Oral Board scenarios brought to life. But at least I had the weekend off. I'm on call next weekend, my last weekend call before my scheduled maternity leave, so if I can just get through that (weekends on call are always rough, because aside from the weekend itself, you're basically working two weeks in a row non-stop without a break) I think we'll be OK to sail into the home stretch.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The thing with having a busy job and working full-time is that you really feel that you don't have enough time with your kids. That's just the fact of it--if that's the path you're eyeing, male or female, you will feel this way, it's simply a matter of resource allocation and during the week, especially, the time just isn't there. In the medical field, particularly, even nights and weekends at home are not a given, so you just have to kind of carve out time when you can. Weekends here, post-call days there. Usually nights don't find me at my best--after work usually I'm in a state of fatigue that brings me to <i>"I wash myself with a rag on a stick"</i> territory, but you know--sometimes there are earlier days off, and sometimes you get a break to do something fun.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I got out from work a little early on Wednesday this week (post-call of course, because ain't nothing in life is free), so I decided to do this with my time:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dTFG7cCiOjg/T95TSFP5oQI/AAAAAAAAEXE/TIyHoVK6TB8/s1600/IMG_7537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dTFG7cCiOjg/T95TSFP5oQI/AAAAAAAAEXE/TIyHoVK6TB8/s640/IMG_7537.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />I know, it doesn't look like anything, but the inspiration was this: I got Mack <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000I1D0BC/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=theundedraw-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B000I1D0BC">these super cheapy superhero costumes</a> at Christmas (actually I can't remember who actually got them for him--I get enlisted to get gifts for the kids from various relatives, and it might even have come from "Santa" himself, who can remember now). They were ignored for months, until one day, suddenly the kids decided that superheros were THE COOLEST and dressing up like superheros and making laser sounds while fake-punching your brother in the head with your Bat Fist was OMG THE BEST GAME EVER. So the costumes have been getting some use. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WsXP36u2Wac/T95TT-9LytI/AAAAAAAAEXM/IBNmoWWgX_k/s1600/IMG_7538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WsXP36u2Wac/T95TT-9LytI/AAAAAAAAEXM/IBNmoWWgX_k/s640/IMG_7538.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />As you can see, they are pieces of crap. Thin, fraying nylon, just a simple apron-type construction with a back tie. All the kids can see is the logo and the Superness, but now that they've got some miles on them, all I can see is how much they are falling apart. <br /><br />I was at the fabric store the other day when I saw this crazy metallic fabric on sale. It was a reflective polyester, which is as sleazy as it sounds, and I thought to myself, "Who would <i>buy</i> that shit?"<br /><br />And then I realized: I WILL. I WILL BUY THAT SHIT. WITH WHICH TO MAKE SUPERHERO COSTUMES.<br /><br />I think I've already explained <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/05/feel-free-to-tell-me-if-this-is-counts.html">my affection for Things Reversible</a> when it comes to kids, not the least benefit of which is that if I'm going to put in the effort to make <i>one</i> superhero costume, I might as well get <i>two</i> out of the deal. The other benefit is that you can be two different characters--I made one costume each for the boys, both identically reversible (red with a gold cape on one side, blue with a silver cape on the other) so that they could choose to be on the sa<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">me team, <span class="Latn" lang="en" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;" xml:lang="en">à la</span> "The Incredibles,</span>" or on different teams if they preferred. So far they've mostly chosen to be on different teams. So they can FIGHT. And make LASER NOISES. And I personally have been unable to stop saying, in the voice of Samuel L. Jackson, <i>"Where's my super suit?"</i><br /><br />So anyway, that's fun.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sf4gHKmUstk/T95qN16Ni-I/AAAAAAAAEZA/PK2PVOyIcxI/s1600/IMG_7590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sf4gHKmUstk/T95qN16Ni-I/AAAAAAAAEZA/PK2PVOyIcxI/s640/IMG_7590.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YJL-fKYNjrg/T95ThRN-8YI/AAAAAAAAEYA/iz2Ip6a0H2E/s1600/IMG_7577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YJL-fKYNjrg/T95ThRN-8YI/AAAAAAAAEYA/iz2Ip6a0H2E/s640/IMG_7577.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />The next step in the plan was for them to design their own superhero logos and for us to glue them on the chest with felt shapes, but we ran out of time, so it's still a work in process. Still, even plain, they're very super.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lzXQo458XhY/T95TkFTYVFI/AAAAAAAAEYM/YR0vIvr9U5k/s1600/IMG_7589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lzXQo458XhY/T95TkFTYVFI/AAAAAAAAEYM/YR0vIvr9U5k/s640/IMG_7589.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />The other kids project I did yesterday was to make a freezer-stencil T-shirt with Cal. (Tutorials for freezer paper stencil techniques are all over the internet, just Google it, but I will heartily endorse the pursuit, it is easy and satisfying and as you can see, even a child can do it. Well, maybe not the part where you cut out the design with the razor blade, but otherwise.) Cal chose the design himself--it's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boba_Fett">Boba Fett</a>, for you non-nerds out there. He actually requested Jango Fett (Django?) on the basis that Jango is cooler ("He has <i>two</i> guns!") but since they look the same I think <a href="http://www.bobafettmp.com/bobafett/seasonal/fett-pumpkin/patterns/bobafett_pumpkin.jpg">this tracing of Boba Fett</a> (originally off <a href="http://www.bobafettmp.com/bobafett/seasonal/fett-pumpkin/pumpkintutorial.html">a pumpkin carving tutorial</a>) sufficed.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5CrkaUm6hJM/T95TWIxy8VI/AAAAAAAAEXU/KeRBtlp2XQo/s1600/IMG_7557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5CrkaUm6hJM/T95TWIxy8VI/AAAAAAAAEXU/KeRBtlp2XQo/s640/IMG_7557.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sc8AUPkVsfY/T95TXjwo3rI/AAAAAAAAEXc/3Y_1_MS_A8A/s1600/IMG_7558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sc8AUPkVsfY/T95TXjwo3rI/AAAAAAAAEXc/3Y_1_MS_A8A/s640/IMG_7558.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S_ZfpyR91uU/T95Tb4aLMNI/AAAAAAAAEXw/2E1u9t8iGik/s1600/IMG_7574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S_ZfpyR91uU/T95Tb4aLMNI/AAAAAAAAEXw/2E1u9t8iGik/s640/IMG_7574.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />I made a shirt for Mack too, but I just kind of did it myself since he's a little young for the whole activity. I toyed with doing a different Star Wars design but decided in the end on this, since Mack, as a three year-old, lives in a world not unlike that of John Malkovich after going into his own portal in "Being John Malkovich." <i>Malkovich Malkovich Malkoviiiiiitch.</i><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T87iA3c-Jvw/T95TZv-ReRI/AAAAAAAAEXk/LK_JXgMJBqw/s1600/IMG_7566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T87iA3c-Jvw/T95TZv-ReRI/AAAAAAAAEXk/LK_JXgMJBqw/s640/IMG_7566.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Anyway, this has partially been in answer to the people who ask how I have time to do all the things that I do. The short answer is: <i>I don't.</i> My honest assessment is that I probably don't spend enough time with my kids, but luckily, I work as part of a team, and between the time that all of us put in, the kids are OK. Otherwise, I just try to maximize the <i>quality</i> of the time that I do have to spend with them (as energy allows), and like I always say, they'll tell me in the end if it was good enough. But we try hard, and it's what we have for now. <br /><br />And at the <i>very</i> least they'll have some really cute clothes to wear to family therapy.<br /><br />Speaking of having kids...hey, let's play this game now!<br /><br /><b>34 weeks:</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OO1XsEEP7Fw/T95eDQpaX2I/AAAAAAAAEYY/JIi36pa71SA/s1600/34+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OO1XsEEP7Fw/T95eDQpaX2I/AAAAAAAAEYY/JIi36pa71SA/s640/34+weeks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>35 weeks:</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwu56rYCB-E/T95eEgkcU6I/AAAAAAAAEYg/3czIZLnjUVc/s1600/35+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwu56rYCB-E/T95eEgkcU6I/AAAAAAAAEYg/3czIZLnjUVc/s640/35+weeks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>36 weeks:</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7SgSXAH1kp4/T95eFvJdZDI/AAAAAAAAEYo/8DYUNShk0mk/s1600/36+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7SgSXAH1kp4/T95eFvJdZDI/AAAAAAAAEYo/8DYUNShk0mk/s640/36+weeks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>About a week ago Joe observed independent of me (this lends validity) that he thinks Thing 3 has dropped down a little bit--<a href="http://www.fpnotebook.com/ob/exam/FtlStn.htm">engaged herself</a>, if you will--and I have to agree. Since it's my third kid, I don't think it means anything much (meaning it's both less and more comfortable, but I don't think I'm going into labor tomorrow or anything) but it's certainly the next thing, for what it's worth. Also I enjoy going around saying "ENGAGE" in the voice of Jean-Luc Picard, so who says the third trimester can't be fun?<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g2TqsTZ6BKw/T95TeMY3kzI/AAAAAAAAEX4/rGCPN0Q7znY/s1600/IMG_7576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g2TqsTZ6BKw/T95TeMY3kzI/AAAAAAAAEX4/rGCPN0Q7znY/s640/IMG_7576.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Have a <strike>good</strike> super week, everyone.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2290305204768442518.post-27923930311088956942012-06-10T17:59:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:53:40.850-07:00making it work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have to write this in a hurry because it's A SCHOOL NIGHT but I realize that after <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/06/colic-ahead-of-schedules.html">that last entry</a> and at this point in gestation, not checking in is just inviting people to think that I'm dead. So. Hi.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The mild hypomania that characterized <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/05/feel-free-to-tell-me-if-this-is-counts.html">my initiation into sewing</a> is nothing--I say <i>nothing</i>--compared to how it's been since I started making those little baby pinafores. Joe is alternately amused and throwing around words like "obsessed," because frankly, once I figured out how to make a few of these easy sewing projects, it's been like, "I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE BEEN PAYING FULL PRICE FOR THIS STUFF ALL THESE YEARS." (I wear a lot of skirts.) Here's a little of what I've been doing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m_qHGPjVmtE/T9U4uVeSSHI/AAAAAAAAEV4/w_QpplGK7A0/s1600/IMG_7519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m_qHGPjVmtE/T9U4uVeSSHI/AAAAAAAAEV4/w_QpplGK7A0/s640/IMG_7519.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Above is the second skirt I made for myself. It's just a regular elastic waist skirt, made based on this very good tutorial <a href="http://www.danamadeit.com/2008/07/tutorial-a-simple-skirt.html">here</a>. The first skirt I made for myself actually turned out even better (it was with a lighter weight blue shirting fabric, so, you know, more flowy and such) but I dropped a forkful of Chipotle on it earlier this week so it's in the wash.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CImJ7huiIxg/T9U4xDzvaaI/AAAAAAAAEWA/62CuU0ZBJYE/s1600/IMG_7520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CImJ7huiIxg/T9U4xDzvaaI/AAAAAAAAEWA/62CuU0ZBJYE/s640/IMG_7520.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />This was a flat front pleated skirt that I made based on <a href="http://www.u-createcrafts.com/2011/07/creative-guest-starboard-skirt-by.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+u-createcrafts%2FOlHW+%28Ucreate%29">this tutorial</a> that turned out pretty well. It's elastic in the back, so, you know, nice for the pregnant ladies. Also, can I tell you how proud I was that I made a pleat? And it was easy! Again: I think I have been overpaying for simple skirts for the past two decades.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-lhqLBjzds/T9U4zTPkbAI/AAAAAAAAEWI/bgxhJ5NiaHc/s1600/IMG_7521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-lhqLBjzds/T9U4zTPkbAI/AAAAAAAAEWI/bgxhJ5NiaHc/s640/IMG_7521.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />These pants I made for Cal based on <a href="http://www.danamadeit.com/2008/07/tutorial-kid-pants-with-a-flat-front.html">this tutorial</a> were kind of a fiasco. I made my own pattern, so I think the inseam turned out a little bit small--also, even though I measured about a trillion times the waist was still too big for him. They are flat front elastic-backed pants, but I sewed the elastic itself in so I can't cinch them up any more--next time I think I'll use that kind of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003WOZLY6/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=theundedraw-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B003WOZLY6">button hole elastic</a> like they do for all those Old Navy kid pants and leave a little more leeway for the crotch. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FR4fI5hNu6Y/T9U41sJW4YI/AAAAAAAAEWQ/7J2EqtW9hhw/s1600/IMG_7523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FR4fI5hNu6Y/T9U41sJW4YI/AAAAAAAAEWQ/7J2EqtW9hhw/s640/IMG_7523.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Every novice sewer needs to make a tote bag, right? Also: no matter now many tote bags we have around this house, they always end up getting filled with detritus and then scattered to various corners of the earth, so what the hell,<i> more tote bags for everyone</i>. Liberally adapted from <a href="http://sewmamasew.com/blog2/2008/07/classic-tote-tutorial/">this tutorial here</a>, though I eschewed the outside pocket for two inside pockets and improvised a contrasting lining. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V-_CFcwlvPs/T9U43-cgtBI/AAAAAAAAEWc/Bm9dy7bseOo/s1600/IMG_7524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V-_CFcwlvPs/T9U43-cgtBI/AAAAAAAAEWc/Bm9dy7bseOo/s640/IMG_7524.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />And then I bent my sewing needle, because apparently when you try to sew through, like, four layers of heavy fabric, you need to switch a thicker needle. I know, duh. I'M A DOCTOR, GUYS. Also: can you tell I like chevron fabric?<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Ut2HmpPzFk/T9U46OKlcTI/AAAAAAAAEWk/tHMFPHN6vR8/s1600/IMG_7527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Ut2HmpPzFk/T9U46OKlcTI/AAAAAAAAEWk/tHMFPHN6vR8/s640/IMG_7527.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The elephant bag was <a href="http://www.bijoulovelydesigns.com/2010/05/market-tote-tutorial.html">my failed attempt</a> at making a flat-bottom bag that could stand up on its own (I love <a href="http://michelleau.tumblr.com/post/23899771286/end-of-weekend-packing-sadness">these canvas bags</a> that we have from Lands End beyond all reason, but my own attempts at reproduction have been slouchy at best. Then Cal decided he wanted to make a bag too, so we worked on that this evening. I must be getting better at this, because it only took about two and a half hours, even with all the "help" I was getting. He picked out the fabric himself (that is my diplomatic way of telling you that I did not pick that girl-ass fabric for him, he went for it himself--I just brightly told him that it looked "very Christmas-y") and the young master has already filled it with nerd accoutrement.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lCc13udXMf8/T9U5CYckavI/AAAAAAAAEW4/Rb-I4DPFFD8/s1600/IMG_7528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lCc13udXMf8/T9U5CYckavI/AAAAAAAAEW4/Rb-I4DPFFD8/s640/IMG_7528.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Next up I think I'll revisit the boy pants with hopes of improved outcome--I have this beautiful blue seersucker fabric that I think would look great on Mack for the three minutes that he'll be able to wear it before spilling something irrevocably staining on it. <br /><br />So! Craftiness! It's fun or whatever!<br /><br />I've felt basically normal after <a href="http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/2012/06/colic-ahead-of-schedules.html">our scare on Wednesday morning</a>. A little woozy at work on Thursday morning but I took my blood pressure, and since it was basically normal I just drank some water, ate some crackers, and went about my business. For what it's worth, I'm staying away from high-fat foods just in case my gallbag is to blame (again, there's nothing definitive to say that it was, but it's as good a guess as any), and so far, there have been no more surprises. I have been a little...<i>touchy</i>, I guess...with people in my life (there are just a few) who imply that I overreacted or say stuff like OH YOU PREGNANT PEOPLE ALWAYS WORRY SO MUCH PROBABLY JUST HAD REFLUX I HAVE REFLUX TOO SOMETIMES AND ANYWAY YOU PROBABLY JUST ATE TOO MUCH because--<i>well</i>. <br /><br />One of the very first lessons we were taught in medical school--one of the most important lessons, I suppose--was being able to distinguish a patient who is Sick from a patient who is Not Sick. Meaning: the difference between a patient who just has a fever versus a patient who is septic. A patient who is just bleeding versus a patient who is in shock. A patient with abdominal pain versus a patient who has volvulus. Even if you can't make the exact diagnosis right away, that's the key first step: distinguishing Sick from Not Sick. I was Sick. I say this as someone who hates going to the doctor, avoids the hospital (as a patient) at all costs, and as someone who has had two prior pregnancies and spent a total of two weeks hospitalized for periotonitis in medical school. Maybe I wasn't Sick in a lasting way (and thank goodness for that--certainly I'm not looking for trouble), but if I saw a patient like me as a physician, I'm pretty sure I would say that I was Sick. I have some perspective, and I like to think that I don't catastrophize. Certainly the episode was transient, but certainly it was <i>real</i> and it <i>happened</i>. And also certainly I'm all <i>sensitive</i> about it because I try to live my life not complaining and being a good sport about things and trying not to be That Pregnant Lady that thinks every creak and pain is OMG THE BABY IS CROWNING. But give me a <i>little</i> credit, people. One should never voluntarily go to the ER unless they're fairly concerned that they might be having a medical emergency, but if they are, that's <i>exactly</i> what the ER is for.<br /><br />Anyway! If you want to follow along with some of the easy sewing projects I've been collecting, you can <a href="http://pinterest.com/scutmonkey/">follow me on Pinterest</a>--the sewing bulletin board is the only one I have going right now, but who knows, maybe I'll get obsessed with something else, such as, uh, collecting pictures of cats that I like. Hope your weekend was as good as mine: that is to say fun, relaxing, and a little bit too short. Have a good week, all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06108178438493543092noreply@blogger.com