Leg Driving

In this day and age of skypes, tweets, twats, and whatever newfangled technology is around the corner for instant communication, I feel compelled to enter an area of virgin territory: blogging EXTREME-style. Let me explain.

You see, I received the most perfectly poured medium hot regular from Dunkies while on Friday morning and became overcome with inspiration. Oftentimes while driving, too many good ideas seem to evaporate from my head before I get the chance to sit down at a computer. Not this time, though. I decided to write a running diary of my stream of consciousness – while driving. Note to the life insurer where my application is pending: I promise this was only a one-time thing. Here we go…

After witnessing an old lady disapprovingly wag her index finger at the car in front of me as it ran a red light, I wondered if AM/FM radio would still be a standard feature in cars by the time my little Gigi is old enough to drive. My job requires a lot of driving so I have very strong opinions on radio surfing. For example, I rarely ever keep a station on during commercials. Television ads are terrible, but radio ads are abysmal. Can’t handle them. Add coffee to the equation and my patience is nonexistent.

On this particular day, I was driving from New Bedford. While merging onto Route 140, I decided to start from the beginning – the 80’s of course. Considering the area, it was unsurprising that most of these stations were in Portugese. Lots of words ending in “oosh” and “gow.” Cool, but I need tunes. SEEK. Let the diary begin.

Pink. The song about her divorce. She irritates me but kinda intrigues me at the same time. I imagine sex with her involves crashing into a lot of things in the room. Not sure why. SEEK.

Ray Lamontagne. Great musician. Depressing, though. He kinda makes you want to drink a bottle of whiskey and cry yourself to sleep. I need something different. SEEK. Commercials. SEEK. More commercials. SEEK.

John Lennon. Imagine. Of course Easy 99.1 nailed it. Their motto: “Yesterday’s easy. Today’s easy. Enough said.” Damn right, enough said. Lennon and Hemingway are always the people I say when focus group screeners ask me if I could have dinner with any 2 people in the world, who would it be? I love The Beatles, but I’m not too fond of McCartney. When is the last time he put out a new song that was relevant? Ebony & Ivory? Say, Say, Say? If Lennon was alive today, are you telling me he wouldn’t be cranking out redonkulous collaborations with Jay-Z, Jack White, or Britney? Ok maybe not Britney.

New song. The Commodores. Night shift. This song always makes me a little sad when I hear that part: “Marvin … you were a friend of mine.” Speaking of collaborations, could you imagine Marvin Gaye with Timbaland or Usher? What a shame.

New song. I think it’s Bob Seger and I think it’s called “We’ve got tonight.” For some reason, this song reminds me of Family Ties. I think Alex Keaton and his girlfriend slow danced to it in a climactic love scene. Man, you gotta love the 80’s – and Easy 99.1, for that matter. I’m singing the back-up melody part (“I know it’s late, I know you’re weary. WEARY.”) when suddenly my tires hit the breakdown lane markers. Whoops! Okay I’m back in my lane.

New song. Michael McDonald. Ahhhhh! IMMEDIATE SEEK.

Eventually we land on another ringer. Magic 106.7. Sir Elton. Tiny Dancer. Jackpot. My favorite part hasn’t happened yet. To be fair, EJ hasn’t put out anything lately that’s relevant either. Does musical creativity die when musicians hit their 40’s? Wait, here it comes. “Softly … Slowly. HOLD ME CLOSER, tiny daaan-cer. Something, something on the highway.” Of course my thoughts drift to Penny Lane in Almost Famous. Kate Hudson is pretty hot. But she doesn’t make my top 5 fave actors. 1. Meryl Streep. (The best.) 2. Gary Oldman. (Human chameleon.) 3. Viggo Mortensen. (I’ve got a man crush on this dude and it has nothing to do with his full frontal scene in Eastern Promises.) 4. Jeffrey Wright. (He will win an Oscar once he gets a proper lead role.) 5. Brendan Fraser. (Joking. I’d rather get punched in the face than see a movie with him in it.) Commercial. SEEK.

Kiss 108. Good song. “Speed of Light” I think by Chris Brown the wife beater. I’m doing my patented shoulder shimmy shake dance move. This song might’ve been on So You Think You Can Dance. Can’t wait for the next season. New song now. “My-my-my-my poker face, my-my poker face.”

Commercial. Now off to the world of AM, which rocks for four reasons. Number one - live sports. Nothing on today, but I love listening to baseball on the radio. It soothes me. No games on at this hour.

Number two - WBZ 1030’s traffic on the 3s. I want to know what it’s like to be paid to ride in a helicopter to broadcast about Boston’s traffic, which is exactly the same every single day. “93 southbound, you’re backed up all the way to the Schraft building. 93 northbound, you’re crawling until the Gas Tank and then speed picks up to 5 miles per hour. Pike eastbound, you’re basically stopped from the Weston tolls onward. This is Joe Morgan in the Commerce Insurance COP-terrrr.”

Number three – sports talk. The wife hates it when we listen to any sports radio so this is primarily a solitary activity. I love Dale & Holley. I also enjoy this random degenerate gambling show where prognosticators predict spreads and best bets. It’s hilarious. I tolerate Mike & Mike (they kiss everyone’s ass) and Colin Cowherd (he knows everything so don’t bother disagreeing). I despise Dennis & Callahan (focus on sports, stay out of politics) and the Whiner Line.

Number four – news. NPR (actually on FM) and WBZ give me most of my news. I love BBC News Hour, especially. Something about listening to speakers with UK accents makes me feel smarter.

I don’t listen to the buzz kill otherwise known as talk radio. Rush Limbaugh, Laura Ingram, and Howie Carr are the kids you know from back in grade school who talk over everyone else in the room and raise their voices when someone dares to disagree. They have all the answers because they can speak louder than you. I don’t know why they don’t just run for office and fix all of our problems. Oh yeah, because they’d never get elected or succeed in running our country. It’s easier to just sit back, declare provocative opinions for notoriety, armchair quarterback the elected officials actually doing real work, and never be subject to any standard of performance except ratings.

Anyway, I’m feeling like I need music again. I just passed the Gas Tank (actually going 50 m.p.h.) so I’m nearing the home stretch. Nice! Kelly Clarkson. What is it about her music that makes you want to do aerobics with sweat bands and hand weights? (Pat, you know what I’m talking about!) “My life … would suck … without you.” How romantic.

Okay, the caffeine’s beginning to wane. I’ve completed my EXTREME-blog experience. I hope you made it this far. If not, I understand. Any other road trippers with strong opinions on radio surfing? As one of my sports radio shows say, “And we gone.”

Road Tripping 1985 style

Back in the day, my parents bought a used, dark green Chevy Impala that functioned as the family car for the times that it was operational. (They later upgraded to a brand new Chevy Celebrity station wagon when my dad got tired of tinkering with the Green Machine.) Whether we were rolling in the Holla, Impala or the wagon, Grizz usually equipped the roof with a complicated assortment of bungee cords, tarps, and duct tape in order to maximize the storage space for all of our stuff. You see, Thule racks were either not yet existent or a cost that was never to be considered.

Mom manned the front passenger seat and the navigation system: a road atlas and handwritten notes of directions provided by our intended host over the phone. "After you get off the highway, turn left. You'll go straight through 4 or 5 traffic lights before turning right near the McDonald's. Drive until you see a big red barn and we'll have balloons tied to a mailbox. That's our place." Don't forget, no GPS, OnStar, or mapquest. No fast lane either, for that matter.

If we missed the turn at McD's or drove past the balloons because it was dark (about 95% of the time for my family), then we had to circle back to a place where we could find a pay phone. And to find change because calling cards were a creature of the 90's. While Manhattan stock brokers carried cellular phones the size of a briefcase, that technology had not reached "Main Street USA."

No, I'm not going all Grandpa Simpson on you. "Back in my day, we ate glass for breakfast - and liked it!" It just amazes me how technology completely tweaks the dynamics of a family road trip. For instance, what clan of 5 today rolls together in a sedan with just two rows of seats AND a baby seat to boot? I can't even remember how many times I got my arm stuck behind that baby seat trying to annoy the crap out of my brother.

The lease on our Civic ends this November. While we consider our own family truckster of the future, one important question has arisen. Do we go with or without the in-car TV/DVD player? Truth be told, I flip-flop with this question as much as whether I like or hate Kanye West. (The Billy Ocean/Eddie Murphy "My Girl Wants to Party All the Time" 80s shades are sweet but his live performances kind of freak me out lately.)

The purists say screw the TV/DVD. What ever happened to "Eye Spy with my Little Eye" and the 50 state license plate game? What about "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and the like? Or even better, what about just talking with your kids?

The realists, I imagine, will invoke Bo Jackson: "Just do it." Who cares if you find yourself humming an Elmo song on your way to work because it played 300 times during a weekend family trip? The kids weren't melting down and you drove the family safely there and back without having to assault any of them. Just kidding - making sure you're still with me.

So, I turn it over to you folks. You don't have to be a parent, or even own a car for that matter, but I am particularly interested in hearing from those with little ones. Also, any fond or not so fond memories of childhood family road trips? If you're weighing in on the TV/DVD debate, please also disclose if your truckster is a wagon, SUV, or God forbid a mini-van.

I'm off to pack for our drive to Cahvah. Hey Clark, can you loan me some bungee cords because the trunk can't hold our pack-in-play with its changing station and bassinette, 2 strollers, diaper bag, breast pump bag, bottle bag, clothes, toys, blankets...

Idears on an Accent

For some to hear the pronunciation of a word like "whatevER" as "whatevAH" simply means you're probably in a familiah bah drinkin' Cawz Lights with wicked cool shits. To othahs, the sound of a place called "Clarke's" pronounced as "Claaahks" may cause confusion or perhaps even cringing as if hearing nails on a chaulkboard. For me, the worse the Mass. accent, the more entahtainin', I mean - entertaining.

While the substitution of "ah" for "er" is well documented and understood in the Massachusetts-version of spoken English, there are other common tendencies in a Masshole's speaking patterns that don't get as much air play but are necessary to complete the full package. For instance, think of the word "bathroom." Clearly, there is no "er" in there to be butchered into an "ah." Howevah, some Massholes (especially old school ones) pronounce this word as if they were a member of the English royalty. Don't believe me? Okay, imagine you're at a cookout (barbecues don't exist in the Bay State) thrown by one of your friend's parents who grew up in the Boston area.

Guest: Excuse me, I need to use the facilities.

Friend's Mom/Dad: Oh, okay. Um, walk down the hall, turn right, and the bahhhthroom is the second door to the left.

"Bahhhthroom? Where the hell did that come from?" you might think. A minute ago, that parent just pronounced "corn on the cob" as a "cawnahcob" yet here they are busting out some kind of cockney accent to describe the lavatory. Trust me, I've heard Massholes pronounce that word this way and I have no idea how or why. They may even shorten it to "the bahhhth." Oh yeah, when you're getting ready to leave the party and discard of your empty Solo cup, that same parent will direct you to the "rubbish bin" instead of a garbage can.

The last observation of Masshole-speak is inspired by my daughter's name. While we know by now that an "er" is replaced by an "ah," what about a word that ends in "a" or "ah"? The answer: just do the opposite and substitute "er." Example - assuming we still live at East 3rd in Southie 15 years from now, Sully from down the block will not call our house looking for Greta. Instead, that little punk ass will ask for "Gretter." If I anwered the phone call, I'd either promptly hang up or tell Sully he "bettah not have any idears about getting frisky with my daughtah."

Why am I going on such a tangent about this? The answer - Hollywood. Next time a movie is set in Massachusetts and the producer or director wants one of its characters to sound like a native, DO NOT take lessons from any of the following:

- Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. Was he going for Australian or Bostonian?
- Kevin Costner in Thirteen Days. I think Mayor Quimby is a better representation of the accent than Costner's Kenny O'Donnell.
- Diane Lane in The Perfect Storm. She gets fewer minus points due to her uber-cougar status, but man her accent sucked in this movie.

(Don't even get me started on the Irish accents of Tommy Lee Jones in Backdraft or Richard Gere in The Jackal - or better yet, the Russian accents of Sean Connery in Hunt for Red October or Harrison Ford in his submarine movie.)

Now prove to me that more than 3 people read this blog. Click on the comment link below and tell me your favorite Masshole words/expressions, or your candidate for the "Bad Actor's Accent Hall of Fame." You don't have to identify yourself - anonymous is just as good. If you don't want to, whatevah...

Ireland's Gift to My Family

My Grandma Kirk used to call me "pet" when I was a little boy. The memory warms my heart. If something made me cry like my brother breathing on my side of the back seat, she might say, "What is it pet?" in a sweet voice that still hinted of her Dublin roots. Obviously, I wasn't the only pet of her seven grandchildren, but I relish that I was first.

Grandma's wit often escaped me as a child such as when she'd say "You're in the will!" after I did something to amuse her. I always thought it was some kind of Irish saying that meant "Good job!"

Even as a 20 year-old, Grandma's humor flew over my head. We were on a vacation together (known as "Kirkfests") when I was off socializing with some ladies. At some point later, I rejoined our family and Grandma asked innocently "Chasing the birds, Denny?" My literal interpretation of her comment must have been apparent in my facial expression because she politely explained that she wasn't talking about the birds that fly.

Grandma and Grandpa never miss a birthday, a Christmas, or any other important event without at least a card and a gift. Never. Ask Grandma if she's ever attended any of her grandchildren's graduations and she could probably lead the band in "Pomp and Circumstance."

Recently, my aunt relayed a story to me that she and Grandma were at the beauty salon when a conversation arose about whether she had any great grandchildren. If I remember correctly, her lighthearted response was something like "Why do you think I've been holding on?"

A few hours after Greta Jane was born, I called Grandma to tell her that her new title was official: she was a great grandmother. She gleefully exclaimed that our little Gigi would have to call her "G.G." It was a special and private moment for me.

Pauline Cullen Kirk passed away peacefully yesterday in the warm company and thoughts of her loved ones. My grandmother's warmth, wit, thoughtfulness, and generosity are only a few of the indelible impressions she left on me just by being herself. I will miss her dearly. But rather than dwell on the sadness accompanying her departure, I choose instead to focus on the happiness of her presence.

Two weeks ago, we shared our last special moment when I introduced Grandma to her great granddaughter. On any given day, the situation may not have been particularly significant from the perspective of a passerby: an elderly woman holding a newborn child. But in those precious few minutes, I didn't care about anything else in the world. And for that, I am so grateful to G.G. that she waited to see us before she moved on. We love you Grandma. Rest in peace.

Part III: The End Is Just The Beginning

Like all new parents, you can imagine how we breathed a sigh of relief when the doctors confirmed that Greta was not a hermaphrodite. What? Other parents don't normally have that fear? Sorry - moving on. (The Discovery Channel is normally great television, except when you catch an episode about sexual reassignment surgeries a few weeks before your first child's birth date.)

Friday Night Lights was kind of lame this week. The family lives of Buddy Garrity and Jason Street just don't interest me. Thus, in lieu of FNL, Michelle will torture me with an episode of the brutally painful Brothers and Sisters. Looks like I'll skip directly to the writing and wear my iPod - but don't worry, I'll tell you when the Walkers have their family cookout to conveniently solve all of the episode's problems and everyone hugs.

Our crash courses in parenthood kicked off hours into our baby's first day of life. Greta baptised me with a golden shower during our first diaper change. What a sense of humor! Anyway, I was actually psyched to experience firsthand that meconium really doesn't smell. I was convinced that any spawn of my loins would be incapable to taking anything but smelly dumps. I pondered this miracle of odorless poo for about 3 seconds until Gigi turned on the fountains.

Breast feeding for the first time was also a blast. My understanding had always been that when the boob comes out, I kick back. Not according to our first nurse, though. She instructed me to massage the mammary glands and assist with the flow of colostrum as she jammed Greta's mouth open and clamped it onto Michelle's areola. Normally, I wouldn't hesitate at the opportunity to massage a breast but it wasn't exactly fun when this nurse was hovering over my shoulder explaining how I was doing it wrong. Hey lady, I don't need you to add a new level to my performance anxiety okay?

(Michelle is crying for the first time during Brothers & Sisters. That must mean we're only 20 minutes into the episode.)

One last thing that no one warned me about before going into the hospital - all of the unsolicited and conflicting advice that nurses and other armchair quarterbacks volunteer that may disturb the new parent's already fragile psyche. For example, our decision to supplement breast milk with formula was met with a disdainful look by one of our nurses. We apparently weren't trying hard enough with the breast feeding.

Even pacifiers proved divisive! Naysayers predicted doom, gloom, and nipple confusion. Fortunately, these incidents were isolated as we encountered only a few rotten apples. Plus, the joy that we experienced in the simplest of moments with our new daughter (listening to her quick breaths as she slept peacefully, smelling that unmistakably beautiful scent of a baby, those tiny toes and fingers! - the list goes on) was invigorating.

Meanwhile, my patience waned with every day of our stay. Nurses, doctors, lactation consultants, administrators, and baby paraphernalia peddlers barged into the room incessantly. All of my meals for a week came from a vending machine or the food court next door. Plus, the hospital quietly dares any partner to complain about the ridiculously uncomfortable pull-out chairs used for their sleeping.

Okay, I admit that these inconveniences were nothing compared to ejecting an 8-plus pound baby through mom's vajayjay but I just wanted to get home. We finally escaped from the hospital four days after Greta was born. I may have been the first new dad to neutral drop his family truckster and burn rubber pulling out of the parking lot instead of driving 7 m.p.h. all the way home.

Speaking of vaginas, Michelle has announced that she is pleased to have her flower intact. While the c-section scar may have prematurely ended her swimsuit modeling career, she was at least able to avoid an episiotomy. Hold on a second, I hear Coldplay blasting from the TV. Brothers & Sisters must be climaxing-

(Michelle is now bawling. Apparently, Rob Lowe's character had a heart attack. I don't know what's scarier - that the original Dean Youngblood is now portraying characters old enough to be susceptible to cardiac arrest or that you would think his character was somehow related to Michelle. I wonder if he'll make it.)

Fast forward three-plus weeks later at home, our life consists of diaper changing, burping, bouncing, breast feeding, swaddling, and assembling every baby-related gadget in the house. Somehow, we're still intact.

The sleep deprivation has yielded behavior that we may have previously thought unusual but now find totally normal. For instance, Michelle currently enjoys strolling topless throughout our condo to air dry her nipples. I easily forget about dirty diapers in my pocket and spit up on the shoulders of my t-shirts. We also occasionally find ourselves debating seriously about hot button issues like whether Pampers or Huggies is better. (Pampers clearly.) Fortunately, these events are examples of our daily life becoming more - dare I say it - routine, which is fine by me.

So, just in case you were worried, Rob Lowe's character survived the heart attack. Now he and Ally McBeal can begin raising their new adopted child together. I think we're going to make it, too. On that note, I gotta go change a diaper.

Part II: Pa-pa-pa Push it - Push it - Push it real good.

In an effort to carry the momentum from all the positive feedback after last week, I decided to watch Friday Night Lights (I had no idea there were other fans!) on our DVR this Saturday night and pick up where we left off on Greta's arrival. Meanwhile, my baby mama is serving a vanilla milk shake to the bambino. And off we go -

Well before the arrival of my beautiful daughter, Shell and I took a birthing class. I also read bits and pieces of The Expectant Father and other birth-related books. More importantly, I got pointers from every one of my male buddies and cousins with children for their advice. None of them, however, entirely prepared me for the labor experience.

By 11:00 p.m. on Saturday, February 7, 2009, I witnessed around 11 different people as they became intimately involved with my wife's business at various points of the day. This topic was never addressed in our class, the books, or by my buddies so I was unsure about the proper protocol for my positioning during these examinations. Do I stare ahead from wherever I'm sitting and act like this happens all the time? Or am I supposed to look from the same angle of the, um, penetrator? Fortunately, my role was clearly defined during the actual labor.

8:38 p.m. Tim Riggins is possibly the only high school student in America that I envy. Truth be told, it's a complete man crush. In real life, that dude probably pulls more wool than an Irish sheep farmer. I digress.

After Hannibal gave us the "go" sign, Nurse Kelli instructed me to use my right arm to hold Michelle's right leg and my left arm to support her neck. She had Michelle's left leg.


NK: As you feel a contraction coming on, push while holding your breath as I count to 10 backwards.


Me: (Nodding. At a loss for words after the weight of the moment began to sink in.)


NK: You'll do this three separate times and then you can take a rest.


Me: You can do it, honey! C'mon - FOCUS! You GOT this, Shell. Bring the baby home to papa!


NK: (Looking at me funny.)


Me: You're doing great Shell. (The actual only true quote.)


Michelle attacked the pushing like nothing I've ever witnessed. She was a rock star. At the beginning, I thought her eyes my literally pop out of her sockets a la Total Recall. (I asked her to please close her eyes.) In between pushes, I'd massage her back or bring water sips - whatever she instructed. At one point, Nurse Kelli even fastened a bar to the bed that resembled some type of snow or water ski tow for hard core pushing. It went on like this for some time.


My support for Shell was vigorous in the first sixty minutes or so. But 0f course, as time progressed, the adrenaline waned and the caffeine from my coffees and cokes ran its course. My inner thoughts began to drift towards the cramp in my hand that I was feeling with every deep massage that Shell requested for her neck and shoulders. My back kind of ached, too. Come to think of it, I didn't really get too much sleep last night. It was also really challenging to text my mom one-handed in between contractions to update her on the progress.


8:42 p.m. Holy schnikes, Lila Garrity! Why does Riggins want to go to a house party instead of hanging out with Lila for the night? (I know I'm creepy but she's actually 26 in real life.)

8:43 p.m. Cash is lying, Tyra. Get the hell away from him. You know this relationship will not end up well.

All kidding aside, Michelle pushed for two and a half hours. Eventually, the baby's heart rate was above the level deemed safe and she had reached a point in the canal where she seemed to have just stopped. Michelle also had a fever. The doctor recommended a c-section and we consented. They moved Michelle to the operating room and told me to wait until someone came for me.

I knew the procedure was routine. This hospital probably banged out as many c-sections in one day that a Mass. Pike rest area Dangelos kicks out lobster rolls. Nevertheless, I was scared. Was the doctor really telling us everything about the baby's condition or was there something more serious? More importantly, was my wife/best friend/confidante/partner-for-life/person who-often-knows-me-better-than-myself going to be okay?

While dressing in the scrubs given to me by an indifferent nurse, I quietly reflected and prayed asking my version of God to ensure the safety of my wife and child. The nurse returned, said they were ready, and reminded me to bring the camera.

I entered the O.R. and intentionally avoided looking toward Shell's abdomen, which was open and on display for the approximately 10 other medical staff with us. I sat behind a sheet near Michelle's head and held her hand. The doctors and nurses might as well have been discussing the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy but I was tense enough for all of them. They were tugging Michelle's body in different directions as I squirmed silently.

All I wanted to hear was my baby's beautiful cry for the first time - a cry that will ultimately morph into a piercing alarm whistle that accelerates my pulse into immediate action but in that moment would sound like a chorus of angels singing my favorite Cake or Weezer song. Please, doctors, for the love of all that is good and right in this world, hurry up and deliver our baby.

8:52 p.m. Yeah, Matt Saracen! Get some action with the daughter of the coach who benched you. Sweet revenge - yeehaw. Wait a second, though, they spent the entire night out - AND there's no confrontation with her parents when she got home? (If Greta ever pulled a stunt like that, she'd be grounded! AND banished for that matter! Plus, I'd, I'd - um ... ok, I'm just going to continue gaining weight and losing hair while I think of ways to prevent Gigi from meeting anyone who remotely resembles me or my buddies at 16.)

Finally, I know the baby is out. The neo-natal doctors who were huddled in a corner have moved over to the table. A woman said something like, "Okay, are you ready to meet your baby?" Michelle and I, after nine and a half months of waiting, worrying, celebrating, and preparing answer in unison, desperately and exhausted, "YES!"

Woman: You have a baby girl! Does she have a name?

Me: (Crying behind the surgical mask.) Greta Jane Teravainen.

Sunday, February 8, 2009 - 1:55 a.m.

Running Diary of the Birth - Part I

Friday, February 6, 2009: In the spirit of Bill Simmons, I thought I’d do a running diary of our recent events. My original post for last week was about how I hate being late and how Michelle is hardly ever on time, which suggested to me that the baby was going to be more like his/her mom because the arrival was overdue as of Super Bowl Sunday. Now I find myself typing from Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital in Boston watching Friday Night Lights with my baby mama lying next to me without any underwear on. None of this is an unusual Friday night experience except of course for the hospital part.

Michelle called me at work around 10:30 a.m. this morning to say that it was game time! After a visit to her doctor earlier this week, we received an appointment for Michelle to be induced on Saturday night if she had not yet begun labor. After she thought her water may have broken while driving on I-93, we decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

Since then, we packed, grabbed lunch, drove to the hospital, confirmed she was not in labor, decided to be induced since we were there already, sat through some tests, left for our “last supper”, and returned for admission.

Truth be told, Michelle was leaning towards becoming induced today so she can deliver before February 8 because she read some horoscope that said kids born on that date are spooky or something like that. I was hoping she’d deliver before Monday the 9th because it’s a full moon and I was worred we might spawn a werewolf. Here’s hoping the Pitocin does its job!

Michelle’s contractions are getting stronger and more frequent by the hour. We are getting excited! We texted family and friends around 5 p.m. The feedback was really encouraging and thoughtful. Now, on to the diary:

9:27 p.m. Michelle's contractions are increasing but she's taking it like a trooper.

9:30 p.m. Jeff Bridges just did a voiceover for a Hyundai auto commercial. I can't help but think of the Big Lebowski whenever I hear Jeff's voice. I wish the Dude did commercials for Kahlua instead.

9:34 p.m. Coach Taylor is going to start freshman J.D. over the struggling seniorMatt. Tyra is choosing a cowboy over Landry. Shocker!

9:38 p.m. Jerod commercial. I’m ready to punch myself in the face.

9:43 p.m. The anesthesiologist came in.
Doctor: Have you decided yet about an epidural when you begin la-
Michelle: Yes!

9:54 p.m. Jane Seymour is trying to make us believe she paints strange shaped hearts, which inspired Kay Jewelers to release her necklace just in time for Valentine’s Day. Not sure I believe it.

9:56 p.m. Smash Williams is in at Texas A&M. Nice. Shell and I love his mom.

10:01 p.m. Nurse Kelley came in to attach the fetal heart monitor. This is our 3rd time today. Whenever Shell has a contraction, the baby’s heart rate decreases and then when the contraction dissipates, the baby’s heart pitterpatters back up to sometimes as high as 180 per minute! Freaky.

10:22 p.m. Dr. Baker came in to follow up. 2nd dose of Cytotec. Shell is bummed because Dr. Baker’s shift ends at 8 a.m. Then, we have Dr. Lechter. No joke. I haven’t pointed out that he starred in Silence of the Lambs yet.

10:30 p.m. Shell just told Nurse Kelley she’s worried she may poop herself during delivery because she hasn’t gone # 2 yet today. Time will tell. We all wait anxiously - for the baby, not a poop.

10:59 p.m. The nutcase woman who had octuplets recently came on for a brief interview with Ann on Dateline. Her botox lips were so distracting that I can’t remember anything she said. Total kook.

Saturday, February 7, 2009
12:00 a.m. We are going to sleep.

3:00 a.m. Dr. Baker and Nurse Kelley came in. Michelle received a 3rd dose of Cytotec. I stayed half-asleep in my cot.

5:30 a.m. Dr. Quant checks Shell’s vajayjay. She’s 2 centimeters.

7:00 a.m. Shell is about to receive Pitocin for the 1st time. Overall, she hasn’t had any significant pain. My jobs have included holding her hand, pressing the button for her bed to move up and down, and running errands. Her contractions are increasing in strength and frequency again.

7:22 a.m. We are relieved to discover that Dr. Lichter will deliver the baby. Not Hannibal Lechter. Phew.

7:31 a.m. Nurse Kelley’s shift just ended. She predicts a girl at 8 pounds. She was awesome.

7:45 a.m. Nurse Nicole just arrived. She’s from NH so obviously she’s cool.

7:59 a.m. Nurse Laura came by to say hello. She admitted us yesterday when we first arrived. She is from the Cape. We love her.

8:06 a.m. Okay, no more joking. Shell is really nauseous and uncomfortable. The Pitocin seems to be taking effect.

10:09 a.m. After two hours of abdominal pain and vomiting and dry heaving, Shell opted for the epidural. She was worried about not being able to sit still due to progressively worsening discomfort so she erred on the side of caution. She is noticeably more relaxed. Three more increases in Pitocin to go…

10:48 a.m. Shell is groggy. Hopefully, she falls asleep.

12:05 p.m. The first epidural didn’t take. The anesthesiologist was poking her in several spots around her abdomen and Michelle felt all of the pokes. Now she’s going through round 2 and a spinal to ensure maximum comfort.

2:30 p.m. Epidural part deux is a success. Shell is much more relaxed. She’ll try to sleep now so I won’t distract her by banging on the computer keys.

4:05 p.m. Still feeling sick to her stomach, Shell received an anti-nausea medication.

5:43 p.m. Up and down day. The baby’s heart rate was concerning the doctor a little bit but it appears to have stabilized after Shell received more hydration intravenously. The other problem is that the mama to be is still only dilated at 3 cm. Shell is now mentally prepared for a c-section if necessary, although she's not happy about it. Her health and that of the baby are primary, while her desire to deliver vaginally is secondary. Dr. Lichter to return by 6:00 p.m.

On a side note, the staff have all been pretty wonderful. The nursing staff in particular couldn’t be more supportive and enthusiastic. Really refreshing and appreciated.

5:50 p.m. Shell is sleeping with her Us Weekly and People laying on top of her. She looks so cute. The wait continues. I'm thinking the c-section is around the corner.

6:00 p.m. Hold on a second. Shell is at 4 cm. No need for a c-section yet.

8:00 p.m. I am bored out of my mind. I've read everything we brought with us except my Almanac. I don’t want to complain because I don't want to hurt Shell’s spirits. This baby is already driving me crazy and he/she is still in utero. Let’s get it going already. I’m still in yesterday’s underwear. I hate seeing Shell in pain.

9:10 p.m. Nurse Kelli (different spelling from our prior one) is in the house now. Yet another solid personality! She rocks. Dr. L just announced that the baby is rimming (delivery jargon for 9.5 cm) and we are so fired up for a sign of major progress.

10:40 p.m. We finally heard what we've been waiting for all day: "Are you ready to push?"

To be continued...