On Maturation, Pt. 4

The question I have been asked far more than any other question (besides: "When are you due?" and "Do you know what you're having?"--but those don't count) during my pregnancies is this: "Are you going to breast or bottle feed?"

That question really bothered me through my now 18 months of pregnancy. I figured it was no one's business but my own. I was only lectured, thoroughly, once when I answered that I was planning to formula feed Hip but I certainly got a lot of questioning looks and voice tones.

I had a lot of very valid reasons for formula feeding Hip. There are many that are personal and others that are very difficult to explain to people who have not walked a mile in my shoes, so I don't attempt. It was the right choice at the time. I felt confident in that. I still feel confident in that choice.

Those reasons, for Poquito, were no longer valid...except the one where I was nervous to try something new and quite frankly I didn't want to. One girl had the nerve to ask me, "Is it because you don't want your boobs to get saggy?"

"You're an idiot," is what I would have said if I wasn't trying to make friends with several other girls in attendance.

I was certainly on the fence about what to do until I was forced to make a decision in the hospital. I had made the lucky mistake of admitting my ambivalence to my pushy nurse. She, without my consent, called the lactation consultant who immediately thrust her hands all up in my business. I was too ticklish to be pissed.

My confidence in myself, after my delivery experience, was very high and I reasoned with myself, if I can deliver a big baby naturally than I can at least try to breast feed. Accepting my nervousness/fears and my confidence I gave in to the lactation consultant's gropes and advice.

Poquito was a natural. I continued to be ticklish.

It was a success. Poquito has only had about 5 mL of formula on day 2 of his existence. Otherwise he hasn't even drank from a bottle.

If you've known me these past several years of my life you may be scratching your head wondering if you really know me at all. Maybe you feel proud of me. Maybe you realize that even people like me can change, do something new, and can mature.

***

I'm not going to gush about how much I love breast feeding because I don't. I don't hate it either. I just do it and embrace the fact that there are pros and cons. There are pros and cons--just opposite--to formula feeding too.

Halloween

The minute we got out of the car when we arrived to our new home in Berkley, MI I knew it would be an awesome neighborhood to trick-or-treat.

Sure enough, the neighborhood was abuzz Halloween evening. Every neighbor had their doors open and several were sitting on their porches. It was an unorganized block party.

The backdrop was yellowing leaves overhead and brown leaves crunching under our feet. The air was sharply cold and you could smell a distant wood burning stove. Neighbors greeted and joked. I gave out handfuls of candy to the neighborhood kids I know (and the teenaged boy dressed as Dorothy from Wizard of Oz).

We ended the evening at the neighbor's house eating good food, playing and chatting with friends. It was the best day we've had here, by far.

More Photos

Introducing Poquito Tito

Have you heard of Skippyjon Jones? If not you should run to your local library and check this children's series out. You and your kids will only love these books if you can muster up a really good Spanish accent.

Skippyjon makes a friend named Poquito Tito, the smallest of the small ones (of a gang of chihuahuas).

Hip and I agree, Poquito Tito is the perfect nickname for our baby. Hip pronounces it, "Tito-Tito."

Poquito Tito is a big baby. He is only two weeks-old in this picture:

Poquito likes:

-his mommy

-eating

-his brother

-to be held, all of the time

-eating

-his pacifier

-his boppy pillow

-eating

-going for walks

-baths

-eating

Poquito does not like:

-burping

-his car seat

-his bouncy chair

-having to wait a few minutes to eat

-being outside more than 30 minutes

Poquito is a little gassy and he has reflux (which does not seem to bother him other than making sleeping difficult at time when he is spitting up every five to ten minutes for an hour at 3:00 am). He is loving and snuggly. He has a sweet disposition except when he is hungry or has gas and then he shows a little attitude.

Other Noteables

Dr. Ziff said, when he congratulated me on the natural delivery and I said I didn’t deserve it because it was against my will, “Well, either way the result is the same.” L and I liked that.

Baby was weighed in the delivery room at 8 lbs 8 oz. He was weighed the next day at 8 lbs 10 oz which lead my nurse to believe his actual birth weight was 8 lbs 11 oz. His weight is recorded on our records as 8 lbs 10 oz.

I really didn’t cry during labor/delivery. Tears would squeeze out during a contraction but it wasn’t real crying. I find this interesting because I am a crier. I also didn’t swear or disrespect anyone in the process. I don’t find this contrary to my character but others do!

I didn’t get sweaty either. I always thought I’d get sweaty.

I wore my amniotic fluid/poop socks until 10:00 am the next day. Gross!

I was glad to feel my amniotic sac break. Of any part of delivery I wondered what that would be like.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I didn’t the night after Hip was born either. I wish I would have had my laptop during this time, there were a lot of interesting thoughts that I cannot remember now.

On Maturation, Pt. 3

“Stop!” said Dr. Iglar (who I didn’t yet know was a doctor) to the portly and bored Anesthesiologist.

That’s when I knew it. It was too late. So I cried out, “NOOOOOOOO!”

Dr Iglar stated calmly, “I need to check her.”

L helped me lay down on my side and Dr. Iglar said, “She’s a ten.”

For good measure I cried out again, “NOOOOOOOO! This is my WORST fear!”

Dr. Iglar bent down again and said, “It’s okay. You can do it.”

Rhonda, my delivery nurse begged me to move to the center of the bed ten times before I complied.

Dr. Iglar said, “If you need to push, push.”

Me, “I need to push!” So I pushed and my amniotic sac exploded and felt warm around my legs. I heard Dr. Iglar whisper to L that the baby had pooped. I knew this was a potentially serious complication but for some reason I wasn’t worried.

Rhonda gave me the run-down on how to push. I ignored her. I stared at a disgusting mauve flower on the worn wallpaper border that adorned the delivery room’s wall to ceiling intersection.

Me, to no one in particular, “I don’t want to feel my body tear in half!” I was making odd noises, panting and wailing. It didn’t sound like me but some injured forest animal.

Dr. Iglar, “You’ve done this before, you can do this.”

Me, “No, I haven’t. I fake pushed my last one out!” No one understood what I meant was that I really didn’t push Hip out, he just came out. And my epidural was so strong I felt absolutely nothing.

I pushed, barely. I was scared.

I pushed again, barely. “Just pull him out!” I begged several times to anyone who made eye contact with me.

“We can’t do that, “said Dr. Ziff.

“I can see his head, “ said Dr. Iglar.

“Don’t lie to me,” I replied sternly. Did I see Dr. Ziff crack a smile?

“You can push harder,” Dr. Ziff commanded.

I pushed a little harder. And then I realized that if I pushed really hard a few times than I could just get it over with.

I pushed really hard, twice. His head was out. Oh crap, now I’ve got to get his shoulders out, I thought.

Yes, there was burning. But I could do this. I had this in the bag. My confidence soared.

So I pushed two more times. He was out and on my belly. It was 12:47 am, Thursday. I was shaking and told Rhonda that I couldn’t hold on to him. The nurses briskly took him away.

“Why isn’t he crying?” I asked.

“He’s okay, it’s fine that he didn’t cry much,” said Rhonda.

Dr. Iglar told me I needed to push out the placenta, she was rubbing my abdomen. “Will it hurt? You can just pull it out,” I asked. Dr. Ziff rolled his eyes.

It didn’t hurt.

The most amazing part about the whole experience is this: the pain and contractions were gone immediately after delivery.

Dr. Ziff left after I thanked him and Dr. Iglar profusely. I don’t know what came over me but I was in a very thankful mood.

The on-call doctor arrived just in time to miss the birth; and to help coach Dr. Iglar on how to sew me up. Dr. Iglar was good to tell me how many stitches she had left when it was clear it was agitating me. I liked that. Before she left I told her that she did a really good job and how much I appreciated her. She was excellently patient and calm, which helped me through.

The on-call doctor and I had a conversation about narcotics and I insisted I was not drug seeking. This made her laugh and L explained to her that I was a therapist in drug rehab in the past. I had no used for narcotics in my recovery, however, and used only two ibuprofens.

Then it was only L, Rhonda, the baby, and me in the room. It was over. Done. Finally. I felt empty, physically. I felt full, emotionally. I could breath too.

I sat there holding my baby as Rhonda scurried around completing the chart. She said she usually does this as labor progresses but in my quick-moving case she did not have an opportunity. She also said it was in the top five quickest labors/deliveries she had ever been a part of.

L and I were relatively quiet. It was peaceful, maybe even spiritual. But I didn’t cry, because apparently I don’t when my babies are born.

I felt different. Older? Wiser? Something had changed in me.

And the baby smelled like poop.

On Maturation, Pt. 2

I told L to abandon everything and “HURRY UP!”

It was 10:30 pm.

On our way to the hospital, two miles away, at the first road light I realized my contractions were two minutes apart.

This is where my thinking about the past/future/anything else besides the exact moment I was in stopped. In mental health we call this being “mindful.” It is a good thing.

At the second road light I realized I had forgotten my ID. L offered to turn back. “NO WAY!”

Turning into the hospital campus L asked me if he should drop me off at the South Tower’s front door or park in the four-story parking structure with me. “DROP ME OFF!”

The doors were locked and I had to sit down for a minute. I rang the doorbell. The security guy asked what I wanted (wasn’t it obvious?). “I’m in labor.” He let me in. I got to the elevator just as Luke came running into the building. We traveled to the third floor—Triage.

At the intake counter I attempted to check in by sobbing out, “I forgot my ID.” “It’s alright, honey.” The stout desk worker said in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n. They had me sign a million things, which I did. They made me wait a million minutes for a nurse to come and get me, which I did. I also commented, “You should really have chairs here.” through tears and the stout worker said, “We really don’t want people to wait here.” Too bad, I already had my body draped over the counter and was refusing to move.

The Triage nurse, Satan, asked me to sit on a hospital bed in the smallest curtained-off quarters I’ve ever seen. There, she began asking me millions of questions I had already answered by pre-registering. I didn’t say so, though, because it felt like the contractions were coming every minute. So, that’s what I said. She, in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n , hooked me up to fetal monitors and to contraction monitors. L began insisting she call anesthesia for my epidural. She refused by saying something about needing blood work. L requested she call anesthesia no less than five times—“She’s going to go quick,” he said.

I couldn’t breath. I thought I was going to throw up. I couldn’t sit there and so I held myself up by arms. L rummaged around in a cart and gave me the sickly pink half moon barf receptacle.

A certified nurse midwife came and did an ultra sound without saying much, unless I don’t remember.

L helped me undress and re-dress in a hospital gown—the ones with snaps on the shoulders and open backs. He stuffed my stuff, including a novel (ironic), into a hospital bag.

Finally, another nurse came with a wheelchair and told me if I needed her to stop to just tell her. I needed her to stop once on the way to the delivery room. I hung onto the handrail on the wall through that contraction.

In the delivery room L began requesting anesthesia again. One of his upper classmates came in and I felt hugely relieved. Anesthesia, sweet anesthesia! He got to see all sorts of my parts throughout his short stay with me…should I be embarrassed if I see him again? He informed us that we had to wait for the Anesthesiologist. Damn him.

The nurses were putting an IV in which they did poorly much to L’s contempt. Then another nurse had to draw blood from the other arm because the IV was in poorly. She did this poorly as well seeming how it gave me a seven-inch bruise.

Suddenly a girl was bending down and talking to me. Who was this? Much later I realized she was a resident. When did the attending show up, Dr. Ziff? I’m not sure, but sure enough as I began to push he was down there too, with Dr. Iglar (the resident).

The portly Anesthesiologist finally made his presence. He began his speech, during which he sounded soooo bored that it was clear he has said these same things no less than one million times. L helped me swing my legs to the side of the bed and I bent over. The Anesthesiologist began swabbing my spine....

I bore down.

On Maturation, Pt.1

I spent the entire 10 weeks, seven appointments, pleading with my obstetrician over issues like epidurals (getting one ASAP), induction (could I please be induced ASAP), and the size of the fetus I was carrying (me: it is HUGE versus them: it is small).

There were other issues like insurance to figure out.

There were other health concerns like anemia and dehydration and poor weight gain to manage.

There were mental health problems, too, to work through like a depressed two year-old and trying to personally adapt to an entirely new reality.

There was a home/lifestyle/friends/clients to mourn.

There was healing occurring—one person from a serious spider bite and one other person from a decade of contentious relationships.

There was a house to unpack, arrange, and clean.

There were friends to make. And they had to be really good friends with whom we could trust our child.

There were neighbors to meet, church members to meet.

There was navigating the metro area: finding new places, finding a grocery store and a bank.

I hated every minute of it. Except the cider mill, the apple orchard, the parades, and the neighbor’s fire pit (and if I’m being honest this popcorn someone made at a crafting event I attended).

On the first day of week 39 the generally disagreeable obstetrician agreed to “strip my membranes.” I took Hip to a birthday party in the park after that. It was hot and I was uncomfortable but when hadn’t I been over the course of nearly a year? Each day, except Monday, that week I had serious and consistent contractions that lasted two to four hours. They always stopped.

The contractions were strong, now that I look back on it, Tuesday evening. I took several walks around the neighborhood that day.

Waking up with the sun Wednesday morning I committed to several accomplishments including grocery shopping, pumpkin shopping, house cleaning, healthy meal preparing, and Toddler Time at the library.

And we would walk the two mile round trip.

We left early and picked out several books and DVDs for Hip. Then Hip had to go potty and he peed all over the library’s family restroom. Seriously, it was everywhere. As we headed into the library’s activity room Avery’s mom, who thinks I’m cool for some reason, asked me how I was feeling. Without control over my apparent rage, I threw my purse onto the closest table and proclaimed, “Perfectly fine! Harumph!” Several ladies looked at me sideways and scooted their children further away nervously. Other ladies, who know me, laughed and offered encouragement. I must have looked pathetic that day because no less than three people offered me a ride home. I refused, and pushed Hip home. One mile.

I accomplished all I had set out to do that day.

It began to rain, hard, that afternoon. When we went to Whole Foods I realized we had only ever gone to Whole Foods on rainy days.

During dinner, contractions started again. This was usual and I paid little attention. Hip went to bed without issue. I began to watch Tivo’d television.

Contractions began to hurt, but not so bad that I had tears. I enjoyed, though slightly distracted, the shows. The contractions were not consistent—some four minutes apart, some nine.

Around 9:00 pm I noticed that the contractions were certainly getting stronger. I began texting my sister-in-law about how to know you’re in labor. She told me I was in labor but I didn’t believe her. I began discussing whether I was in labor or not with L. At 10:00 pm, at L’s insistence, I called the on-call number to my obstetrician’s office. The on-call doctor, not my doctor, called me back and said that I may or may not be in labor but there was no reason I should not head to the hospital to be checked. She said, “If they send you home, at least you know.” I liked her immediately and wished she was my doctor. She even indicated that she would have been willing to induce me.

My anxiety began to spike over what to do with Hip, who was sleeping peacefully. My decision to not go to the hospital was entirely founded on worrying about Hip. What would we do with him? Who could watch him? Who did we trust to watch over him? Should we wake him up? Should we take him with us? Would he be scared if he woke up without us?

After I hung up with the on-call doctor I had a very painful contraction—tears. But as soon as it was over it no longer hurt. I told L that I thought we should go to the hospital because my labor/delivery plan included avoiding pain and here I was having pain. Unfortunately I had not showered in a long time. L agreed to take the baby monitor to the neighbors (so they could monitor Hip without coming over here) while I showered and then we would go to the hospital. Once in the bathroom, 15 feet away from where I was sitting, I found myself on my hands and knees on the bathtub floor unable to stand. Realizing that a shower was going to be impossible I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, during a now short break in contractions, to put my clothes on. Everything was taking too long. I felt urgent.

All Natural

This is what you look like after you accidentally give birth with no pain relief to an eight and a half pound infant (who the doctor was predicting was going to be sub-average in weight).

F.S. H. born 10/14/10

12:47 am

8 lbs 11 oz*

20 inches

F is calm, loving/snuggly, and manages loud noises (aka "Hip") well. He likes to eat and sleep. He likes a pacifier. He really likes his mommy which is a good thing all things considered.

*There seems to be confusion on whether F was 8 lbs 8 oz or 8 lbs 11 oz. He was 8 lbs 10 oz at the pediatricians office on Monday and so the latter is the case since it is rare a newborn will gain 5 oz in just a few days.

Erwin Orchard

Hip running with his frenemy after the tractor dropped us off.

Hip picking Red Delicious apples.

Hip admiring his find.

Hip and his neighborhood friends.

Me in hell.

Detroit Metro is Soooo Cool

Check this parody out about Detroit Metro suburban living:

http://www.myfoxdetroit.com/dpp/news/the_edge/shelby-township-native-lambasts-his-hometown-in-web-video

Whole Foods, Mac & Cheese, and Red Raspberry Leaf Tea

Hip is sick for the third time since we moved to Michigan. It's no wonder considering how stressed he has been over his/our life changes and the fact that every single one of his friends has been sick in the past three weeks. We've stayed indoors for the most part and did not go anywhere yesterday so he could heal and rest.

This morning, after a long night of Hip not sleeping much he seemed to be feeling quite a bit better. An hour after he woke up I asked him if he felt up to going to Whole Foods and I explained to him it is a grocery store. Hip loves to grocery shop and he quickly agreed this was something he would very much like to do today.

I spent the next hour or so doing some household chores and had forgotten about going to Whole Foods because it was raining quite hard and I figured I probably should not take Hip out in the rain. The rain here is like Oregon rain and even though I like the memories that come with it, I hate getting wet to do the simplest task like check the mail or take the garbage out.

Becoming impatient with my dilly-dallying Hip came to find me. We had the following conversation:

Hip: Mom, I'm sick and I need medicine.

Me: You don't have a fever anymore and so we'll wait to see if you need more medicine.

Hip: Mom, we need to go to Whole Foods.

Me: I'm not sure if we should go because it is raining and you've been sick.

Hip: We need to go to Whole Foods and buy Mac and Cheese.

Me: We have Mac and Cheese here and I don't think you would like the kind they sell.

Hip: I want to go to Whole Foods Mo-om.

Me: Well okay, go get ready to go.

I wanted to go to Whole Foods in the first place to get Red Raspberry Leaf Tea which helps "tone the uterus" and can help labor go quickly and smoothly supposedly, as all herbal remedies go.

When we got to Whole Foods Hip insisted we find some Mac and Cheese. So I promised him I would make him some for lunch, some we have at home already. At the herbal tea section, which was packed with all 10 patrons, I began my search. If you would like a hearty selection of herbal teas hit up your local Whole Foods, seriously. It took me 20 minutes to find it, scanning the shelves and shelves and shelves of tea. While Hip patiently, only because he is under the weather, waited he made a friend with another little girl who was maybe 4 years-old. After the toddler introductions were made this is the conversation:

Little Girl: I'm getting a snack. Do you want a snack?

Hip: Yes I do! Mo-om, I want a snack.

Me: That's just great.

Little Girl: You're cute. Are you cute?

Hip: Yep.

Little Girl: What do you want for a snack?

Hip: Mac and Cheese.

Little Girl, to me: You should get him a snack.

Me: Okay, I'll make sure to do that.

Five minutes later:

Store worker: Oh, your going to have your hands full soon. That is I hope soon.

Me: Yep, that's what I'm doing here (pointing to the only items in my cart, 2 boxes of tea).

Store worker: Oh?

Me: I'm trying to cheat nature.

Store worker: Oh (looking concerned).

Hip: Baby needs to come out!

And I laughed as I walked away realizing that my comment was truly offensive in a place like Whole Foods.

Walking the final few aisles of the store we came upon some samples: baguette, the best tortilla chips I've ever tasted and almost bought until I realized a small bag cost $7, apple cider, crackers and brie. Hip ate everything happily and loved the cheese, which was surprisingly sharp/spicy--and delicious--as bries go. I wondered if my monthly WIC cheese allotment would cover brie...and was happy that I was able to keep my promise to the little girl about getting Hip a snack.

***

Later in the day I returned a phone call to my health plan. They needed to do a pregnancy screening questionnaire over the phone with me and one of the questions was, "Is the father involved?"

Me: Yes

Lady: Do you feel he is supportive of you and your emotional needs?

Me, after a loooooooooooong pause: Well yes. I certainly have my complaints but I have made them VERY clear to him already.

Lady, laughing very hard: That's good!

Seriously, why do they ask questions like this? Can you really please a woman, let alone a pregnant woman in the emotional needs compartment? Especially if you are a male and are the pregnant woman's husband? Especially if you just moved your pregnant woman and child across the country resulting in selling her beloved home and leaving her lovely career and her dear friends? Especially if that cross-country move resulted in the emotional breakdown of the existing child? Especially if the woman had to move twice in said pregnancy? Especially if she is required to make new friends where there are few things she hates more than socializing? Especially if she is a therapist and emotional needs are a pretty important discussion point to her?

I could go on and on and on about needing to change doctors, accepting the destruction/damage of many of my belongings in the process of moving, and having to change my financial lifestyle so significantly that I can hardly recognize this new life as actually being mine...

BUT, I found my emotional-thought response to the question endearing because I no longer feel traumatized by any of it and I am glad I have the insight to know that I am emotionally needy at this point in life and that is my issue to work out, not anyone else's.

HOWEVER, I know L will read this and try and use the above paragraph against me in our next battle of the wills and so I will add this to deter him: there is a lot he can do to help the situation and I will continue to make those things VERY clear to him:)

***

P.S. You should have seen the meat selections at Whole Foods. B-E-A-U-T-I-F-F-U-L. Maybe someday...

And the cheeses were awesome too.

Today's Highlights

This morning Hip told me, "I want to watch Sponge Bob."

This mid-morning Hip told me, "I want to go swim in the toilet."

I have spent approximately 13% of the day in public with my barn door open.

I have had 4 conversations about my pregnancy with perfect strangers today.

I came down with my third sinus infection in 36 weeks.

L had his first day in the Operating Room and says it was a success.

"Libraries will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times with no libraries." Anne Herber

Beautiful

After Relief Society today a young woman I have not yet met, maybe 21 years-old, approached me and said, "You are the most beautiful pregnant woman I've ever seen. You know, most pregnant women get all fat and then their cheeks get fat and it's not very pretty anymore."

Besides when people at the gym ask me if I am a trainer, I've never been more flattered. I should have had L snap a photo of me today to post but I forgot. Since Freud says there are no accidents, maybe I don't quite believe the young woman...

Some Call It Dumpster Diving

We call it, "Being Resourceful."

The neighbors call it, "Curbside Specials."

While driving down 12 mile the other day I spotted this on the curb and began begging L to turn around. Several of Hip's friends have similar "Cozy Coupes" to this one which he loves, but being a fire truck made this one very special.

As an outsider when you see things out on the curbside in Detroit you may think, "Oh, the family that lives there accidentally left that item there." Insiders know, however, that this is no accident and the item(s) are up for grabs. You just gotta get em before the trash collectors.

I used my extraordinary powers of convincing and negotiating to get L to pull up to the house, knock, and ask if it really was there for trash pick up. (L admitted later that his anxiety level was a ten doing this--mine would have only been a five)

Luck was with us, and sure enough the fire truck was ours to take! I've never seen L throw open the hatch back so quickly.

On closer examination the fire truck is indeed well worn and used. A quick trip to Mommy's car wash and then to Daddy's mechanic shop cleaned it up quite nicely, Hip says. I sheepishly admitted to how we happened upon the fire truck to the neighbors who in turn gave me high fives for getting an awesome deal. The one neighbor said her girls scouted it out first thing in the morning asking her, "Where did Hip get that fire truck? Can we go over and play with it?"

Later in the week I found a lawn spreader while on a walk. I was super tempted to haul it home to see if it worked but my better judgement (?) told me to keep walking.

We May Have Made A Big Mistake

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(I don't know why this is so grainy)

I actually thought he would look cute. I began tearing up when I realized I was terribly wrong, after L's first few clipper swipes off the top. Fortunately when we lifted him up to the mirror to check himself out he loved it! He pranced around the house the rest of the day like Narcissus.

Here are the top three white-trash hair do's:

1. The mullet, of course

2. The rat tail

3. Shaved head

How could I have not had the foresight? It's like Detroit is already altering my better judgement.

Godforsaken

I've been breaking one of my cardinal rules, "Do Not Watch the News".

I figure if I watch the local news then I can get to know the Detroit area/culture/lifestyle, which has been true.

Unfortunately, local news is not just depressing here in Detroit, it is horrifying. A couple of weeks ago it was reported that a man's body parts were found strewn across an East Detroit neighborhood. About a week ago a teenager stabbed and killed a peer; the perpetrator's mother said the violence was warranted. Yesterday, after school on the first day of the school year, two high school students were shot by another student after an argument. This week would be the Michigan State Fair but it has been shut down due to major funding issues. Yesterday dozens of fires broke out in Detroit's city limits. Due to budget constraints fire fighters and trucks have been cut back recently and therefore there were not enough resources to adequately fight these fires. The reporter interviewed very tearful residents of a neighborhood that lost at least 9 homes. This particular fire started small, says a tearful middle-aged man, and numerous 9-1-1 calls failed to produce help. High winds swept the fire throughout the entire block. It took fire fighters one hour to get there, after the neighborhood was lost. The reporter ends the story by stating that this particular fire district lost at least one truck and 3 fire fighters taken out of commission that day.

Equally shocking was how one of the other fires in the city allegedly started: from illegal power use. Several residents in a Detroit neighborhood noticed two men, the other day, re-routing electrical power lines (apparently it is common to steal power around these parts). They called the power company to report this and got hostile responses, including one woman was told if she called again they (the power company) would charge her a service fee!? Days later, yesterday, a major fire broke out as a result of the live wire.

Our neighborhood is now concerned because across the street there is a power pole in the back corner of a lot which is slanting terribly, toward two homes in which three small children live, and is popping regularly. The two households have called the power company numerous times over the last several days with promises to send a technician but with no follow through.

What is wrong with this place?

***

P.S. (9/8/10) In a news report tonight Detroit's Fire Commissioner stated the city needs at least 200-300 more fire fighters to safely maintain the city. Further, approximately 60 districts have been closed all due to Detroit's financial crisis which has spanned a decade now.

The Good

We have found some really good things in Michigan. Today we found the Franklin Cider Mill, and its annual Labor Day Parade and Arts Festival. We've heard talk about the mills in the area and the cider since my first trip to Michigan in June.

This experience rivals a trip to Tillamook Cheese Factory because you get to see the water wheel, the pressing of apples, and of course samples! Oh the smell of pressed apples, freshly baked apple pie/bread, and apple spiced donuts frying!

The water wheel is used to power the press

I am explaining to Hip that this is a water wheel used to create power to make really good food like apple cider and donuts. This made him very excited.

Pressing the apples

(That is not a plumber's crack, even though it looks like it)

A parade can make my entire summer. A tractor in a parade can make Hip and L's entire summer.

I like this picture of Hip watching the parade. When he is bored he will often ask to go to a parade.

The world stops turning once Hip spots a fire truck. He begged the fire fighters to sit in the trucks and he also got a fire fighter hat.

Police horses are also really cool, but not quite as cool as fire trucks.

Hip fell into an exhausted sleep, finally, after the parade and festivities and after dumping the contents of his drawers onto the floor and after getting into trouble for kicking his bedroom door for 15 minutes straight.

Hip is still holding the balloon he was given at the cider mill five minutes before bed--he attempted to eat with it as well as played with it all waking hours this afternoon. When he refused to allow me to tie it to his wrist at the parade I showed him a balloon floating away and told him that the kid who lost that is really really sad. He didn't let go of it all day! And when he saw several floating away he exclaimed, "Oh no! A kid is sooo sad!"

We have found other really amazing things around the Detroit metro area in addition to the cider mill. We've had a really good time exploring and finding treasures. We've discovered the local library, parks, lakes, cheap movie theaters, etc. Keep posted.

WIC Made DHS Seem Like the CK

The Celestial Kingdom, that is.

I thought I had hit rock bottom last Thursday at DHS, but my appointment with WIC today proved one can go even lower than insane nightmares may suggest.

It all started with an intake worker requesting proof of my pregnancy...........................? "What would constitute proof," I finally asked after a very long pause and a puzzled look on my face failed to extract a response from her. "We usually need an ultrasound.....................but I guess I can go off of a visual confirmation."

If Oakland County WIC is hell than the dietitian known as Lorna is Satan. She noted in Hip's chart that he "has a diet issue" and "is at risk to be overweight." She noted in my chart that I am irresponsibly "anemic." These notations were made after she severely rebuked me over those issues in addition to thoroughly lecturing me about breast feeding, proper portion size while gesturing her head toward Hip every couple of minutes, proper consumption of fiber, and not allowing Hip to consume unpasteurized cheese (we like feta in our house, and unfortunately admitted to it).

While she lectured me Hip opened and slammed shut the metal cupboards over and over and over and over, he refused to play with any of the assorted toys or books I brought, he refused to play with the one toy provided in the exam room, he refused to sit in my lap, he screamed and yelled, he demanded, "Mommy, look at me" while climbing up into the window sills and then onto the desk, he pushed the "emergency" button calling the police to the room, he fooled around with Lorna's computer and mouse and papers, he tried to escape the room and when he failed he hit me. And yelled that he was "hungry" and he begged for "candy" or "a treat" every 45 seconds until Lorna said haughtily, "You shouldn't ask a dietitian for those things." He earned 3 time outs in the longest 20 minutes of my life. In response to what I think is pretty typical two-year old behavior after having waited through nearly a two hour process and a finger prick iron test, Lorna became agitated with Hip. Lorna made it VERY clear she was more than annoyed and did not try to hide her thoughts of severe judgement of us.

Then she offered me a nurse to come to our home. "For what purpose?" I asked with genuine interest. "To help you and your family," she answered vaguely. "I don't see a real reason why that would be helpful to my family but thank you for offering," I replied still trying. "Well, we have to offer it to everyone, you know the government makes it free," she said snidely making me suspect she hates everyone she meets in her job and that she may be the next Unabomber. She could have stopped there and I would have already felt stripped of all of my dignity and pride but then she added almost as an afterthought, "And you seem high functioning enough."

I've never been stabbed before but I imagine the emotions are similar to what I felt as this comment cascaded upon my consciousness. "High functioning enough" is code for, "it's evident you are not mentally retarded" and I know this because this is a P.C. phrase I use when writing up mental health assessments to be read only by other mental health professionals. I WOULD NEVER SAY SOMETHING LIKE THIS TO THE HUMAN BEING AS IT IS PATRONIZING, JUDGMENTAL, AND CRUEL. And "enough" made me feel as if I barely passed. My pride told me to throw my credentials in her face and evidence that though Hip may be porky he is intellectually brilliant, but my common sense told me to shut the hell up.

So I blinked back tears of rage? of humiliation? I really don't know what to call that feeling. I do know two things: I felt more pathetic than I've ever felt before and I felt more compassion for the poor and under-privileged than ever (and I have a lot of compassion for the poor and under-privileged).

The wounds to my pride may never heal but at least Hip and I will share 7 gallons of milk and 72 oz. of dry cereal per month. L cannot eat any of it, they made me sign.