ema The Education of Deborah Schwartz

More Rejection

I had had a fantasy that when I returned from the hospital after delivering Max, there would be an acceptance letter waiting for me.

I knew it was a stupid thought. Especially as how nowadays most journals send their acceptances via email message. The only things that arrives by post are bad news and bills.

There was no acceptance letter. But I did finally receive my rejection from Tin House.

By the way, I never posted my rejections from Subtropics, I don't think. Here's the one from 2008:

And here's the one from this year:

I still had three more submissions outstanding. And I hadn't heard anything new for a couple of months. But I recently spotted the dreaded thin tell-tale SASE envelope amongst the other mail. My stomach dropped a little. After all these years, and even though I've had enough practice, getting rejected still feels lousy.

The rejection was from Nimrod. I opened the envelope and found ... only the cover letter I had sent them. Nothing else. No rejection slip. No note scribbled on the page. This made me angry. They'd been sitting on my story for months, but couldn't even be bothered to remember to include a rejection slip. I wanted to write them a nasty, grouchy-person email telling them how rude this was. I wanted to get that inevitably pimple-faced, black-turtle-neck-wearing intern in trouble for sloppily forgetting to include my rejection slip. But I figured that would only make me look like a half-cocked nutcase. So I did nothing ... but post my grievance here.

Now I only have two responses outstanding. I have to remind myself: I passed a large baby head through my special place. That was so grand an accomplishment, I couldn't sit for two weeks. These rejections are nothing. When the last outstanding one comes in, I will reread and rework the story and send it out again.

Buck up, Me!

In other news from a melted brain, fellow new Brooklyn mommy Marina, mother of Miles, taught me about the "double leg pump." It's amazing. I was so thrilled after performing this action, I called Brian at work to tell him all about it. Now I'm worry that taking such joy in squeezing a baby until it farts may be a sign of complete derangement.

For the two summers in college when I worked at the Coffee Beanery, I was constantly making coffee drinks, drinking coffee, dreaming of coffee — when I could sleep — and when I lay awake at night, too caffenated to sleep, a ghost of myself would, in my mind's eye, go through the ballet of grinding beans, packing grounds, pressing buttons for single shots, double-shots, frothing milk, leaning the metal container just so to generate the optimal amount of foam.

So why, almost a decade and a half later, shouldn't I be living the waking dream of changing diaper after diaper, wiping that little dirty bum, cleaning spit-up, dressing, undressing, bouncing, feeding, feeding, feeding, poopy, poopy, fart?

Bath, Take 2

I said to myself: We're going to get in and get out.
We'll be super fast. And the worst that could happen is that he could poop on me, which has already happened.

So we took another bath today. Max didn't seem to mind nearly as much. We were quick and efficient. We got out of the tub. I wrapped him in a hooded towel, placed him on the bed, then ran back to the bathroom to quickly dry myself off.

By the time I got back into the bedroom he was smiling. God, no! I said. You're peeing on yourself, aren't you?

And he was. He peed all over his towel, which wouldn't have been so bad if it had not managed to get on our comforter as well.

Is there anything babies don't besmirch with their urine and feces and spit up and vomit and saliva? I keep trying to imagine babies in the wild. I change  Max's diaper about 8-10 times a day. What did ancient babies do? Did babies of yore run around the forest covered in their own yuck? Did cavemommies wrap their babies in leaves? Did they poop less eons ago? Or maybe everyone ran around covered in their own yuck, so it didn't much matter.

Did I mention that Max started smiling? We're now in week 8. He started smiling in earnest about a week and a half ago.

Sometimes, I'll have just fed him, and when I try to sneak off for a snack, he'll start squirming. He wants to eat ... AGAIN. I'll say, I'll beg, "Baby, please, I need to eat something. Please, I'm so hungry." But Baby will give me a face: No f*cking way. I'll start to feel trapped. Exhausted and hungry, I'll start to cry. "Please. I just need a few minutes." But then Baby pulls out one of his toothless, goofy, old man smiles, and my brain melts like a brie wheel in a toaster oven. I am hypnotized. I pull up my shirt and say, "Anything for you, Baby."

I think I finally understand how abusive relationships work.

I've taken some more pictures of our little chameleon. I am extremely proud of Max for posing as both Hall and Oates:

Believe it or not, Max appears to like being photographed. I thought he would freak out when I put the wigs on him, but he didn't seem to mind at all. And he seemed mesmerized by the flash. I guess I'll keep this silliness up as long as he seems to be enjoying himself.

Time and Fear

Everything takes longer than it should.
And if it requires even the slightest bit of brain power, it sometimes doesn't happen at all.

I rarely find a free moment to blog. Free moments are seized for showering and brushing my teeth andr standing in front of the sink, shoving food in my face. When the odd free moment occurs, and all these other necessities have been taken care of, my thoughts are so scattered, trying to write a consistent-sounding blog entry feels impossible.

Twice I stepped into the shower with my underclothes still on. Once I misplaced the mail, only to find I had put it in the fridge. And this morning, when I started pumping, I couldn't figure out why I felt like I was getting dripped on. It was because I had not hooked up the bottles and was pumping breast milk directly into my own lap.

We keep schlepping baby around, but he doesn't seem to mind much. Here are some pictures of him visiting our friends Karen and Rich and their daughter, Lucy, in Nyack:

I also took a new picture of Max all dressed up:

Here are some more pictures of Max just being Max — which means going through a wide range of emotions in the span of a few seconds:

In the meantime, several things I had feared would occur finally did. A woman complimented Brian on what a cute baby he had (he was wearing Max in a front pack), then turned to me and said, "It looks like you're expecting a little one soon as well."

I am not back to slim and trim, I know, but I was still a little surprised. Embarrassed, I said, "That one is mine. I just haven't deflated yet.

Max hates baths. I don't know why. We've tried to bathe him in three different kiddie tubs, but nothing works. He cries so hard he sounds like he's about to asphyxiate. So a couple times a week I fill the adult tub up with some lukewarm water. I climb in holding him. And I feed him, so he doesn't actually notice that he's being bathed. If there is one thing this kid likes, it's eating. Constantly.

Twice I was able to awkwardly bath/feed him without him freaking out. I was very proud of myself for being so clever. The third time, towards the end of his bath, he seemed not to hate it so much. So we stuck around a little longer. I thought, How nice! He is beginning to enjoy the water. Then he gave me a big smile and took a giant baby poop in the tub. Needless to say, things did not end well.

I still don't really feel like a parent. I feel like a phony. Or maybe like I'm babysitting. I half expect another couple to drop by and take Max back with them. It's still so hard for me to believe that this kid is ours. For the rest of our lives.

Maybe things will be different when Max starts recognizing me as something other than a walking milk bag.

Fresh Air

Max has been eating almost continuously for the past 3 days.
I'm exhausted.

Two weekends ago we visited Long Island for our friends Heather and Allison's birthdays. Last weekend we traveled by train to Ithaca to spend some more time with Heather. Here are some pictures of Max in Ithaca:

Max has been growing crazy fast. We had a doctor's appointment last week, and Max was already over 11 pounds. With his latest three days of eating, I'd bet he is near 12 now. Since technology is limited here in our home, when we want to weigh him, we do so at the local laundromat. We can no longer use the scale in the produce section of the grocery store, as it only goes up to ten pounds.

Here is a picture I took this afternoon of Chunkster taking a nap. The blanket was made by Stockyard Queen.

My life would not seem that interesting right now. Sleeping very little and changing a lot of dirty diapers. I saw this and thought it was neat. A giant pothole at the end of my block:

I could write more, but Max is bound to wake up any moment, and then this entry would never get posted. Hope all is well with you.

Cult

It's been four weeks now that this kid has been in our lives, and it still seems so unreal.
At night, I will wake up to small animal noises. I look over, and I see this teeny tiny person stirring in the crib next to the bed. Its movements are hurky-jerky, like a little puppet. What the hell is that?!?

It's our miniature person. It poops and eats and sleeps and poops. It also cries, and occasionally maintains an adorable "awake and alert" state. Still, we feel so compelled to take care of it. We think everything it does is just the greatest thing on Earth.

I have a new philosophy. Newborns are like maniacal cult leaders. They get you good and sleep deprived, and then they rope you into taking care of them. You spend all your time and money on them. You proselytize, telling people how great they are, how yours is the best. Even though you look a mess, you still feel like you've found the one true way. You have no thoughts for yourself. Your only desire is to serve your leader — er — I mean, baby.

We think Max may have colic. He refuses to go to bed and likes to spend much of his non-sleeping time screaming like he's being physically assaulted. This means I spend most of my time swaddling and bouncing and swinging and feeding and had as much time for taking too many pictures of him. But here's another one (actually from week ago):

Brian has posted some more pictures. This one I actually took with my camera phone. It's an authentic poop face:

He posted some videos to his album as well. And one he posted to YouTube. Brian apparently thinks it's hilarious that I do not know the lyrics to the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin.'" Whatever.

Crack and Babies

Babies are like crack.
At least, that's what I imagine. Until recently, I hadn't tried either. Now I have only tried baby.

I believe that both babies and crack will make you feel strange surges of euphoria. But beware! They will both ruin your health. And as you walk around, zombie like, malnourished and sleep-deprived, without concern for your personal hygiene, you will become sure that the only cure for your condition is the exact thing that is causing you so many problems.

An example: After hours of feeding and swaddling and diaper-changing, and cooing, we will finally get Max quiet and asleep in his crib. Here would be my opportunity to take a shower or a nap or make a meal that consists of more than a candy bar or a hand-full of cereal out of the box. But instead, like an idiot, I say, "He looks so sweet and peaceful. I just want to hold him."

DON'T DO IT!!! Do not give in to temptation. It will only cause you pain. Leave the sleeping baby ALONE!

But I am weak. Too often, I give in to the urge. But, like a ticking timebomb of personal woe, as soon as I pick him up, he wakes and begins screaming.

I keep thinking that my life is now measured in teaspoons. I guess this would be correct if a teaspoon could hold about two to three hours at a time. Day and night have little meaning. Brian and I call meals "breakfast" or "dinner," but that is rarely in keeping with the time of day at which they are eaten.

Still, Brian and I seem to think this three week old with a magnificent pair of lungs is the best thing to ever happen to us. Crack.

Max had gotten around a bit lately. He inadvertently got to witness "Baby's First Gay Pride Parade." We also visited the federal courthouse in Brooklyn to see our friend Val become a naturalized US citizen. It was very meaningful, but Max seemed to miss the solemnity of the event, spending the majority of time spitting up or pooping on himself.

I have wanted to blog about all the new and crazy things that we've been experiencing, but the only way I can find time to sit in front of the computer is if I have a baby attached to my boob. This makes typing difficult. I tried to prop Max up and get him to take dictation, but he was hopeless. We worry about him.

I took another picture of Max all dressed up. Here's His Holiness, the Dalai Lama:

I moved around some photos to a new picasa web album. Here is one taken recently with Max and Brian.

More to come.

BabyWatch2010: Max Has Arrived!

The baby is on the outside!

Maximilian Moroch Geller was born at 5:49 am on Wednesday, May 26. 8 lbs, 2 oz, 19.5 in.

I have recapped my experience for many. I will try to do so again in as brief a way as I can.

Monday, around 7:30 pm, I woke up from a nap and felt something gushy. I was relieved that I had not peed on myself. I suspected something was up. Small gushes continued. At midnight, it was noted that I was standing above a puddle of my own making, so we called the doctor. She said call back if I were to begin having contractions.

Just before 4 am I began feeling what I deemed to be contractions. They were irregular and not very painful. I called the doctor at 5:30. She said to call back when they were painful and 5 minutes apart, or else come into her office at 1 pm.

Contractions stopped around 8 am. I panicked. They started again at around 10:45, now more frequent and more painful. I panicked. They were still between 8-10 minutes apart when we showed up at the doctor. It was determined that my amniotic membrane had in fact ruptured, and we were told to precede to the hospital. We were checked into triage at 3:15 pm. By this time I was thoroughly miserable. Blood was taken and sent to the lab. Results didn't get back until almost 6:30, when they were finally able to call the anesthesiologist for the epidural. I went from thinking I was going to die to feeling like I was on vacation.

Brian was wonderful the entire time. I continued feeling fantastic as my body continued to dilate and contract, and the baby's head continued to descend. At 3:30 am, I was told it was almost time to push. I couldn't feel my legs, and was perfectly fine with that, but my doctor seemed to think this wasn't the best. The epidural was shut off (I thought they were just turning it down).

When I first started to feel the contractions, I was very happy to push. But the pain got increasingly worse, and I became increasingly exhausted. Brian, who is usually quite sheepish, and was unable to watch the birthing videos, handled my exposure and writhing remarkably well.

It occurred to me as I felt like I was dying that though there is perhaps nothing more natural than birth, there is nothing that feels more unnatural than passing a small human out through your hooha.

Eventually and horror-show-like, the baby was pushed into the outside. The doctor and nurse wiped him off and laid him on top of me. It was the most foreign thing they could have done. This thing that had just been inside me (and causing me so much pain) was now outside and alive, with eyes and mouth and voice. It was alive! I asked if they could clean him off first. They told me he was as clean as he needed to be. I didn't believe them, as I spied a blood clot in his hair.

They eventually took him to the nursery. I felt like a train had run over the bottom half of my body. And I looked it too. A couple of nurses came in to clean me up. I was completely exposed and in a pool of my own gross with the door to the delivery room wide open to passing traffic, but I couldn't care less.

Brian and I were moved into a postpartum room. We slept. I was told I needed to use a bedpan, but sneaked off to the bathroom on my own, dragging my IV with me. When I returned, unsteady on my feet, there was that same little human. It had followed me here. It was crying. They gave it to Brian and me, and here it was, our son. It didn't seem right that they should trust us with this tiny creature.

I had lugged my giant camera to the hospital, and was so sure I was going to email people and blog about my experience. But I've been completely overwhelmed and exhausted.

Brian and I both think Max is adorable, and I think he looks an awful lot like his dad. Brian wrote this to a family member, and it made me want to cry:

New parenthood, as you know, is unadulterated bliss. All he does is lie there and flail his arms about occasionally, and it makes Deb and I ridiculously happy. It's very odd and magical.

Here are some pictures of Max. I uploaded them to a picasa album:


I think Max looks an awful lot like his dad.

Here are some more.

What a good sport our baby is!

Also, here is an album of some pictures Brian took: