I Was Born on Memorial Day

I wanted to tell you the story of my birth, but even my near idydic memory isn’t that good. So I enlisted the help of someone who would know better than anyone else.

Blog Friends, meet Mom. Mom, meet the Blogosphere. (I’ve taken the liberty of adding my own two cents in pink).

Chrissy and Mom

This is my mom and I at the White Sox game a few weeks ago.

Well, I was awakened by my daughter this morning at 9:11am to write a blog post…which she’s wanted to do for a while. Oh, if only 30 years ago today it had been so easy. You see, she was born on Memorial Day. Although, it was actually May 30th, it was Monday, Memorial Day, 1983.

None of our friends had children. For the past 5 months or so, I had been their slave. I was the designated driver everywhere (hmm that still has not changed). I was very sick of the drunk people, especially my sister and my husband! So the Sunday night before Memorial Day was party time. At our apartment. Larry (Chrissy’s dad), Susan (my sister) and her then-husband, Jay, had me making drinks all night…until 1 AM! I kept complaining my back hurt and they called me a baby.

After falling asleep for a couple of hours, I awoke to a leaking water (and some other stuff that Chrissy edited out). I was thrilled!!! She’s coming! Christine Regina! The enjoyment of waking up my husband was twofold. Number one I wanted to get to the hospital and see her as quickly as possible. Number two, I knew he was still drunk! Hello payback!

I was calm and collected for the next few hours. My father-in-law arrived to witness, or at least be there for her joyous moment into this world. Yeah, well…that didn’t happen.

Hours went by, and still, no Chrissy. After 8hrs I was still only dilated to 1. At 12 PM, they decided it was time for Pitocin to move the LABOR along. After several hours of this nonsense, and much screaming involved, a nice shot of Demerol may help. GO FOR IT!! A few hours later, still no success and no doctor. You see he had a feeling I was going to need a C-Section, and went home to sleep for a few hours. I was positive that I was dying. My father-in-law went home. My parents and family were told we would call them.

The doctor came back and ordered an X-ray of my pelvis. NOW??? It was 10pm!! And I had been on Pitocin for 10 hours!!! Now an X-ray?

Showing that it would be very doubtful Chrissy would be able to come through my tiny body. (I would kill to be as TINY now, 9 mos and 3 days pregnant I was still 60lbs less than today). At this point, I had been screaming for hours. Loud, piercing screams. NO offense to Chrissy, but I was yelling things like…”Get this fucking thing out of me!!!” That’s not very nice, Mom. The doctor was furious with me. I was scaring all of the other mothers..the ones who had not been in labor for 20 and 1/2 hours and on Pitocin for nearly 12 hours.

Ay 11pm I was prepped for the c-section and as soon as that needle went into my spine, I was like “THANK YOU!” Numbness was good…no pain. Ahhh…where’s my baby!!! I was awake for her birth, but could not see. Larry could not watch it. he had been drunk and happy when it all began. He was now tired beyond measure (poor baby), hungover, and had stood by my side for nearly the entire 20 1/2 hours of labor. Good things take time. He had to wait to see her. She was perfect! Of course, I was.

Aside from the very pointed head, Hey! Who you calling pointy? because she had tried nonstop to come out, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Happy almost birthday, darling…I love you.

P.S. 10 months and 2 days later, her brother Brian was born. The doctor looked at me after his birth and said…Are you going to listen to me now? I did. Ew.

You guys, I love this story, because my dad was all hammered and had to suck it up and deal with it. And then I took my sweet, sweet time. So I knew I had to share it with you.

Blog Friends, I know a lot of you are moms. Were your kids as much of a pain in the ass as me?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

What? I’m Not Here Today? LIES!

Okay, maybe it’s not a complete lie. I’m guest posting over at It’s a Dome Life today! Lily has been hosting this beautiful Examining the Creative Mind Series, in which she asks several pages worth of questions about artists, their processes and their inspiration.

She’s brilliant I tell you.

So go read my guest post and send Lily some comment love. Because post hosts loooooove comments! And I might host a giveaway next month. And I might cry if you don’t. I’m not above bribery. Or threats.

If you’re stopping by from It’s a Dome Life, might I recommend the following favorite posts…

Adventures with The Bloggess

Because Search Terms Are Funny

Stormageddon: Dark Lord of All

The Tale of Olive Baby

Christmas Music

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Bad Dates Illustrated With Crayons

Quirky Chrissy asked me to guest post today. All I could think to write about was a few of the bad dates I’d had in my twenties. This is me without enough coffee, obviously. Then, of course, I had to illustrate my adventures with crayons. That’s what happens when you become a parent. You have to do everything with crayons. I mean, your kids steal all of the pens and hide them so they can write on the wall when you aren’t looking. At least, that is what happens at my house.

When I was young I wasn’t much of a dater (Wait, is that even a word? I’m guest posting on the grammar Queen’s blog. It’s making me so nervous about punctuation and poorly chosen words). I was more of a serial monogamist. I had boyfriends, not dates. There was a short, awkward period, in my twenties, where I did actually try to date, but it didn’t exactly go so well. Usually, I’d just get nervous and say something embarrassing. Like this:

Super-Salad-comic

That awkward moment where you think the waitress asking if you want soup or salad is offering you a “super” salad.

Sometimes, I’d trip, or fall, or spill my drink all over the table and my date. In my defense, that one time when I did spill my drink, my date was totally looking way too hard at the waitresses cleavage. It’s not entirely my fault that Karma paid him a visit immediately. I mean, that just happens sometimes.

Bad date comic

Karma happens fast sometimes.

Dating has never been easy for me and now that I am married, it still isn’t. All of the self-help relationship books say husbands and wives need date nights to keep the spark alive. My husband and I try to do this, but because we haven’t found a reliable babysitter we often have to take our toddler with us. Whether or not a date, accompanied by a toddler, is actually a date, is debatable, but we are desperate (How many commas do I need here? Seriously, I don’t even know…). We take what we can get. We go on dates with our toddler. All. The. Time.

Bad dates: bringing the toddler

Dating hasn’t improved over the years.

Last St. Patrick’s Day, we drove an hour to a fancy restaurant and bar that promised food, green martinis, and dart championship games. When we got there the restaurant was closed and the bar didn’t have food. Plus, it’s weird to bring a toddler into a bar. I mean, everyone stops talking and sort of stares at you. It’s awkward. We were annoyed by the restaurants false advertising. We were also all really, really hungry. So, we got back in the car and headed towards the last restaurant we had passed on our 60 mile drive. Before we could get there, our daughter started crying and saying her tummy hurt. I figured she was probably just hungry. We all were. We were all getting a little cranky too. Unfortunately, I was terribly wrong. She wasn’t just hungry. She was sick. The vomiting started and would not stop. We pulled over on the side of the road. I tried to clean her up. We had vomit all over. It was kind of a disaster. We were all wearing green, looking miserable and smelling like vomit all the way home.

Bad Dates: St. Patricks Day

Little Toad Creek not even open when we got there at 3pm  (LIARS!)

Last St. Patrick’s Day was probably my worst bad date ever. Between the restaurant being closed, the cranky husband, the cranky toddler and the ode to vomit perfume (not to mention we ended up having spaghetti for dinner) it was spectacular in all the wrong ways. Still, at least I didn’t have to worry about getting a second date. I mean, we sealed that deal years ago. Thank God. Now we can just call bad dates life.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!