The Birth...or, How We Had a Baby in the Car

I will freely admit that I used to be one of those people who, upon hearing of some woman who had given birth to a baby in a bizarre place, like the car or the elevator, thought to myself, "Good God, woman, didn't you KNOW the baby was about to come out?!" I will never again think that thought. As it turns out, women are NOT in charge of when - or where, for that matter - their babies are born. The thing that stands out most to me about Betty's birth is the incredibly primal way my body took over. There was absolutely nothing I could have done to keep her "in" for any longer than I did, as everything about it was totally involuntary, including the pushing. I've decided to chronicle our labor and birth experience here, as I feel the effects of that miraculous amnesia hormone oxytocin even now, and I don't want to forget.

Sean and I had planned extensively for a natural, unmedicated birth, and part of that plan included having our beloved doula, Claire, by our sides. We didn't just want her there, we *needed* her there. And we could have her, as long as I had the baby by Feb. 13th. Claire was going out of town for three weeks beginning early in the morning of the 14th. By Feb. 12, I was panicking. I went four days past my "due" date with Ella, but for some reason had an unrealistic expectation of giving birth early to this baby. Obviously that didn't happen, and with Claire's 3-week absence looming ever closer, I asked my midwife for help. Until this point I had been doing everything I could do to naturally ready myself and - though I loathe the phrase - move things along. Evening primrose oil, red raspberry leaf tea, long brisk walks, scrubbing the floors, spicy food...the works. At my last exam on the 12th, I was dilated to 3 cm and the baby was fully engaged. In fact, the baby had been fully engaged (i.e., had "dropped) for 2 weeks. My midwife's exam was rather...rough, in order to hopefully start some contractions. By the time I got home from the appt, I was having contractions every 12 minutes. Woohoo! My labor with Ella had been about 23 hours long, so I knew that I probably had at least 12 hours before the baby would be born. I made sure my bag was fully packed, that our birth plan was in order, and called Claire to give her the heads up. She made me promise that if my water broke or if my contractions were less than 6 minutes apart, I'd call her right away.

Sean and I settled in to watch the opening ceremonies of the winter Olympics that evening, stopwatch in hand. And the damned contractions slowed down. And became sort of sporadic. My midwife had warned me about this, so I wasn't surprised, but it did mean that I very well may not have the baby in the next 24 hours as I had hoped.

(I feel the need to insert a sidenote here to explain that without my doula's impending absence I would have under no circumstances been in any hurry to have the baby. I truly believe that our bodies and our babies work together, and under normal circumstances when left alone, babies are born exactly when they are ready. But we NEEDED Claire. Or so we thought.)

5:00 a.m. rolled around, and I woke up to one long contraction that lasted 30 min. It wasn't the hardest I'd ever felt, but it certainly meant business. When that monster contraction finally stopped, they began coming every minute and a half. That's odd, I thought. Surely they'll spread out. They got stronger and stronger, but no further apart. After about 40 minutes they were strong enough that I needed to use some relaxation techniques to cope, and I asked Sean to take me through our relaxation script. He got through the first part of it when I realized that I was starving. I knew I wouldn't feel like eating when the contractions got any stronger, so I stopped him to eat a banana, and then got myself into a comfortable position to continue to breathe through the contractions. I was pleased to find that the little bit of relaxation Sean had led me through was enough to put me in the perfect frame of mind, and I was easily able to go in and out of deep relaxation to cope with each contraction. At about 6:00 a.m., we called Aunt Jamie, who was on call to come sit with Ella while we were at the hospital. She lives about an hour away, and though I hated to wake her up that early, we didn't know how long we had (boy is that the understatement of the year). I was still feeling pretty good at that point, and joked with her about skidding sideways into the neighbor's yard when she arrived.

After about an hour, the contractions were still coming every 2 minutes, and were getting harder and more painful. I asked Sean if he thought it was too obscenely early to call Claire. He thought 6:30 a.m. was perfectly reasonable considering I was obviously in labor, so I drew myself a bath and while the tub was filling, gave her a call. Claire was lovely, as always, and very comforting while I needed to pause our conversation to breathe through a contraction. She thought we were likely getting quite close, and advised me to enjoy my bath, but to have Sean get everything loaded in the car and call her as soon as I got out.

The warm water felt wonderful, but my contractions got so hard that I began to think that if this was going to go on for another six or seven hours, I was going to need some serious support to cope. At one point I found myself remembering why women ask for pain relief during labor. It HURTS! Immediately I pushed all notions of medical pain relief out of my mind and returned my focus to relaxation.

Claire is a certified hypnotherapist, so we prepared for our natural birth with deep relaxation and hypnotherapy techniques. One of the exercises we used was a "special place". Because I have always loved to be underwater and as a child used to pretend I could live under the water in the swimming pool and bathtub, my special place was under the water at Bokissa, the resort in Vanuatu where Sean and I spent the end of our humanitarian trip in 2006. Sitting in the bathtub, my contractions got so intense that I found myself imagining that special place, imagining the different fish I could see under the water, the sunlight streaming through, and I'll be damned if it didn't work. I could certainly still feel everything, but by placing myself somewhere else, I was able to get through it much more easily than if I were concentrating on the pain. My usual rather ineffective tendency when in pain or discomfort is to draw my shoulders up and literally try to pull myself up and out of the pain, but using these deep relaxation techniques forced me to do exactly the opposite - to sink in, to let myself go down as deep as I could go and breathe through the pain. Without Claire's expert loving guidance and Sean's commitment to practice the relaxation techniques with me, I know now that I wouldn't have been able to trust myself enough to do this.

Another part of the relaxation scripts Sean and I practiced and planned to use during labor were birth "affirmations" (insert Stuart Smalley joke here...). These were short phrases meant to comfort and empower me, to give me strength and courage and faith in my ability to cope. Claire takes pains to eliminate any offending phrases from her rather large affirmations arsenal, to ensure that I wouldn't find myself hearing a phrase I really didn't find helpful in the middle of a contraction. One such phrase that I insisted she not use was "Breathe love down to your baby." Something about this seemed so gaggingly precious that I couldn't stand to hear it. How odd, then, that this is the very phrase I found myself repeating in my head, in Claire's voice, through the most difficult of contractions as I lay on my side in the bathtub. Deep breath in, "Breathe love down to your baby..." Slowly exhale, "Mother and baby working together now..." Another deep breath in, "This is the last time you'll ever have to experience this contraction..." Slowly exhale, "Your body knows exactly what to do..." I didn't realize at this point just how true that last one is, but I was about to find out.

I labored in the tub for about 20 minutes or so, and the pain was so intense by that time that I couldn't figure out how to get myself out of the bath. Thank goodness Sean came to check on me, and I whisper-mumbled to him about helping me out. As soon as I was out, my water broke. I mumbled incoherently something about "it's time to go," and asked Sean to get my clothes. Those of you with children know how difficult it is to dress a wet toddler - arms won't go into sleeves, fabric sticks to body in all the wrong places, etc. Imagine trying to dress a wet hippopotamus, a hippopotamus that also refuses to cooperate and sits limply slumped, and you will get some idea of the challenge poor Sean faced. I recall as he tried to help me into my underwear thinking to myself, way back in the back of my mind, "good God, man, could you have found any smaller underwear?" but I couldn't get any words of protest out and was stuck with them.

Sean ran out to start the car and open the gate, and I paced circles around the living room, panting. Aunt Jamie was sitting on the couch and asked me something I don't remember - "does it hurt?" or "are you in pain?" or something to that effect. I mumble-nodded something incoherent in response and continued to pace and willed Sean to hurry. After what seemed like hours but was likely less than a minute, he came back to help me into the car. I knew immediately upon sitting down that there was no way in hell I could ride to the hospital sitting in that seat. I flipped around onto my knees, facing backward, and leaned my upper body over the seat. And then I had the strongest, most ridiculous contraction yet, and to my horror, found myself *pushing* at the end of it! I let out a blood-curdling scream, a scream that surprised me and didn't sound like any sound I could have made, a scream that sent Aunt Jamie flying out of the house to see if I was okay, a scream that woke the neighbors. Sean wasn't phased. He shut my door, jumped in the car, and sped out of the driveway.

I continued to use relaxation techniques on the way to the hospital, and realized that we hadn't had time to call Claire! I mumbled something to Sean about calling her and our midwife, and he fumbled with my phone looking for the numbers. I heard him say, far away, "Claire, we're on our way to the hospital...oh! wrong Claire - Sorry!", then swearing under his breath and trying again (he had inadvertently called the first Claire in my phonebook, a friend of ours we haven't seen for over two years. She is probably still confused about that call...). He left a message for our midwife, and I could hear raindrops on the car. Suddenly I was hot, too hot to live, so hot that I wanted to stick my head out the window but that would require moving and I certainly wasn't capable of moving. Sean turned the heat off and switched off the seat heater. I mumbled something about just running the red lights after I felt the car roll to a stop for what seemed like the hundredth time and heard Sean swear again. We went around a couple of turns and I hoped against hope that we were there, and that Claire was somewhere close.

Sean pulled into an "authorized parking only" spot just outside the hospital entrance, which was also just outside the emergency room. He opened my door and ran inside to grab a wheelchair for me. Just as he was headed back with the wheelchair, I had another one of those ridiculous, bodysnatching contractions, and again found myself pushing, totally against my will, and again was screaming that awful scream. This time I felt the baby crown. "The baby's coming!" I yelled at Sean. "What!?" he yelled back. "THERE'S A HEAD IN MY PANTS!" I roared back. He turned and yelled something about his wife having a baby to the two nurses standing outside the E.R. and ran to me. I had flipped myself up onto the passenger seat of the car and was repeating "take off my pants, take off my pants, take off my pants!" He managed it just as the baby's head came fully out. I had my hand on the baby, and Sean was trying to swat my hand away, thinking I was somehow going to prohibit her from coming all the way out (foolish man, it was totally clear to me by this point that I was NOT IN CHARGE of getting that baby out, and he or she was coming out regardless of what I did or did not do). While this is something I don't think I ever would have done had I been inside the hospital, I HAD to feel the baby, I had to know exactly what was happening. Sean looked at the baby, looked up at me, and very earnestly said the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard: "Can you push?" Could I NOT push was a better question, and furthermore, how did he know when to tell me to push? My conscious mind had nothing to do with what was going on, and I had no more control over pushing than I did the rotation of the earth. Regular Dana wanted to laugh, but In-Labor Dana couldn't manage it. I knew the next contraction was right around the corner and I would push with it. Push with it I did, and as Claire is so fond of saying, baby comes out!

Sean caught the baby and gently placed her on my lap, just as the E.R. doctor and what looked like about a hundred nurses came running up. The doctor immediately picked the baby up and looked around in a panic, clearly F-R-E-A-K-E-D out and not knowing what to do. I was so relieved to have the baby out, and so certain that everything was just fine, that I gently asked him to give the baby to me. (So convinced was I that the baby was a boy, I actually said, "please give him to me." It didn't occur to me to check the gender at that point.) He looked relieved that someone knew what to do, and handed her over. I put her under my shirt next to my skin, and began rubbing her back. What I didn't know at this point was that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around her neck a whopping three times, and this was the reason Sean had asked me to push, and the reason this doctor was now losing his shit. Regardless of the people freaking out around her, the baby pinked up right away, and began to cry. The doctor and nurses kept trying to take her from me, but I wasn't letting anyone take her. When the doctor came to clamp her cord right away, I asked him to wait. When the nurses came with ridiculously rough towels to wipe the baby off, I waved them away. I could hear the doctor screaming for "SUCTION!!!" and "WE NEED OXYGEN OVER HERE!", but he seemed miles away as I focused entirely on this new miracle of a baby, memorizing every feature and marveling at the fact that she looked nothing like Ella. The ER staff were looking worried and perplexed about how they were going to get me onto the gurney to take me inside when I told them I could walk, and, to their surprise (and with bare butt to the breeze), walked over to the gurney and climbed on.

I was so focused on the baby on the way through the hospital that I really don't know how I got to labor and deliveryl. I vaguely recall being wheeled into the elevator, and the person in the elevator looking shocked and getting off to allow all of these people in. It wasn't until this point that I thought about the baby's gender. Was this a boy or a girl!? I felt between her legs and didn't feel anything that would suggest a boy, but was still sort of convinced that she was a boy, considering all of the people throughout my pregnancy who were certain I was carrying a boy. Upon visual inspection we were thrilled to see that our new little bundle was indeed a girl. I had secretly hoped, and Sean had not-so-secretly hoped, for a girl throughout my pregnancy, and both of us were ecstatic to have our little Betty Marie.

I was becoming a little frantic by now amidst all the hospital-hype, hoping for Claire and our midwife to arrive, when a resident grasped the umbilical cord and began to pull to deliver the placenta. They had already taken the baby and put her under a warmer, despite my rather fervent protests, and now they were threatening to do things I didn't want done to me. which was of course my worst fear in having a baby in the hospital. My knight in shining armor (Sean, of course), jumped over me and in no uncertain terms told her to let go. I found it surprising that the resident was shocked. She asked me, "Really? You don't want me to pull it out?" I replied, "No! What's it been, five minutes?", to which the nurse retorted, "NO, it's been FIFTEEN! You don't want that thing in there - you want it out." I thought to myself that "that thing" is what has supported my baby for the last nine months and will deliver itself in due time. If it's not out in an hour, we'll talk. Somehow, and to my great delight, amidst all the chaos the nurses forgot to administer the "routine" pitocin injection to speed the placenta delivery. The attitude that without medical intervention babies (and placentas) simply can't be delivered never ceases to amaze and horrify me.

15 minutes after Betty was born, Claire and our midwife rushed in. And none too soon, either. Claire swooped in, heard me pleading with the nurses to have my baby back and saved the day, saying, "Oh yes, skin to skin contact with a warm blanket is WONDERFUL! That's exactly what this baby needs..." and made it happen. Our midwife came in and immediately took over caring for me, and with baby nursing contentedly, I finally exhaled. Our little Betty Marie was perfect. She weighed in at 6 lbs, 9 oz and measured 19 inches long - a full pound lighter and an inch shorter than her big sister was at birth. Our nurse, Donna, took her tiny footprints, and while her feet were still inked, gave Sean a baby footprint "tattoo" on his forearm. Within 2 hours of the birth I was in the shower and feeling great. We stayed in the hospital for a short 12 hours and were home by 8:30 that evening to snuggle up on the couch with our new little girl and watch the Olympics.

We could have done without the frantic ER staff, but all in all, Betty's birth couldn't have gone much better. I've been asked by many people whether I was devastated to have had the baby in the car after so much preparation for a natural labor and birth - and the associated expectation that "natural" must mean terribly difficult and long - but I think she arrived just the way she was meant to, and thanks to my "cool-as-a-cucumber" (the ER doc's description) husband and hero, all is well. I can recall thinking to myself after Ella's birth that it would be a looooooong time before I could even begin to think about the possibility of having another baby, but if another child were in our plans at this point, I'd be ready to go today. I didn't have any of the postpartum "baby blues", or the horrible physical aftermath that I had the first time, and I can only attribute my continued postpartum happiness and contentedness to Betty making such an ideal arrival. Every woman deserves to have a birth like I had, and I'm so grateful to have had the experience we did.

PS: For those of you wondering about the condition of our car after all of that, fear not. Apparently because the lower half of me was all but out of the passenger-side door, there was nary a spot inside. PHEW!

New photos!

A post about Betty's remarkable birth is coming very shortly, but before my family and Sean's poor family disowns me for lack of photos, here are some from the past couple of weeks. Our little "chubber-wub", as Ella calls her, now tips the scales at more than 10.5 lbs and is wearing 3-month baby clothes. She is as big now as Ella was at 2 months! She's still rather good-natured, and still does her damnedest to keep mama up all night. Ella's still a maniac and still does her damnedest to put mama in a home. :) Ella's a fabulous big sister, loves "her Betty-Boo" to pieces, and if I'm not on full alert, does her best to maul her.

Sean and his girls.

Silly camera smile.

Even sillier camera smile.

Betty at three weeks.

Sean & Betty (3 weeks old).

I have no idea what kind of a face this is, but it's hilarious.
We were all dressed up to go to a friend's fun bar mitzvah
celebration, where Ella danced *all* night.

Master & apprentice. (It's hard to say which is which...)

Sleeping baby (3.5 weeks old).

Betty at 4 weeks.

4 weeks.

So happy when Daddy comes home (and saves her from mean Mama...).

Betty at 4.5 weeks.

Budding activist? :)

Okay now she's just dancing.

Betty at 5 weeks (sizey double chin!).

A teeny smile.

Ella sporting a bubble goatee.

Betty sporting some chubbiness.

Look at those cheeks! (and that's quite a double-chin as well)

Ella all fancied up for a trip to IKEA (she can't go anywhere
without that bug box).

Betty tolerating Ella's mauling for long enough for a photo.
(Does anyone else think it's odd that Ella is wearing the same
red dress in almost all of these photos? She loves it, and even
insists on sleeping in it. Thanks Wah Wah Jill!)

Betty Marie

Just a quick photo post of our newest addition.
We are so in love with our little Betty Marie!

Being weighed & measured - about 2 hrs old.

Sean's baby footprint "tattoo".

Sean & Betty, 2 hrs old.

1st carseat ride! On our way home for the first time - 12 hrs old.

Getting ready to leave the hospital.

14 hrs old, at home.

Ella meeting Betty for the first time - 2 days old .


Ella thinking about nursing Betty.

Ella loves her new baby!

Ella discovers that Betty can hold her finger.


Hanging out with Daddy. Look at all that hair!


Ella washing Betty's hair.

Washing "sticky-up horse" in Betty's bath.

Sisters (one week old).

Incubating

Well, it's two days after my due date and I'm still pregnant. Throughout this pregnancy I've felt physically quite well - remarkably well considering the complaints many women have while growing a new person. My pregnancy-induced mental/emotional malfunctions seem to have resolved, with things at Sean's office at a reasonably good place and the Piddies shop closed until further notice. I'm focusing most of my energy on getting ready for a new member of the family, and overall feeling calm and ready. Admittedly, I'd feel a lot more ready if my floors were clean, but negotiating the movements necessary for cleaning floors at this late, rotund stage may just be a little more than I'm able to do.

Knowing that once this baby makes his or her arrival Ella's life is going to be plunged into utter boring-itude, I've been taking advantage of each day I have with our current only child. We've been to the zoo, the park, have taken lots of walks, and have spent many an hour on the floor of her bedroom playing and reading stories. I hope it's enough to hold her over until I'm able to pull it together enough to be fun again.

It's already a well-known fact that I am planning on and have prepared extensively for an unmedicated, natural birth. (Please hold the root canal comparisons - they don't jive well for a woman married to a dentist anyway.) After our rather horrendous experience with Ella's birth and the disastrous side effects of the epidural which nearly caused me to have a c-section, I am confident that barring an emergency, the allure of an epidural will not prove too tempting this time. Between my midwife, doula, and Sean, I feel completely supported and am actually looking forward to this baby's birth with surprisingly calm focus. The aftermath of having a toddler and a newborn to care for simultaneously I am approaching with more of a fuzzy, how-in-the-hell-am-I-going-to-survive squint.

Gloom, Doom, and the rest of it

Ella’s been swearing away here for long enough, methinks. As anyone who has caught sight of me lately already knows, Sean and I are expecting Foetus #2 in February. That, along with other upheavals, has kept me from the blog, but I’m hoping to be back at least periodically throughout the rest of my pregnancy (no promises about how long Ella might be swearing away after that).

So, pregnancy. In some ways this pregnancy has been easier than my last, and in others it’s been much, much harder. Physically it’s been easier, because I know what to expect. I haven’t been so anxious about whether the baby will be healthy, or what horrendous chromosomal abnormality he or she may have, or having nightmares about the baby being born with unsurvivable defects as I was with Ella, because I frankly just don’t have time. To be honest, it’s probably a good thing childbirth is so incredibly painful, because if it weren’t, I probably couldn’t be bothered to stop what I’m doing long enough to *have the baby*.

The downside of this pregnancy is that I seem to be much less able to handle the seemingly boundless pressure to make sure Sean’s office, my business, and the household are all running effectively before this baby makes his or her arrival. Things are in a constant state of flux depending on which entity I can afford to pay close attention to in any particular week, and I realize now that I’ve been in denial for the last two months about just how bad I feel. Nearly constant anxiety, moments of panic, and entire days of feeling hopeless and sad finally came to a boiling point, mercifully on a day when I happened to have an appt with my midwife that Sean could attend. Poor Sean was taken aback by just how bad it’s been as I sat in the midwife's office and cried, since he’s seen all of this mostly manifest itself as irritability and short-temperedness and I’ve been able to keep the anxiety and despair mostly under wraps. My midwife was – and is – supportive and assured us that this is a perfectly normal reaction to so much stress during pregnancy, but also is concerned about it getting worse if I’m not able to offload some responsibility. Another major concern is the postpartum situation may be magnified if I’m going into the birth feeling like this.

SO, why am I posting this all over the Interweb? Why haven’t I already told any of you any of this? Why in the hell can’t I just ask for help, for Christ’s sake? Because on days when I feel relatively sane and okay, the last thing I want to do is talk about how bad I really feel. I know it will lead to a breakdown each and every time I try to explain it, and the thought of doing that over and over is just too much for me to bear. My rational self realizes the folly in that reasoning, and knows that nobody can help or support me if they don’t even know what’s going on (Sean included). Unfortunately my rational self is simply not in charge right now. I hope everyone I love can understand that, and understand that I don’t think I’m really in a position to ask for help. Despite how ridiculous it sounds, having to ask for help – just thinking about WHAT I would ask someone to do – compounds the anxiety.

Having said all of that, please be assured that I’m not ready to hurl myself from a cliff. I’m doing what I think my rational self would consider the smart thing – admitting that I’m really struggling. If I don’t return phone calls, it’s not because you’re not important to me. It’s more likely because I’m having a bad day and the very thought of trying to sound normal on the phone is crippling. Or it’s because I’m up to my eyeballs in felt, fleece, or dental stuff and I’m busy putting out this or that fire.

The bottom line is that I know I will be fine, but I may need everyone to cut me a little slack while I try to survive the next few months with my sanity intact.

With gloom, doom, and the rest of it,

Dana

Sailor Ella

The hilarity just keeps on coming over here, so here's another snippets post, courtesy of Ella:

"Swear to God, slap my face again," said to her baby doll. (Go right ahead and put those Mother of the Year certificates in the mail...) My mom witnessed this one, and she told me Ella said it with the utmost tenderness and love, and was not in the least bit threatening. I think she maybe was trying to reassure me that Ella wasn't mimicking a horribly abusive mother.

"Sunabitch, my toe!" falling to the ground and holding her toe, mimicking what she had seen me do minutes earlier when she came running over to me and caught the top of my big toenail with the underside of her shoe and I was mortally wounded. She "sunabitch"'d one toe, then took off her other shoe and "sunabitch"'d the other. (Again, those certificates can be sent directly to me.)

Why I feel it's appropriate to post about my two-year-old's swearing sort of escapes me, especially since I'm the one she spends her days with and she's clearly not picking this up on PBS. For some reason I'm apparently totally willing to publicly implicate myself in all of this. For those of you who don't see Ella regularly, she really doesn't do this terribly often, but when she does it is so hilarious - mostly because she says these things in exactly the same way I do - that they're what I remember most and therefore what gets relayed to all of you. If you have children, I'm sure you'll understand how this sort of thing happens, and if you don't have children, why don't you just shut the hell up about my parenting skills?

I'll do my best to be a more civilized example, and in the meantime, I'll continue to share my slip-ups, courtesy of our little parrot Ella Mae.

Ella-isms

As a follow up to the last post, below are several of Ella's latest gems of wisdom. I was reminded to publish this post this evening, when Sean gave Ella a brand new toothbrush, complete with ladybugs, to hopefully help with the nightly toothbrushing battle. Ella's first order of business: brush her belly, poke herself in the eye (after I told her not to poke herself in the eye because it would probably hurt, apparently to make sure I was telling the truth), stick it in her buttcrack, and brush Maggie's teeth.

“It’s a nice sunny day!” She says this every time we’re outside in the sunshine.

“Yes, Mama!” Her standard reply whenever I call for her. It seems so grown-up coming from such a little person.

“I want to hold you,” said when she wants us to hold her.

“Good job, Daddy!” said to Sean when he finished mowing the lawn last weekend.

“Going to let him go back to his family,” said each and every time she lets a bug go. “Family” is pronounced, “fwamwy”.

“Thank you, Mama. That so nice.”

“I brushing my hair so pretty so we can go to the zoo. My friends will be so proud of me!” Said as she was brushing her hair on the morning we met our playgroup at, you guessed it, the zoo.

“OH! He’s so cute! I hold him *every* time,” said of a cute little squirrel at the zoo.

“I going outside for a couple of whiles.”

The other day Ella was playing with the side of the garbage bin in the kitchen, and when I asked her not to do it, she looked me and with a sigh of exasperation, said, “I do it all the time.”

After responding to Ella calling for me from the other room:
Ella: “Don’t yell at me.”
Me, a bit surprised: “I’m not yelling at you, honey.”
Ella: “You’re yelling at me for days.”

At the Asian market this week, I couldn’t find the rice noodles I was looking for, and Ella, seeing that I was a little bit frustrated, asked what was the matter. When I told her, she put her hands up, shook her head, and said, “Oh, damn!” Naturally there was a very nice couple right next to us, who will no doubt nominate me for Mother of the Year.

One night this week we were trying to get Ella to brush her teeth, a previously enjoyable task which has for some reason turned into a nightly throw-down. This week my tactic has been to sing songs about brushing, one of which has a line that repeats the phrase “tooth decay”. “I yike tootie cakes!” she declared at the end of the song. That obviously worked really well.