Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
What Do You Mean By "Problem?"
We were now settled into the delivery room, awaiting what promised to be a long night. It was one of those things that no matter how much research one does, you just can’t really prepare yourself enough. My mind was constantly replaying Bill Cosby’s famous labor routine, punctuated with Carol Burnett reminding me that the pain of giving birth was akin to pulling your bottom lip over your head. Sounds like a good time to me…
The doc arrived, an IV inserted (I didn’t watch), wires and monitoring equipment attached, and the pitocin drip began.
The first few contractions were mild. They were for me, anyway. So far, so good.
After about half an hour, the doc took a look at the fetal heart monitor thingie and did not like what she saw. Not one bit. She mentioned something about “late decels”. The Kid’s heart rate dropped after every contraction. In medical lingo, the technical term is “not good”. I wish I could remember what exactly she said to us, but the gist of it was, “You can continue with natural childbirth and the baby won’t make it or we can do a c-section. What’ll it be?” Not really a choice there, was it? I can’t say that either of us really considered that there was an option in her statement. It was worded like there was an option, but we knew there wasn’t. “Let’s do the c-section.” we said. “When will we do it?” “Now” was the gently urgent reply.
I was handed a set of scrubs and grabbed the camera. The Wife called our friend and neighbor Caroline, who happened to be a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital. She was off that day, but offered to be with us should come to a c-section. We had discussed it previously, and decided that it might be a good idea to have a close friend amongst the medical staff. Caroline was just about to put her own baby down for the night, but her dad came over to watch the baby while Caroline came to the hospital.
We also called the grandparents to-be and told them that our planned evening of labor was not going to happen, and that the kid would be arriving in a few minutes. Best laid plans and all...
Dressed and domed and ready to go, we wheeled into the OR. Caroline came in a few minutes later. The surgical team gave us a quick briefing, they put up the drapes, and it began. I think it probably took 5 minutes at that point. Just as I was asking the Wife if she could tell what was going on, we heard these two statements in quick succession:
“It’s got brown hair” followed almost immediately by “It’s a girl.”
Was that it? It’s only 6:35. I thought this was supposed to be a long drawn out affair…
Next up: “Hi. I’m your daddy.”
The doc arrived, an IV inserted (I didn’t watch), wires and monitoring equipment attached, and the pitocin drip began.
The first few contractions were mild. They were for me, anyway. So far, so good.
After about half an hour, the doc took a look at the fetal heart monitor thingie and did not like what she saw. Not one bit. She mentioned something about “late decels”. The Kid’s heart rate dropped after every contraction. In medical lingo, the technical term is “not good”. I wish I could remember what exactly she said to us, but the gist of it was, “You can continue with natural childbirth and the baby won’t make it or we can do a c-section. What’ll it be?” Not really a choice there, was it? I can’t say that either of us really considered that there was an option in her statement. It was worded like there was an option, but we knew there wasn’t. “Let’s do the c-section.” we said. “When will we do it?” “Now” was the gently urgent reply.
I was handed a set of scrubs and grabbed the camera. The Wife called our friend and neighbor Caroline, who happened to be a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital. She was off that day, but offered to be with us should come to a c-section. We had discussed it previously, and decided that it might be a good idea to have a close friend amongst the medical staff. Caroline was just about to put her own baby down for the night, but her dad came over to watch the baby while Caroline came to the hospital.
We also called the grandparents to-be and told them that our planned evening of labor was not going to happen, and that the kid would be arriving in a few minutes. Best laid plans and all...
Dressed and domed and ready to go, we wheeled into the OR. Caroline came in a few minutes later. The surgical team gave us a quick briefing, they put up the drapes, and it began. I think it probably took 5 minutes at that point. Just as I was asking the Wife if she could tell what was going on, we heard these two statements in quick succession:“It’s got brown hair” followed almost immediately by “It’s a girl.”
Was that it? It’s only 6:35. I thought this was supposed to be a long drawn out affair…
Next up: “Hi. I’m your daddy.”
I Am Such a Dork
Part 2 is coming later today or tomorrow, I promise, but yesterday was a fairly significant anniversary that I missed. On April 9, 1959, NASA announced the 7 test pilots selected for Project Mercury. Scott Carpenter, Gordon Cooper, John Glenn, Virgil Grissom, Wally Shirra, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton were selected out of an original pool of 69 military test pilots.
Of those 7, I actually met one of them.
It was sometime back in the mid 90s, so I was in my mid 20s. I was flying back from somewhere in the mid-west and had a connecting flight Columbus, OH back to DC. It was an evening flight, getting back home fairly late. When I boarded the plane, it was pretty much just me and an older couple sitting across the aisle. I thought the gentleman looked familiar, but I wasn’t entirely sure.
The flight was quick, and when we got off the plane in DC, the terminals were almost deserted. The three of us were walking back towards the main terminal building when I turned to the guy, smiled and said “Excuse me sir, but are you John Glenn?”
“Why, yes I am.”
This is about the time that the geek circuit breaker in my head blew. This safety device normally keeps my inner nerd in check, but extraordinary circumstances can cause it to fail in a most spectacular fashion.
“WOW,” I just about screamed. “I’ve never met a real astronaut before. I’ve met plenty of pilots, but never a real astronaut!” I swear on all that I hold dear that I said that with the same tone, inflection, and speed as an 8 year-old boy meeting Spiderman. My voice was at last half an octave higher and twice as fast as I normally speak.
“So, are you from Ohio?” was his reply, which I thought an odd one at the time.
Those readers who are students of the American political scene of the past 40 years may have heard the John Glenn did some stuff after he left NASA in 1964. Had a whole different career, even. Of course I knew that, but that damned geek circuit overrides all the other ones.
“Nah. I’m just coming home from [wherever-I-was]. It was a connecting flight.” This was about the time he lost interest in the conversation. Not that I blame him. It was late, and here’s this mildly excitable dork who isn’t a constituent, so what’s the upside of talking to him.
I also spoke to his wife, Annie, who was charming and gracious. I said I thought it must have been difficult to be an astronaut’s wife. She said it was, but shrugged it off in sort of an “aw shucks” kind of way that was just delightful. I asked her if she thought the movie The Right Stuff did a good job portraying the two of them, and she said it did, except for that “nonsense” about him humming and singing during re-entry from his flight. He is a professional, and had plenty to do other than hum.
It wasn’t until I was home (or maybe the next day) that the breaker re-set and I realized that he was a U.S. Senator, too. Geez. I gotta up the amps on that thing.
Of those 7, I actually met one of them.
It was sometime back in the mid 90s, so I was in my mid 20s. I was flying back from somewhere in the mid-west and had a connecting flight Columbus, OH back to DC. It was an evening flight, getting back home fairly late. When I boarded the plane, it was pretty much just me and an older couple sitting across the aisle. I thought the gentleman looked familiar, but I wasn’t entirely sure.
The flight was quick, and when we got off the plane in DC, the terminals were almost deserted. The three of us were walking back towards the main terminal building when I turned to the guy, smiled and said “Excuse me sir, but are you John Glenn?”
“Why, yes I am.”
This is about the time that the geek circuit breaker in my head blew. This safety device normally keeps my inner nerd in check, but extraordinary circumstances can cause it to fail in a most spectacular fashion.
“WOW,” I just about screamed. “I’ve never met a real astronaut before. I’ve met plenty of pilots, but never a real astronaut!” I swear on all that I hold dear that I said that with the same tone, inflection, and speed as an 8 year-old boy meeting Spiderman. My voice was at last half an octave higher and twice as fast as I normally speak.
“So, are you from Ohio?” was his reply, which I thought an odd one at the time.
Those readers who are students of the American political scene of the past 40 years may have heard the John Glenn did some stuff after he left NASA in 1964. Had a whole different career, even. Of course I knew that, but that damned geek circuit overrides all the other ones.
“Nah. I’m just coming home from [wherever-I-was]. It was a connecting flight.” This was about the time he lost interest in the conversation. Not that I blame him. It was late, and here’s this mildly excitable dork who isn’t a constituent, so what’s the upside of talking to him.
I also spoke to his wife, Annie, who was charming and gracious. I said I thought it must have been difficult to be an astronaut’s wife. She said it was, but shrugged it off in sort of an “aw shucks” kind of way that was just delightful. I asked her if she thought the movie The Right Stuff did a good job portraying the two of them, and she said it did, except for that “nonsense” about him humming and singing during re-entry from his flight. He is a professional, and had plenty to do other than hum.
It wasn’t until I was home (or maybe the next day) that the breaker re-set and I realized that he was a U.S. Senator, too. Geez. I gotta up the amps on that thing.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
1 Year On (Almost)
With the run-up to the Kid’s first birthday fully underway, I thought this would be a good time to reflect on the past 12 months.Sunday, April 22, 2007
The Kid’s due date had officially passed, and the Wife was anxious (understatement) to get it over with. The nursery was ready for the arrival, with all the equipment laid out in a manner that would make a NASCAR garage boss proud. The go-bags were packed and placed by the front door, and we waited for things to get going. A walk around the Severn River Trade School seemed like it might do the trick. It was a beautiful day, but no luck in bringing on labor.
Monday, April 23, 2007
I went to work as usual, and the Wife had an appointment with the doc. The doc took the decision that an induction was now in order, scheduled for that afternoon. It was to be a 4 pm check-in as I recall. I phoned my boss (who had her first baby the previous November) and let her know what was going on. Her response was something like “What the heck are you still doing at work? Get going!” I complied. Was I excited? Yup. Was I nervous? You bet your sweet bippy.
I got home and we made sure everything was ready home-wise. It was. The grandparents were phoned, and the current situation was explained. The Wife’s parents (Lilly and the Toolbox) made preparations for the 3 hour drive and planned to arrive sometime after 6 that evening. My parents are only about an hour away, so they said that they would have their phones handy. We fully anticipated a labor duration of at least several hours, so we’d be able to give fair warning.
At about 3:30, we left home with all of the accoutrements we packed; digital camera, tripod, iPod, laptop, snacks, comfy clothes, toiletries, cell phones, battery chargers, books, and games. Got to the hospital and checked in, which was about as complicated as checking into a Holiday Inn (no kidding). We were taken to the room, where we un-packed and readied ourselves mentally, physically, and spiritually. This was going to happen. It was real, there was no turning back, and by the next day, our lives would be different. The only thing we didn’t know was how different…Next episode: What do you mean by “problem”?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Alignment
Every so often, the cosmic tumblers fall into place, and you end up in a position to see something pretty nifty.
Last night, at 2027, I happened to be outside, facing south. There were few if any clouds. I looked up and saw a bright light streaking across the night sky.
Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Was it Superman?
Nope. The dot in question was the International Space Station. The local evening news had earlier mentioned it would be visible, but I had completely forgotten about it. There it was, a mere 185 miles away, plugging along at about 17,000 miles per hour. Since it had not yet crossed the terminator, it was still in daylight while we were well past sunset, thus illuminating it for us to see easily. Even the wife, who is not easily awed by things scientific, was duly impressed. All this on Leonard Nimoy's birthday, no less. He's sort of the patron saint of geeks and nerds, so it seemed fitting. For a brief fleeting moment, I thought about getting The Kid out of bed to see it. Unlike most ideas that seem good at the time but later turn out to be bad ones, this one seemed bad from the start. The kid will have her fill of science museums and a pilgrimage to the Kennedy Space Center later.
When was the last time I saw something like that? Glad you asked. Musta been sometime in the mid 80's. Dad and I were doing a spot of trout fishing on Douthat Lake in the mountains of Virginia. Evening had fallen (or maybe it was really early morning) and again, a bright dot hurtled from horizon to horizon in about 2 minutes. Must have been either Mir or the shuttle. I seem to recall thinking that they were both up at the time. When I think about that now, I realize that I really did have my whole life in front of me. I could have been an astronaut if I had wanted it bad enough, but I didn't. Catching dinner was my immediate task at hand, and other pursuits would distract me from becoming a star voyager. Heck, we were raised believing that pretty much anyone could go into space by 2001. I'd be an old man of 31 by then. Why go through the hassle?
Now here I am, earth-bound and not regretting a thing. The sensation that would accompany one's ability to cover the entire earth with an outstretched thumb would pale in comparison to the smile on my daughter's face when she sees me coming home through the front door.
Bah. Space-schmace. Keep it.* I have love, and sometimes trout for dinner.
*Of course, if some of you feel the urge to pony up a few hundred grand for me to take a Virgin Galactic sub-orbital flight, I'm all for it.
Last night, at 2027, I happened to be outside, facing south. There were few if any clouds. I looked up and saw a bright light streaking across the night sky.
Was it a bird? Was it a plane? Was it Superman?
Nope. The dot in question was the International Space Station. The local evening news had earlier mentioned it would be visible, but I had completely forgotten about it. There it was, a mere 185 miles away, plugging along at about 17,000 miles per hour. Since it had not yet crossed the terminator, it was still in daylight while we were well past sunset, thus illuminating it for us to see easily. Even the wife, who is not easily awed by things scientific, was duly impressed. All this on Leonard Nimoy's birthday, no less. He's sort of the patron saint of geeks and nerds, so it seemed fitting. For a brief fleeting moment, I thought about getting The Kid out of bed to see it. Unlike most ideas that seem good at the time but later turn out to be bad ones, this one seemed bad from the start. The kid will have her fill of science museums and a pilgrimage to the Kennedy Space Center later.
When was the last time I saw something like that? Glad you asked. Musta been sometime in the mid 80's. Dad and I were doing a spot of trout fishing on Douthat Lake in the mountains of Virginia. Evening had fallen (or maybe it was really early morning) and again, a bright dot hurtled from horizon to horizon in about 2 minutes. Must have been either Mir or the shuttle. I seem to recall thinking that they were both up at the time. When I think about that now, I realize that I really did have my whole life in front of me. I could have been an astronaut if I had wanted it bad enough, but I didn't. Catching dinner was my immediate task at hand, and other pursuits would distract me from becoming a star voyager. Heck, we were raised believing that pretty much anyone could go into space by 2001. I'd be an old man of 31 by then. Why go through the hassle?
Now here I am, earth-bound and not regretting a thing. The sensation that would accompany one's ability to cover the entire earth with an outstretched thumb would pale in comparison to the smile on my daughter's face when she sees me coming home through the front door.
Bah. Space-schmace. Keep it.* I have love, and sometimes trout for dinner.
*Of course, if some of you feel the urge to pony up a few hundred grand for me to take a Virgin Galactic sub-orbital flight, I'm all for it.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Happiness
I think I found a picture that best defines the word "happy".
We spent Saturday night with a bunch of friends for an annual get-together and The Kid had the time of her life. Come to think of it, the Wife and I did too.
I spent a goodly portion of Sunday cleaning up the back yard. We have a pretty small yard, but there are about 30 Liquidambar styraciflua trees. In case you're unfamiliar with this particular fauna, they're known in the virnacular as sweetgum trees. They provide wonderful shade in the summer, but there is a downside. They have seed pods. Lots and lots of seed pods. They're about an inch across, and these trees drop loads of them.
How many do they drop? Well, this morning I raked up 8 trash bags' worth of these things. 8 thirty gallon trash bags. Still, that's not the worst it's ever been. Last year, I filled up 15 trash bags in one day. I had to use a snow shovel to scoop them up.
The Kid makes me happy. Sweetgum trees, not so much.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Happy Anniversary Baby
Got you on my miiind…
I wouldn’t change anything from the past 5 years.
5 years on. March 8th 2003 really was magical. I think about it every day.
I wouldn’t change anything from the past 5 years.
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