So, We Just Had A Baby. Now What?!?

With every passing day of me not updating, I keep making up excuses for myself, to include “nobody’s really cares what’s happening,” “Some blogs don’t get updated that frequently,” and my usual go-to, “Eh, nothing really exciting has happened to write about.”  Of course, the last one is the least true; so much has happened, and Kaleigh is really coming into her own.  …which is both awesome and terrifying.  The truth of course is that we've been so busy and have been on so many adventures since she was born that I've barely had time to change my pantaloons, let alone put [proverbial] pen to paper.

Go ahead, image-search "dirty pantaloons".  I'll wait.

I’ll pick up where we left off.  Kaleigh had just arrived, and as hard as it may be to understand, the brief period of time that we were in the delivery room before being moved to postpartum were simultaneously the slowest and fastest 60 minutes of my life.  Immediately after I yanked out her goopy body, she was plunked down onto my wife’s chest for some quality bonding time.  Everything soon became like one of those scenes in a movie where the central character is in focus and moving slowly, but everything around them is fluttering about, out of focus.  I was making a conscious effort to try and slow down in order to capture as much as possible as “mental photographs” while not doing anything klutzy or stupid (e.g., tripping on my wife’s umbilical cord).  SPEAKING OF: ladies, if you’ve ever been curious as to what cutting that little lifeline is actually like (since it is a task traditionally offered to the father), I have come up with two simple DIY analogues, which you are welcome to try.  For best results, use actual bandage scissors:

Cutting the cord with a crane kick, I suppose.

1)      Take either a handkerchief or an old, thinning washcloth and soak it thoroughly in water.  Wrap it into a spiral (as if you were going to wear it Karate Kid style) and wring it out until it is no longer dripping, but is still damp* (I intentionally did not use the “m-word” here for a number of my friends; you’re welcome).  Cut along dotted line.

2)      Cook a big, juicy, not-recommended-by-your-cardiologist New York Strip steak.  Trim off the fat (aka, “concentrated flavor strip”) but leave a little bit of residual meat attached to it.  …Snip-snip!

Obviously, unlike real life where they don’t recommend repurposing your baby as either a headwrap for the All Valley Karate Championship or as delicious meal, you can feel free to do with these fake umbilicals as you see fit afterwards.

 Perfectly marbled umbilical cords.  You'll never look at steak the same way again.

So anyway, the time was flying by.  I had procured juice and ice for my wife, took more photos than Ansel Adams in Yosemite, and actually managed to spend some quality time with my daughter.  At one point, one of our nurses said something about Kaleigh’s diaper; I replied, “oh yeah, we’re definitely gonna want one of those.”  She looked at me blankly for a second, and then gestured down towards my daughter.  HOLY CRAP, she was already wearing one.  WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM?!?  Did she come out wearing it or something??  Apparently the nurses, in their Batman-like surreptitious stealth, were able to diaper my child in the 1.07 seconds that it took for her to traverse the airspace between my wife’s crotch and her chest.  It was like a NASCAR pit crew, but for baby poop.  (If only they were for hire afterwards!)

Before we were thrown out of our big, comfy room, I was able to get off quick phone calls to all the essential personnel (i.e., family).  While my parents live out of town and were preparing to depart on the morrow, apparently Jan’s family had been staging at our townhouse, and were ready to deploy as soon as we contacted them.  I was not made aware of this until after I called; apparently, our home’s proximity to the hospital combined with my father-in-law’s blind excited rage made for a slight acceleration in their estimated travel time.  With Jan clutching Kaleigh, and I weighted down like a Bactrian camel transporting a nomadic mongol yurt, we were whisked away to the postpartum floor.

Oh, just headed up to the postpartum floor; don't worry, I got everything.

The anecdote of my wife’s family mobilizing with the alacrity of a special forces squad is herein noteworthy, as we were surprised to find them following us down the hallway of the postpartum floor on our inaugural trip to our room.  Unfortunately for them, having an actual baby was the shibboleth for room entry, and instead of being welcomed by a bed and executive briefing by the charge nurse, they were instead greeted by a militant young lady who enforced our privacy with the resolution of an Abu Ghraib prison guard.  They were forced to stand in the hall while we were given a matter-of-fact briefing on how to appropriately bathe my wife’s nether-regions, not drop the baby on the floor, and operate the remote control.  Due to the timing of Kaleigh’s arrival, we were not able to move up onto the postpartum floor until the late evening, about an hour before visiting hours ended; mercifully, the nurses sensed that we would be receiving some visitors, so they delivered their spiel so quickly that I was surprised that I did not hear it end with “please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, sit back, and enjoy the ride.”

After an impressively snug swaddling by our night nurse, everyone was allowed to come in, and Kaleigh got to meet her maternal grandmother, grandfather, and aunt. Although I later heard from my wife that she wanted nothing more than to actually hold her baby in those first few hours, I also was able to observe how relieved she was to get to use both of her hands to eat the first solid meal she’d had all day.  OBVIOUSLY, I took a bunch more photos throughout their visit, the visit of my brother and his girlfriend, and the after-visiting-hours-so-I-had-to-sweet-talk-the-nurses-as-I-am-prone-to-do visit of Matt when he got off work.

My brother, meeting his niece for the first time; me, proud and exhausted.

Ultimately that evening, everyone left, the nurses went back to their station at the end of the hall, and I closed the door on the three of us for the first time ever.  Jan and I looked at each other with a simultaneous glance of “Holy crap, we did it,” and “…holy crap, what do we do now?”  We all settled in for a little quality bonding time sitting side-by-side as we introduced ourselves to our little tax deduction.  It was around this time that I glanced at the paperwork that Jan was forced to sign upon arrival on the floor; it was not unlike the infamous user agreement of a certain fruit-themed computer company, in that we essentially had no idea what it said and were completely unaware of what it was to which we were complying, but knew that if we didn’t click “ok”, they wouldn’t let us play with our new toy.  Apparently, Jan signed a form stating that she WOULD NOT SLEEP IN THE BED WITH THE BABY. If you stop to think about it, this makes some sense… parents are more tired than usual and may sleep more soundly, and someone who flops and flails may end up smothering their child.  In the moment though, new parents are so tired that they are barely able to understand the word salad “baby… bed… sleep”, and may not tolerate it well if they are legally bound to be separated from their child.  Plus, usually forms like this aren’t made unless the healthcare system has had a problem with this phenomenon before.  HOLY FREAKING CRAP, I MAY NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.

  

NOOOOOOOOOO!  DIDN'T SHE READ THE FORM?!?  (*Not Jan.)

Luckily, Jan and I were not the only ones who were tired from the day’s adventures of birthing, and Kaleigh seemed quite content to lie in her bassinet and zonk out completely.  I unfolded what could generously be referred to as a chair/bed (ched?), as Jan secured herself with every pillow in the northeastern United States.  We stared (not creepily) at our daughter as we marveled at how well she was sleeping, as opposed to the baby a few rooms down the hall who, by the sound of it, was having his fingers pulled off one-by-one by a large mongoose.  Ah, we got the peaceful child; what a breeze this parenting thing will be.

Oh, if only we weren’t so naïve.

As Seen On TV: Part Two

As a disclaimer for this particular blog post: I have been asked to note that my wife, who reads this and approves of not only my recounting of this story but the ways in which I tell it, has asked me to keep this entry to at least a PG-13 level.  Seeing as how she really did most of the work that I will be discussing, I will respect her dignity... and herein, will be using that specific term to refer to the region betwixt m'lady's thighs.

Ready to attack childbirth!  Throwing my hospital bag into "The White Warrior".

So at the end of our story's first installment, we were drifting off to a tenuous sleep, dreaming of dilation, effacement, and crowning.  The sterile hospital air that night was tempered with a hint of "dignity-introduced" medication.  Jan continued to contract with regularity every two minutes, but did get some sleep due to their slight nature.  Our favorite nursing team had gone home, and our night nurse was still charming and appropriately sarcastic, but also presented with a "take no crap" attitude.  We were happy to be cared for, but still missed Team L.  I woke periodically on my own due to the uncomfortable nature of the chair/bed to which I was relegated, and woke periodically on demand to assist my wife in her bathrooming.  ...those who have had children will agree that once this process starts, your sense of shame tends to go the way of the Dodo a little bit.

  

We anticipated our 6am appointment with the OB/GYN, who arrived dutifully to remove the Cervidil and perform a checkup on my wife.  After thoroughly inspecting my wife's "dignity", we were informed that the medication had served it's purpose, and she was now dilated 3cm.  ...so in 18 hours, we'd gone from the width of a Cheerio to the width of a slice of banana.  Like the German economy in the 1950s, we were making progress, albeit slowly.  The best news to come out of the 6am doctor's visit was learning that after the removal of the medication, Jan was allowed to temporarily remove her monitors and actually venture beyond the sides of her bed and the toilet seat (big victory).  We took a brief jaunt out into the hallway to stretch our legs; Jan then decided to take a shower.  ...and by "Jan decided to take a shower," I of course mean "wipe down wife as she stands in the hospital bathroom shower stall."

  

The two precious hours between 6am and 8am went by all too quickly.  We both had the opportunity to clean ourselves, then Jan's breakfast tray arrived (given that I was not the important one in the room, I was left to forage for myself again... but of course, I really have no grounds to complain about anything, so I dutifully kept my mouth shut).  She did her best to force down the gruel that the hospital nutritionist had stamped as sufficiently healthy and pressed into the relative shape of actual human food (omelette and a muffin, I think?), but quickly turned to the provisions that we had secured from visitors the night before.  Matt had stopped by after work and brought some turkey sandwiches from the grocery store around the corner, and they were now seriously coming in handy.  NOTE TO PREGNANT PARENTS: unless you show up the hospital already crowning, bring a cooler and some munchies.

  

Hungry and sleep-deprived, the mama wildebeest scours the Serengeti for anything she can find.

The 8am visit from the doctor meant Jan was now strapped in for the long haul.  The OB/GYN broke her water for her, and I posited that due to her low fluids, I was assuming that the noise it made would be "..pfffft."  Luckily for me, my jokes were landing; for this would otherwise be an even longer day.  Thankfully for us, Team L was back on the job that morning for the day shift, and seemed excited to see us.  Following the water breaking (which was not nearly as eventful as is portrayed in the movies), the nurses put Jan on Pitocin to help move things along.

  

Click here, mobile readers, to see what TV taught me water-breaking and birth would be like.

The only way to describe how the next few hours passed would be to say "both slowly and quickly".  Some things seemed like they were taking forever: we were obviously not preparing to push at all, and Jan wasn't feeling any of the physical signs that birth was imminent.  ...also, Saturday morning TV was crappy.  Other things, however, happened quite quickly: Jan's contractions still occurred regularly every two minutes, but since the introduction of the Pitocin, her contractions began to increase in intensity.  The nurses asked her routinely what her pain rating was on a scale of 1-10, and despite the subjective worsening of her experience (measured on the "bitchiness/loudness" scale), she kept reporting, "two... just two".  Finally, when she forced a "two" through clenched teeth from behind bulging eyeballs, I felt compelled to walk across the room and pull the pain chart off the wall so I could hold it in front of her face, forcing a reassessment.  "Oh... ok, well, at least like a 4...?"

You'd think this would be helpful...?

Her biggest issue was deciding when she should ask for the epidural.  We had been cautioned by Team L that it could be as long as 90 minutes until the drugs kick in (factoring in time for the anesthesiologist to arrive, set up everything, play a quick round of 18, and actually deliver the medication).  She was very concerned about asking for the medication too early, lest the entire hospital run out, I suppose.  Eventually she decided that somewhere around "definitely a 6-out-of-10" and "stop asking me how badly it hurts, you a**hole," it was time for some pain meds.  The anesthesiologist arrived surprisingly quickly, and despite delivering his spiel with the droll presentation of the guy who reads legal disclaimers at the end of radio commercials, I was positive that he still gets the highest customer service ratings of every employee in the hospital.

"The Candy Man can, 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good..."

Gentlemen, let me tell you: get your hands on an epidural and give it to EVERY WOMAN IN YOUR LIFE, EVERYDAY.  This stuff is liquid magic.  In a matter of minutes, our conversation had not only decreased in both intensity and volume, but experienced a significant qualitative shift as well:

BEFORE:

"Get me my water!  Why are you sitting down??  No, not THAT water, the other water!!  Go get ice!  Come back, I need my water!  WHY ARE YOU TAKING SO LONG?!?"

AFTER:

"...mmm, come look at the monitor.  ...let me know if I'm having a contraction right now; I can't tell."

  

Jan's epidural kicked in around 11:30am, and the OB/GYN came back for a checkup of Jan's "dignity" at noon.  We had made *some* progress: she was now dilated 4cm (diameter of a Ritz cracker).  For everyone playing along with the home game, we still had to make our way up the to diameter of an H&H Bagel.

In retrospect, the afternoon actually went by faster than it seemed.  I was afraid to leave the room lest I miss anything, and Jan soldiered through every new cramp and position shift like a champion.  She also seemed to be enjoying her inaugural experience with the urinary catheter far more than her inaugural experience with the IV.  In an effort to suck up to our birthing staff, I had noted which pieces of candy were preferred by our team members (nurses and doctors alike) and had set dishes of mini-candies about the room in key locations: next to the handwashing sink, on top of the fetal monitor, etc.  Subsequent to this, I noted an increase in the number of staff members that passed through our room that afternoon.

Finally, around 4:00pm, Jan sat up and proclaimed loudly, "I have to poop."  Stand down, fecal enthusiasts: this sensation was the harbinger of parenthood for which he had been waiting so patiently.  The doctor was summoned, and upon inspection, informed Jan that she was dilated at least 9cm (good work, dear).  She was sat up, and a flurry of activity commenced around us.  Tables of sterile instruments were assembled, and the stage was lit appropriately (dual spotlights from the balcony).  I had previously discussed my background of medical training with our birthing team, and it was agreed that as long as everything was progressing healthily, I would be allowed to deliver our daughter (from the head down).  This meant that years from now, I would actually be able to use the Bill Cosby quip, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it!" (I like to set up my discipline-related humor years in advance).

  

Jan's last photo as a childless person; how enthusiastic!

Pushing commenced at 5pm.  I have always made jokes about how my wife's reaction to even the slightest side-bump is to scream in pain, but when the metal met the meat, she was an absolute warrior.  She didn't need to have anyone tell her when to push, she would just give us a nod, lean forward, and hunker down.  During the early stages of the process, my job was to supply water, hold legs, and control the music playlist.  Our nurses noted that we were really having a good time, and at one point even called for more of their coworkers to come in and join us.  (By the time this kid appeared, we were one baby, two parents, an OB/GYN, five nurses, and a partridge in a pear tree; good thing we got the big room!)  

  

If I haven't previously mentioned so over the course of this chronicle, I would describe what childbirth looks like as "a wet saint bernard trying to squeeze in through the cat door".  Very early on in the process, BGA's head made an appearance; everyone was impressed that she came out with a good head of hair.  Upon hearing this, Jan asked what color it was; I responded, "Well, at the moment, black; ...and wet; ...and a little blood-red."  (Jokes continued to land effectively throughout.)

Click here, mobile users, to see what is probably the most accurate portrayal of birth from the inside yet seen. 

Over the course of the pushing sequence, I finally discovered just what "new baby smell" really is: it is Johnson&Johnson baby shampoo.  ...for that is the lubricant that was applied liberally to my daughter's dome and my wife's "dignity" whilst she attempted to pass our little mass of genetic amalgam.  Just like her mother and father, this little bundle of goo was being stubborn.  Jan was doing an amazing job, but after an hour-and-a-half of active pushing, we needed a little motivation.  Finally, my darling wife voiced her interest in what was actually happening "down there".  Not giving it a second thought, the leader of Team L grabbed her hand, pulled it downstage, and slapped it right onto BGA's emerging corona.  Jan's face lit up with excitement.  Sensing this, our lead nurse asked, "Jan, I know you didn't originally want a mirror, but what about now?"  At the outset of the process, Jan had noted that she did not want a mirror because she had no desire to see any tearing/explosions/bloodshed/pooping; once she was assured that she was essentially having the most pretty and demure birth known to man, she asked for a mirror.

  

What Jan was afraid of seeing in her birthing mirror.

...well friends, that did it.  Even now, Jan says that being able to see our little girl was the motivation that she needed to finish pushing out this kid.  Maybe six more pushes, and we had a nose and mouth that had trepidatiously, but alertly, made their way into this world.  The OB/GYN and I did the most gentle transfer to have ever happened at such a speed, and as I sat in the driver's seat, I looked up at my wife.  She glanced back down to me, over to the mirror, grimaced, pushed, and made us parents.  Our gooey little lizard was the most beautiful thing that I had ever held with that degree of stickiness.  Singing us the song of her people, she went immediately onto her mother's chest, and there it was: no longer a couple, we were a family.  The nurses of Team L had been waiting on the edge of their proverbial seats for two days to see what moniker we would bestow upon our progeny.

   

After 31 hours of active labor, Jan and I looked at each other and introduced to the world our daughter, Kaleigh.  Our adventures, however, were just beginning.....

As Seen On TV: Part One

So it's been a while since my last post, and I dare say (thankfully) that it's because we've been somewhat busy.  Our twosome has recently finally become a threesome; actually Camden, sitting at my feet, has asked me to amend my count to "threesome become a foursome."  I've been plotting how best to describe our birthing experience ever since we were first admitted to the Labor & Delivery ward, and it seems as if it cannot be confined to one post alone.  So herein, I shall begin to describe the processes leading to birth of our daughter; subsequently, I shall describe our postnatal experiences.  Without further ado, please indulge me...

Exactly how real, human, actual childbirth takes place: as seen on TV.

Despite all of our willing, wishing, and hoping, no amount of walking/spicy foods/jumping up and down could get this kid out early.  On Monday (April 21), we went back to the OB/GYN's office, as I had feared in my previous post.  This was Jan's calculated due date, so as Monday waned, BGA became fashionably late.  The doctor determined that everything was, as always, progressing well but slowly.  They attempted to help us along by stripping her membranes... for those who are unfamiliar, I'll let you click on the link and investigate for yourselves, but suffice it to say that from my "stand above your wife's head" perspective, it looked a heckuva lot like the doctor was filling my wife with stuffing in preparation of a Thanksgiving feast.  They then informed us that if nothing had happened by Friday, we were to go for an ultrasound in order to check her fluid levels, and subsequent to that, we were to return for a "non-stress test" on the following Monday.

Following a week of burning our GI tracts with spicy foods and wearing out our walking shoes, Friday rolled around quickly.  I was not feeling optimistic, as I had been hoping all week that BGA would make her arrival and get me out any number of responsibilities: work, class, office hours, etc... no dice.  This particular morning we had made an ultrasound appointment at 7:30am so that if everything was fine, Jan could continue on to her school and I could catch the train downtown to mine with plenty of time.  We decided not to put our hospital bags in the car because it would only jinx us further, and if Jan had to go on to her school afterwards, they would be a risk of being stolen from the trunk of my car.

  

The ultrasound technician (the very same one from our first appointment confirming our pregnancy), nearly addled with seasonal allergies, began to calculate the fluid levels betwixt BGA and the walls of her ever-narrowing aquatic base between sneezes.  She began to remark that she was unable to get an accurate measurement of our daughter's head because it was so low, we were unable to pick it up on the screen.  (...a good sign, perhaps?)  When it finally came time to do some basic calculations, she spouted numbers out loud.  "1.6... 0... 1.7.  What's that?"  "3.3!" I exclaimed excitedly, although mostly from properly summing the numbers and not from knowing why; "What is it supposed to be?"  She informed me that the target level was 5cc or greater, and then spoke the life-changing sentence we had been waiting to hear: "You kids aren't going home; you're going to Labor and Delivery."

So, we hurried home to let out the dog, gather our bags, use the bathroom, and dash off to the hospital.  ...I may or may not have used these few minutes to pack my bag with a few extra items as well, which really made Jan run around the house like a chicken with her head cut off.  At one point I was compelled to reach between her legs and realize that the baby wasn't actually coming out at that moment, and that we could take our time.  Nevertheless, that did not mean I was about to give up the opportunity to drive almost recklessly fast to the hospital.  Jan cautioned me to slow down, but I insisted that it was arguably the one time in my life I could drive that quickly and legitimately tell any cop pulling me over that my wife was in labor.  ...alas, though, my wife played copilot and chose the absolute slowest and most red-light-riddled route to the hospital.

Trixie and The Mach 5 were quite jealous of the Hyundai SantaFe.

We arrived in Labor and Delivery right in the middle of what can only be described as a birthing sh*tstorm; pregnant women were dropping babies EVERYWHERE!  As we were waiting to meet our nurse and be led to our room, we overheard one woman be wheeled out of here room.  As she tossed back her hair, she flippantly and coolly remarked, "Oh, I can't believe how easy it all was!  Three pushes, and this baby just crawled right out."  .....BITCH.

We were introduced to our team of nurses, who we learned had the same name (herein, I shall refer to them as "Team L").  After half-jokingly making sure that neither of them dotted the "i's" in their name with hearts, we were fortunate to learn that they both had the same dark and twisted sense of humor that we did.  After meeting briefly with the doctor, Jan was connected to a fetal monitor and started on an IV drip so she could received doses of penicillin (she had tested GBS positive).  We quickly recalled that this was to be her first IV ever (years before I had tried to get her to donate blood, but she had been screened out prior to the needle because of a recent trip to Central America).  Team L literally oohed and aahed over her veins, salivating like vampires for a good puncture site.  Despite their best efforts though, they blew through the first vein on her arm and had to back out and try for their secondary site.  Jan winced in pain and I panicked, thinking that if she was this hurt from the IV, we were in some SERIOUS trouble later on.  After they finished turning her left arm into Swiss Cheese (only teasing, Team L...), our OB/GYN introduced the medication Cervidil at 12:00 noon on Friday, April 25 and informed us that we should make ourselves comfortable, because she typically leaves this medication in for 18 hours.

  

I spent an hour looking around for a T.A.R.D.I.S. before I could be sure that this wasn't some Dalek relative.

  

It was at this point that I began to unpack our bags.  Between Jan's hospital bag, my hospital bag (which was my rucksack, stuffed to the gills and actually containing our camera bag), and a bag of foodstuffs, we were basically tailgating the birth of our daughter.  After unpacking a bit, I finally took a step back to survey our setup, and began to appreciate just how fortunate we were to have received our room.  It was one of the biggest hospital rooms I had ever set my eyes on, and it was all ours!  The full bathroom was a nice touch, but I particularly liked the multiple rocking chairs, that seemed to say, "Y'all settle up here on the porch and get yo'self some sweet tea."  Of course, Jan was center stage, right under the spotlights; between the stage lighting and the wood floors, it seemed as if she was literally about to open "The Vagina Monologues" at the Winter Garden Theatre.

Cue the Overture; it's time to raise the curtain for Act I...

I was careful to take my time going around the room, pushing all of the buttons and touching all of the medical equipment in between visits from the doctor and nurses.  Lucky for me, Jan had implored me to wear my "I [heart] My Pregnant Wife" t-shirt, which was quickly making me very popular on the unit.  The nurses gave me the code to get into the room with the refrigerator and ice-chips, and we peppered the discussions about Jan's vagina with chit-chat to include the benefits of going to the cafeteria over actually ordering a tray, and who the better night nurses were.

  

During the final scheduled visit from the doctor that evening, it was determined that while Jan was progressing towards labor, she was only dilated 2cm.  The medication that she was given was working effectively, but it did not look like I would be meeting BGA that evening.  The fetal monitor was showing that Jan was having contractions regularly every 2 minutes, and had been since noon... I was already impressed, especially since she wasn't making a peep.  We had contacted a few family members to let them know that we were in the hospital, but they were either very excited or didn't believe us when we told them that nothing was happening that night, because they all came to visit.  Mercifully, they brought food; Jan wasn't required to force down the hospital's interpretation of manicotti, and I could stop subsisting on juice cups from the L&D refrigerator.  Matt even stopped by after he got off work that night with some sandwiches from a local grocery store, a few cans of soup, salt and pepper shakers (because he had noted that hospital food was notoriously bland), and a few bags of candy (these would come in handy later).

The only show we got that evening was whenever Jan needed to go to the bathroom.  We would have to unplug her IV pump from the wall, disconnect her fetal monitor, shimmy her out of the bed, and shuffle her across the room with wires, straps, and lines coming out of her gown at a variety of angles.  She was on her own while in the bathroom to not disturb the medication delivery, and then to readjust herself before climbing gingerly back onto her puppy-padded, underwearless throne.  This procedure was initiated more often than she would have liked, given the fact that she was not only being pumped full of liquid, but also the natural, pleasant effect that repeated doses of antibiotics can have on the lower gastrointestinal tract.  Yes folks, these are the glorious aspects of pregnancy NOT covered in television and the movies.

  

If they only knew what this was doing to my ego.

So there we were: like the guy who shows up a week early to burning man, we were all drugged up and ready to go, but nothing would be happening for some time yet.  Jan flipped through the few TV stations that did come in and eventually settled on the back-to-back broadcasting of 300 and Gladiator as a favor to me (thank you, TBS), knowing that she would soon pass out after taking her sleeping pill.  I then resigned to the inquisition-esque torture of the chair-bed provided for spouses/overnight guests.  As I watched the outnumbered Spartans slay Xerxes' Persian warrior slaves and Russel Crowe fight his way back to glory in Ancient Rome (well, as best I could thanks to FCC restrictions on language and gore), I wondered what bloodshed awaited me in the morning.......

...And Now We Play 'The Waiting Game'.

So it's come to this: it's Friday night.  Like, late Friday night.  We're currently sitting up in bed, watching the last season of Boy Meets World on DVD (currently, the episode where Eric gives the student union money to the organ grinder in order to make the monkey do the happy dance), and watching my wife try to figure out if she's having contractions or not.

Jan is 39 weeks pregnant now, and over the past week, her school system has been on it's spring break.  So, other than going to her actual grad classes, she's been sitting at home yelling at her abdomen and trying to will our unborn daughter to finally make her appearance.  Knowing our karma and overall luck in this world, we've been attempting to hedge our bets on when she'll actually be born based on a number of life factors.

Mobile users, click here to see Eric *try* to take the money to the bank...

At first, we thought for sure that she would be born last weekend.  We had a number of our friends both out of town and out of the country, family members that were busy, and on our social calendar, we had a wedding on a riverboat that we were supposed to attend.  Seriously, doesn't a birth-at-sea sound like a movie just waiting to be made??  So we debated long and hard about what to do, over-interpreted every single ache, pain, and cramp, and eventually decided to chance going to the wedding.  The entire time we were preparing to go aboard, I kept figuring the moment the boat pulled away from the dock, Jan would lurch forward, look down, and she and BGA would ruin my black dress shoes with a definitive and telling "splash".  Fortunately and unfortunately, this was absolutely not the case (don't worry though, the wedding was amazing anyway; built-in designated driver!).

38 weeks pregnant.  On a riverboat.  WHAT A TROOPER.

So BGA held out for the wedding.  But surely this whole past week, with Jan sitting at home stewing over everything and me being either downtown or 30 miles south on various days at work, in class, and at one of my internships, the next best opportunity for karma-birth would be when I would need to traverse the metro system or fight traffic to get back home.  So I tried to employ a little cognitive reframing and find the positive in this scenario: my daughter might help me out and get me out of a day of work/class/various other responsibilities.  I even downloaded a special ringtone for Jan and set my phone so it would be the only one to go off audibly at all times.  ...this did lead to some amazing, butt-clenching moments whilst in the middle of a presentation, and again at a meeting, and one more time while consulting with a supervisor, when Jan called (having forgotten the aforementioned items on my schedule) just to "see what I was doing".  Unfortunately, unless the overall goal was to spike my blood pressure, I had no such luck this week.

Here you go, mobile users: experience Jan's customized, themed ringtone.

So here we are, biding our time.  Seeing as we've spent a large portion of the evening waiting to see if Jan's stomach cramps were legitimate labor pains or residual indigestion from our dinner at Chipotle, I decided rest was probably our best option, and we retired to the bedroom.  As my wife drifts off to sleep next to me (her bedtime strategy was "hey, if it's a real contraction, it should wake me up, right?"), I'm left to reflect on just how well we've played The Waiting Game over the past few days.

I described to a friend of mine this week the frustration that we have been experiencing.  I noted that other than our wedding, this birth is arguably the only other thing the two of us have been prepared for with time to spare.  I likened it to having all of the Christmas shopping and gift-wrapping completed on December 10th, and just having to wait out the rest of the month, staring at a decorated tree.  I mean, the nursery is painted; the crib is assembled; the baby's clothing is washed, folded, and organized (which is more than I can say for our own); the hospital bags are packed; the camera lenses are cleaned and the batteries are charged; heck, even our diaper bags are prepared.  Yes, plural... I bought my own diaper bag.  A durable black vinyl backpack with insulated compartments and adorned with our college logo, I can now make carrying a baby look like I'm going on a covert op.

I even took the opportunity to freshen up on my childcare skills, reviewing important points (e.g., feeding strategies) and unimportant points (e.g., when do I have to first clip her fingernails?).  Remembering the old adage, "If you don't use it, you lose it," after opening a new package of swaddling blankets I decided to practice my technique.  Unfortunately, without an actual baby, I was forced to find a reasonable analog:

Clearly, this is the look of a willing assistant.  At least my pride is evident.

I'm pretty confident with my abilities to swaddle, and even diaper at this point.  Did anyone see that episode of The Office (American) where Jim was preparing for Pam to go into labor, and the opening sequence was him diapering everything?  If this kid hangs in there for another week, I swear Jan is gonna wake up diapered.

Check it out, mobile users: the man sure can diaper.

So meanwhile, while I put our friends, family, and pets into swaddling blankets and Pampers, Jan is trying to NOT do things (e.g., not being on any Yahoo forums related to pregnancy).  Her biggest frustration has been mostly the internet and her telephone.  Everyday she tells me about how she's going to start blocking calls from people who ring her up to ask, "So, did you have the baby yet?"  Oddly enough, this is the same reaction we get when we see some friends and family face-to-face, too.  While we do enjoy benefiting from the experiences of those around us, every now and again someone will make sure to tell her that this baby will certainly be late, or that soon we'll wish this kid was still inside, or that our lives will only become more stressful from here on out and she should try to relax and enjoy this time.  THESE FOOLS, with their logic and experience; have they never dealt with another pregnant woman before??

To the best of my knowledge, I have never been pregnant.  I have, however, been in exhausting, frustrating, and physically taxing situations.  I can state from experience that fairly close to the last thing I wanted to hear in those incidences was that they would last longer than I was anticipating.  For me, at this point I have become the enforcer of this pregnancy: I get to screen the incoming phone calls, e-mails, and comments made during social engagements.  ...and as I told another friend and current first-time-dad-to-be this evening, I've also become quite the waiter and food-delivery-boy.  We haven't had any really odd food cravings as far as mixtures are concerned (alas, no pickles and ice cream), but definitely a healthy variety of dinner selections: Vietnamese, Greek, American, Italian, Mexican.  Oh, if only my wallet and passport could get pregnant instead of my wife!

I'm told that this comparison is mostly accurate.

I honestly wasn't sure if I was going to get in another post before BGA arrived.  We've been trying to find ways that we can potentially induce labor, even ones in which we thought we would never engage.  Yes, I know there are a few "classic" ones out there.  Let me say this: never before in my life have I had so many people, from so many different social and professional circles, be this concerned over my, um, "bedroom affairs".  Seriously, WHERE WERE YOU ALL WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL??

In order to be discreet and enigmatic, let me just say this: there are some we have tried and some we have not.  Yes, we're wearing holes in our walking shoes.  No, she is not drinking castor oil.  Yes, we have tried verbal harassment directed at Jan's midsection.  No, we cannot find raspberry leaf tea.  ...We vacillated for a great deal of time on the spicy food thing.  Herein, we thought our logic was sound: there are certain digestive effects that have been known to happen to people while delivering a baby, and perhaps we shouldn't have spicy comestibles play a feature role in that performance.  In the end, though, desperation took over and we decided that the gamble would be worth it and that we could give Chipotle a shot tonight.

Subsequently, I took a nap on the couch, only to wake up hours later to observe Jan mediating a debate of sensations between her digestive and reproductive systems.  However, since that all began back when Topanga's parents told her they were getting a divorce and she called off her engagement with Cory, and now I'm watching them on their honeymoon, it's fairly safe to say that Jan's gastrointestinal tract has won the day.  So now it is a very real fear of mine that on Monday we'll be back where we've been every week for the past month: at the OB/GYN's office, being told that every single thing is progressing exactly as it should... except for this kid's plan for egress.

Teach Me How To Baby: Part Three

So now we've finally found ourselves in the third and final portion of our day at Baby School.  Having already been provided with a decent amount of time to pass judgement on the other people in our class during the previous two sessions, we eagerly scarfed down our chicken wraps in anticipation of what was to come.  Although I was questioning the logistics of having this session immediately following lunch, I was excited to see who could make it through...

SESSION III: EXFILTRATION

I definitely tried my best in this session to not be too critical of my peers; after all, we (and by "we", I of course mean "Jan") were birth-newbies as well.  There was definitely some helpful information that was presented: for instance, we learned that in order to pay for BGA's birth certificate, we would need to bring a check to the hospital.  ...so item #1 on my to-do list quickly became "find a damn check".

Another helpful tip came in the form of an acronym (and gosh-help-me if I don't love a good acronym) that was designed to help us determine if Jan's water has broken appropriately and healthily.  Apparently all we need to remember to do is COPE:

C - Color

O - Odor

P - Amount

E - Time

I know what you're thinking.  In the moment, I dutifully copied these words down from the slideshow and listened to the instructor discuss it as if it was dogma.  My inner grad student was taking over as I could feel myself shutting off my brain and blindly memorizing information without making inferences, when suddenly, I snapped back to reality and realized that this acronym, while cute, was a little confusing.  I then spent the next 5 minutes trying to figure out how to decipher it, and this is the best I could come up with:

C - Color: It should be clear.  Got it, but is clear a color?  Why, then, doesn't the "C" just stand for "clear"?

O - Odor: I suppose it should have one.  ...I ain't sniffing it, though.  If something gushes forth from betwixt my wife's legs, I guarantee you my initial reaction is not, "What do you suppose that smells like??"

P - Amount: What?  "P" isn't short for "amount"!  Who wrote this??  Unless they want me to measure the amount of "P" that is now running down my leg because "holy crap, my wife's water broke, we're about  to have a baby," this letter is out of place.

E - Time: Ok, that's cheap.  No 3rd grade student has ever received anything better than a B on an acrostic poem if they used the last letter from a word instead of the first.  That's bush league.

This led to me developing my own acronym to help me remember what to do when Jan's water breaks; I need to remember to FREAK.

F - F***, her water broke.

R - Realize it broke on the upholstery of your car... see "F".

E - Emit a series of shrieks and profanities at drivers in-between wherever you are and the hospital.

A - Act cool; don't do anything to get kicked out of the delivery room (e.g., no animal noises during labor).

K - Klepto: get ready to steal A TON of free baby supplies when the nurses aren't looking.

There's an acronym A-student right there; fine work, Dwight Schrute.

There was also a discussion about the stages of labor through which one will pass.  I assumed that the point of this discussion was twofold: 1) to inform the mother about the natural progression of the birthing process and to familiarize her with the benchmarks to be achieved, and 2) to give the father just enough information to look like a complete jackass in front of trained medical personnel, when he starts talking about cervical effacement and at which station the baby is.

  

Oh, Barbie; if only it was really that easy.

I'd like to also point out before I venture any further that I firmly believe people are fully entitled to bring forth their seed in whichever HEALTHY AND SAFE way that they deem appropriate.  If you want to use the squat bar, go natural, have a c-section, be at home... heck, even if you want to give birth in a cave full of bonobos, if it is safe for your baby, go right ahead.  I used to joke with Jan that I was going to bring a snorkel, flippers, water wings, and a backyard pool to the hospital for a water birth.  (There may have also been mention of a Hibachi, I'm not sure anymore.)  The point is: to each their own.  No matter what method chosen, though, it should be pretty clear by the time you're thinking about actually delivering that the baby has to somehow transition from inside to outside.  ...and this is what seemed to have been lost on some of the people with which I was currently sharing a conference room.

Click here to see a method that was NOT discussed, mobile readers (WARNING: side-boob within).

Ourselves, we've chosen to be what we consider "fairly simple".  We've done our research, consulted with our doctors, and my wife has bravely adopted the attitude of, "I learned a lot, so I know what I want, but in the end, they're the medical professionals and I can listen to their suggestions."  (NOTE: whims of a pregnant woman subject to change at any time.)  I know a few people who have given birth in their homes (by either choice or necessity) and personally, I'm fine with that; it's most likely not for me, though.  For one, I don't have the time or money to replace the carpets.  For another, sometimes we leave takeout containers on the kitchen counter for days because we get too busy (are too lazy) to clean them up; imagine what would happen if we had a pile of soiled, birthed-on linens and pillows.  I suppose if I had to pick an approach to actual birthing methodology, I would most likely align with the perspective of Patton Oswalt:

  

 Click here, mobile readers, for a birth-related chuckle.

Anyway, I digress.  I myself do benefit from some medical training on childbirth, but as I mentioned, I am aware that many others do not.  Fine.  However, these people around me should probably not have been as absolutely, amazingly, life-alteringly shocked as they were when they watched a relatively work-appropriate clinical film discussing the, um, "physics" of childbirth.  ...and I don't mean anything incredibly advanced here: I'm talking {inside baby + hole = outside baby}.  Isn't that the whole point of 7th-grade sex education, to make you understand what's going to happen so you too scared to even look down in the shower until you've hit high school??  

  

Comedian Jeff Foxworthy discussed the childbirth process in part of a bit about becoming a father for the first time and how impressed he was with the physical accomplishment of labor.  When he mentioned that his buddies tried to cajole him into filming the birth, he said that he couldn't imagine who would want to see that tape (he also suggested that any woman whose husband filmed her labor should be allowed to film her husband's hemorrhoid surgery).  He described what he saw as "watching a wet Saint Bernard attempt to come in through the cat door."  As a young boy, when I first heard this, I immediately understood the relationship between actions and consequences, even if I didn't understand yet how someone even got pregnant.

  

My favorite part of the previous session on breastfeeding was when some of the other students came out of their shells and started asking questions.  Guess what?  That was my favorite part of the birthing session, too.  The following few gems were actual queries for which adult humans raised their hands to ask in front of their peers immediately after watching a video explaining, in great detail, the entire birthing process:

  

"So, does this stuff apply to all women?"

No, dear.  You're special; just after your water breaks, Hermione Granger will show up with her textbooks from Potions class, brew up a batch of shrinking potion, and squirt it up into your nether-region.  Your child will shrink down and drop right out.  Don't worry about any of those contractions, dilations, and such; those are only for muggles.

"Do the vaginal birth procedures apply if I'm having a C-Section?"

I mean, on the surface, this may seem like a completely legitimate question, but in reality, she was asking something along the lines of, "If I'm playing basketball at recess, do I still need a baseball glove?"  In the interest of being nice though (as the instructor was), I will answer your question: "No, if you're not having this type of birth, than the procedures for this type of birth don't apply to you.  ...also, remember when you were digging in your purse earlier because you couldn't find your lipstick and makeup mirror?  That's when the video covered C-Sections."  (True story, girlfriend was NOT paying attention at all.)

  

"So, you're saying we won't know our cervix size until we get to the hospital?"

Well, that depends: how good are your powers of estimation?  "Hmm, I'm feeling like I'm about 3 centimeters; guess I'll put that pot roast in the oven after all."  I can appreciate that you may actually be considering not rushing off to the hospital if you think you're going to be in early-labor stage for a long time, I really do.  That's actually quite smart.  But how exactly do you propose checking your cervical dilation outside of the hospital?  Oh, shucks, I should've waited for your follow-up question...

"Is there a way that I can check how dilated I am by myself at home?"

...knock.  yourself.  out.  Beyond the fact that I have only a little faith in America as a whole to understand the metric system, what are the physics behind how she's planning to approach measuring this?  Does she have a crotch-height road cone with measurement rings drawn onto it or something?  The instructor tried to get creative in her answer, but eventually put forth, "A way to measure without going to the hospital??  ...Sure, go to the doctor's office."

In all seriousness though, despite my observations, sidebar comments, and furious transcribing of questions and answers, my wife sat beside me taking it all in.  I stole glances of her during the video and the presentation, and there she sat, strong and stalwart while gingerly caressing her abdomen.  Afterwards I caught her eyes and non-verbally asked her, "are you ok?"  She looked back at me like I was an idiot.  I followed up with her once we had left the building that afternoon, and she said to me, "Hey, baby girl's gotta get out somehow, right?  Might as well just get it done."  My wife, ladies and gentlemen.  She saw it all unfold before her on a film that was made during a decade when disposable razor blades were apparently not readily available to women and still took it all in stride.  Even after hearing the phrase "Ring of Fire" about 15 times, she looked like she was ready to film her own pregame UnderArmour commercial.

Sorry Johnny, but you should've gotten the copyright.

So now, we're playing the waiting game.  As I write this, Jan is resting, although most assuredly uncomfortably, upstairs in bed; ensconced in a pregnancy pillow, she's most likely dreaming of a time when she can once again sleep on her stomach.  She wrote a note to BGA on a whiteboard last week for our 36-week-picture that read, "Mom's sick of carrying you, it's Dad's turn for a while," and man oh man, I can't wait.  The carrier is actually fully adjusted and ready to go.  There's only one person who knows when it's gonna be go-time, though, and that person is currently "underwater".  ...so I guess I had better dig out my snorkel.

Ready fora water birth!!

Teach Me How To Baby: Part Two

...so on we progressed to the second session.  Before I launch into the topic of the next 90-minute presentation, I must confess that I have had to make my peace with the fact that, during thepregnancy and child-raising, there are experiences with which I will never have the opportunity to be familiar.  There are  things that mothers go through that us men will never get to know, be they perceived as positive or negative.  Oh sure, women may never know the joys of urinating with good aim in a standing position, or... um.... ok, maybe peeing standing up is all we have.
 
So here is my point: there is so much that, when it comes down to it, us guys really can't open our mouths too much about.  Yeah, guys, I know that no woman will ever know what it feels like to catch a fastball right in the yambag (FYI ladies, it hurts A LOT).  ...but fellas, let's all give up the charade: hobbling down the first base line towards the nearest icepack for your crotch simply cannot compare to what it must feel like to bring forth one's own young.  Unless of course, bros, you recently squeezed out a plum-sized kidney stone.

That being said, I can now introduce the topic for our second childcare presentation.

SESSION II: BOOBS, BOOBS, BOOBS
Guys!  Are you a fan of dairy products, and do you like breasts?  Well then: do I have a 90-minute course for you!  Being the perceptive individual that I am, I was quickly able to glean from the title of the session, "Breastfeeding", that I was essentially about to watch videos that would mimic HBO, 10:00pm-11:30pm on any given weeknight.  Simultaneously though, I also thought to myself (in a stroke of analogy) how much more fun those paper wrappers from the outside of straws are in spitwad form than they are as boring old straw-protectors: sometimes things aren't nearly as amusing when you're seeing them be used as they were actually intended.

Don't even bother checking the diaper; we know what this kid was crying for.

My opinion with regard to breastfeeding is similar to my opinion regarding pregnancy and childbirth: if you're doing it safely, than who am I to really judge?  I'm not the one who has to go through with it.  I don't want to engage in a debate with people over whether or not they should be breastfeeding in public, or for the most part, for how long they should breastfeed... as far as I'm concerned, if the kid needs it, do it.  Now: I do think there is a line.  I don't think any mother should be showing up at their kid's elementary school and pulling their third-grader out of class to get in a good deep latch just before P.E. (and yes, a friend told me a story about a member of their "Mommy & Me" group who did exactly this).  If the kid is old enough to make the sentence, "You know what, mother?  Today I think I would prefer JuicyJuice, solely for the nutritional variety," then you should probably not be sticking your nipple down his gullet anymore.

NOTE: No, I am not saying all women are cows. <drags pillow to couch just to be safe>

Because I'm so mature, I of course kept a running tally during the class of everytime we saw a pair of breasts, full-on, not being used for nursing (oh, Jan totally helped; she's not that innocent).  ...17.  Over a ninety-minute period.  Do you know how much better 8th grade would have been if this was the breast-to-time ratio with which every class was taught?  I would've SLAYED Algebra!

In contrast to our first session where Jan and I had the fortune of being previously exposed to babies, neither of us have actually breastfed before.  We did have the opportunity to absorb some genuinely great information, and I was afforded the opportunity to nerd-out a bit, learning about the different types of breastmilk that are produced over the first 7 days following birth.  Our instructor also provided us with some great resources about how to use lactation services (should BGA experience some feeding difficulties) as well as how to access community resources for new mothers.  We were also given the opportunity to use dolls to practice some different breastfeeding positions, and I gotta tell you, some of these actually go beyond what I would've thought.  Apparently, breastfeeding makes women really, really creative.  I overheard the instructor refer playfully to the multitude of breastfeeding positions as "The Momma Sutra".

Apparently, practicing feeding is easier if your baby's face has already been smashed-in by repeated breast-poundings.

Luckily for me, we were told to bring our questions to the breastfeeding session.  Yes, we had questions, and much of our cohort did as well; and I am not going to pass judgment on the quality of their questions.  .....oh, who am I kidding?  Of course I am.  Again, being honest: the gentlemen in the room, when presented with this boob overstimulation  (myself included) all pretty much turned into Chander and Joey from this classic Friends clip:

  

Click here, mobile readers, to see arguably the only video that is PG-rated for this blog topic.

  

Obviously, the room was filled with first-time parents who were there, wisely, to seek out the wisdom of the experts.  Some questions were absolutely fantastic (i.e., "Does it matter what you eat to help your milk for breastfeeding?").  I have chosen to write below only the questions that drew a surprised reaction from the breastfeeding expert, as I feel like that was a fair gauge as to the level of "out there" that some of these questions were:

"Does the baby need to be awake to breastfeed?"

Ok, I can only assume that this young mom couldn't find a better way to express that she meant 'does the baby need to be WIDE awake' to breastfeed.  On some level, my friend, yes: your child needs to be awake.

  

"Is making an appointment with a lactation consultant like making an appointment with a doctor?"

I don't even know what this means.  I she asking about the style of the appointment?  I she asking about the availability of the lactation consultant in the hospital?  ...or is she asking if she can't use a telephone but instead needs to illuminate the night sky over Gotham City with a boob-shaped bat signal?  The instructor tried to clarify three times before eventually giving up and answering, "Yes."

"I'm having a C-section, so I don't need to breastfeed, right?"

...sure, try that.  Look, I am well aware that some people choose to use only formula, which is fine, and some people have problems breastfeeding and are forced to use formula all of the time, which is also fine, of course.  Please do not assume, though, that your breasts are rendered useless for feeding simply because you had a C-section.

  

"Can someone else breastfeed my baby?"

Someone else like WHO?  Another woman who is producing milk?  Sure, if that's how you want to do it; the baby's father?  Most likely not.  Again, if you and another close mom friend of yours want to play "Mix-and-Match Dinner Buffet" with your kids, knock yourselves out; but I feel pretty confident speaking for Jan when I say that is not a top option in this house.

  

"Can that dad feed the baby with the mom's breast while the mom is still sleeping?"

This one took the instructor a minute or two.  She tried a few times to answer as if she understood what the man was asking.  It seems as if he was expressing some sympathy towards his wife and the amount of time that she will need to spend breastfeeding, but simply the physics of this arrangement baffle me.  Ladies: if your breasts are swollen with milk, forget the baby for a second; wouldn't you wake up if your partner reached over under the sheets, scooped one up, and clamped your baby onto it??

  

The breastfeeding accessory for the mother who wants watch male observers REALLY do a double-take.

One of the dads in our group did a calculation after hearing some of the breastfeeding statistics and was flabbergasted with how much time was required to feed his kid.  "Let me get this straight," he began.  "It can take 30-45 minutes to feed and burp each time, and you're telling me that we'll need to do this 8-12 times every day, including at night?"  The instructor nodded.  "That's, like, an hour each time, every two hours!  When are we supposed to sleep??"  The instructor held back a knowing chuckle, and this gentleman's partner shot him a look as if to say, "I TOLD YOU to get condoms on the way home!"

 As I alluded to in a caption within this post, there aren't too many videos that I can insert here that wouldn't draw the "age-verification" popup of YouTube.  Such is the nature of the topic, and such was the nature of the class. The image that I won't be able to get out of my brain however was not one of disgust, but of awe with the capabilities of the human (female) body... and how sometimes innocent things can look really inappropriate.  (Due to the potentially suggestive nature of the image I am referencing, I will paint you a word-picture rather than post an actual image.)  

   

During one of the final videos, we were being shown just how far the nipple can essentially be stretched when <ahem> under vacuum pressure.  The animation in the film was a cutaway of a baby's mouth with a mother's nipple fully involved, and it was demonstrating what the entire process looks like from inside the child's mouth.  The animation, though, was of an oral cavity suckling on an elongated, cylindrical, flesh-colored object which, after a certain amount of reciprocating motion, would emit small white liquid droplets.  OH COME ON, breastfeeding class; you can't make it that easy.  I made sure to casually glance around to see how the other men were handling this, and don't worry, I was not alone.  It was like being back in 7th grade sex ed, and watching the guys giggle because the filmstrip narrator just said the word "testicles".  Even my own wife, a beacon of rationality, virtue, and sanity, grumbled audibly, "oh GEEZ," and grabbed my hand under the desk as if to say, "how in the hell have you not lost it watching this?"

I'm thinking this individual didn't take the breastfeeding class.

It was at this point we were afforded a lunch break as we rotated onward, which was good, considering the appetite I had worked up thinking about milk for the preceding 90 minutes.  Jan and I casually made our way to the next room and, as we unpacked our chicken wraps, we overheard someone only half-jokingly expressing their uneasiness with eating immediately before our next presentation.  We glanced at our schedule and knew that although our constitutions would be fine, we may be in for a treat observing the rest of the group once we saw what was in store for us next...........