Thursday, 12 August 2010

Here’s a conundrum we’ve thrown around for a few days here: what are the chances that a set of parents, who have two children, have one boy and one girl? Is it a third (~33.3%) or is it half (50%)?

It’s a third. There. Problem settled.

Now on to more pressing issues:

So…I have 31 days from the time of my child’s birth to get them onto my insurance plan. If I don’t get them on my insurance plan by then, then any medical costs they’ve incurred up to that point will not be covered and, further, I won’t be able to get coverage for them until the next calendar year begins.

So, it should be easy enough, right? I mean, I just have to log onto my company’s HR site and add her. The only problem is that, after asking for her name and date of birth, I have to enter in her Social Security Number.

Ah…there’s the kicker. How to get a Social Security Number…hm…

I called the Minnesota Department of Health on Monday. Specifically, I called the woman who passes out birth certificates for home-brewed babies. She wasn’t there. She was out of the office. I was going to leave a message, but her mailbox was full.

So I called Tuesday. Same story.

So I called Wednesday. Same story. But then I pressed 1 for more options, which let me talk to someone else. That woman told me that I could just go ahead and call any county office to get a copy of my daughter’s birth certificate. I told her that my daughter had no birth certificate yet – that’s why I’m calling: I need to create one. She said I’d need to talk to Roxanne. I said I’d called Roxanne three days in a row, but that I just get her voicemail telling me she’s out of the office. This woman didn’t even know Roxanne was out of the office and, after putting me on hold, said there was no one else in the entire Department of Health that could assist me.

So I called back today. No out-of-the-office message. But I still got her voicemail. I left a message asking her to call me back. She hasn’t.

Friday, 13 August 2010

Today, seeking a little venture outside the house, Jennifer and I went and dined at Ruby Tuesday’s. Like the bland Rolling Stones song with which the restaurant shares its name, I’m gonna go ahead and declare Ruby Tuesday’s to be the most mediocre restaurant I’ve been to in a long time.

Let’s see…

The salad bar – probably larger than any other salad bar I’ve seen at other restaurants – had nothing beyond the ordinary: basic lettuce, one choice of cheese, those mouse-turd looking bacon bits, plain, dry-bread croutons, week-old onion bits, and all the blandest dressings you could ever want. There was Ranch, French, lo-cal Ranch, Italian, Thousand Island, and a couple of other super cheap dressings. No poppy seed, or anything else that could possibly take the food outside the ho-hum world of salads.

I ordered the Southwestern Quesadillas. Then the waitress said: “It comes with beef, but if you’d prefer chicken I’ve had it both ways and I think it’s just as good.”

I said: “Oh…um, I didn’t think it came with any meat. I was hoping for no meat.”

She said: “Well we can make it without meat, that’s no problem.”

I said yes, and then she tried to sell me guacamole for an additional $1.99.

Here’s my problem with that: the most expensive ingredient in the meal is the meat. Since I’ve asked to have that removed, shouldn’t I be given the guacamole at no charge? In fact, why slight vegetarians at all? Why not just list the meal as coming with your choice of beef, chicken, or guacamole? Or better yet, why don’t you hold the meat, give me the guacamole AND the $1.99.

Anyway.

Jennifer got fries with her meal, and so I grabbed one off her plate, because I’m greedy that way. Yuck. I’ve had better fries at McDonald’s. And they were less expensive, too. These were just the most absolutely plain fries you could possibly ask for. They had no seasonings on them, they were soggy, they were limp, they looked like they were snagged out of a frozen meal.

And did I mention they sat us at a booth that was in the bar area? Do you know why I hate the bar area? Because of the TVs. It just occurred to me that I should make a list of things I really hate, and TVs at restaurants will have to rate pretty high. See, if I’m going to bother putting pants on, driving in a car, showing up at a restaurant with other people, then I want to talk to those people. If I wanted to stare at a TV and not talk to anyone, I could do that at home. In my underwear. With better, less expensive food, and waaaay better beer. If the TV is airing a show I care about, don’t worry: I’ll catch it at home when I can give it the attention it deserves. If it’s playing something I couldn’t give a Ruby Tuesday’s french fry about, then I don’t want it thrown in my face when I’m trying to talk to my friends.

Monday, 09 August 2010

Today I brought Owen to his first class of “Little Engineers: Robotics.” It’s a community education class that Jennifer signed him up for several months ago. We knew there’d be a new baby to deal with at this time, but we figured (correctly!) that this class would begin after the baby’s arrival and that Owen would probably like a class like this to give him something to do.

The class was advertised as being for First through Third graders. Owen is a Kindergartner, so he’s a little young for the class. But since it combines computers with robots with Legos, we figured it behooved us to advocate on his behalf.

I sat with Owen for the first few minutes. The teacher instructed everyone (there are ten kids in the class) to write their name on a name tag, and Owen was so nervous that he forgot the W. When I pointed this out to him, he meekly inserted the W in between the E and the N, so I guess his name is Oewn for the week. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them it’s a Welsh name.

Before breaking into groups of two and getting started, the teacher asked each kid to say their name, hold old they are, and one fun thing that they did this summer. I whispered into Owen’s ear and reminded him that he can say he just got a new baby sister. When the teacher called on him, though, he just shook his head ‘no.’

Later, they broke into groups and Owen seemed to warm up to his partner (a young guy named Aaron). As we left, I asked him if he wanted to come back tomorrow, and he said he did. He also said: “Hey, I never got to tell anyone about Isla.” I reminded him that he was supposed to say that during the introductions, and he said he forgot.

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Know what I’m sick of cleaning up? Puke.

No, not Isla’s little bits of spit-up. The cat’s smelly, yellowish-green vomit that she splays all over the carpet.

On Sunday, our cat Emmaline puked about 8 times over the course of 3 hours. This has happened before, and we just concluded that she ate something she shouldn’t have. She vomits at just about any opportunity she can, so much so that one of her nicknames is “Little Puker.” When she and her brother Oliver were kittens, I would sometimes give them little pieces of cheese or lettuce. Oliver would be fine with it, but Emmaline would search out a bit of carpet, and then regurgitate it for us.

Yesterday, she puked again about five or six times.

This morning, I was greeted to more puke on the floor.

We have a gate up, restricting her from coming into the bedrooms, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still have to clean up the puke. It’s a big ordeal, really: use paper towels to scoop up the big globs, pour water on it to soak up the rest, spray with this stuff that kills the germs, then more water to sop up the germ-killing stuff. Then dry. Normally, Jennifer and I would split this task, but I don’t want a nursing woman to get any crazy bacteria. I’ve tried ‘catching’ the vomit, but the cat prefers to mock me. Last night, for instance, she began heaving, and I set some newspaper right in front of her. She hacked and hacked right on top of the paper, but when the time came to upchuck the goods, she turned her head and purposely soiled the carpet.

When Owen and I got home from his class, there was more puke to clean up. So I took Emmaline to the vet. I don’t mind bringing my animals to the vet, really, because I love them and I don’t want them to suffer. What I hate, though, is that the vet’s never really know exactly what’s wrong. They just guess, do some procedures, and then send you home with a bill and instructions. The instructions generally end with “if that doesn’t help, come back and spend more money.” Ugh.

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Fun topic:

Isla left the City of St. Paul for the first time today.

Owen was invited to a play-date with his (former) preschool classmates at the Woodbury Community Center, and so we all ventured there. One of the mom’s had a gift for Isla (and she thoughtfully included something for Owen), and I spent the better part of three hours running through too-small tubes with Owen and his buddies. The play area is a fun habitrail, but it’s really geared for people who are shorter than four feet. For those who don’t know, I am taller than four feet.

Not-so-fun topic:

I also brought my computer with me to the community center today. There are a library and a cafe’ in the same building, both of which generally equate to free internet access. I was able to hop online for about five minutes, and then it just cut out on me. This is the same thing that happened at a coffee shop last week, and at the co-op a few days ago. In fact, the only place I can consistently remain online is at Owen’s community ed. class (which is held inside an elementary school). Even then, though, the hook-up is quite slow. As in: I click on a page, go get a drink of water, then come back and see if the page has finished loading.

So, either several unrelated places are conspiring to keep me off the WWW, or something is suddenly configured wrong on my computer. I had Jennifer get online today and set up an appointment for me at the “Genius Bar.”

Not-at-all-fun topic:

Before going to the community center today, I attempted to confine our cat to the front closet. Well, that didn’t last. Despite being ill and hungry, she mustered the strength to move the gate (she’s too fat to jump over it). Thankfully, however, there was no puke for me to clean up. The vet had called while we out, so I called her back and told her what I’d observed in the past 24 hours: the cat peed, finally. She only puked twice, and hadn’t puked in about 5 hours. She was eating. The vet said things sounded positive – and that perhaps she would get better now. She recommended I purchase some generic Pepcid A/C.

Owen and I went out and bought some. When we arrived home, Jennifer said the cat still hadn’t puked, marking 8 hours of such success. But, a few minutes later, she puked again. I forced a Pepcid A/C pill down her throat (which was more traumatic for Owen than for Emmaline), and then went to bed.

I’m really glad to have to spend all this time and money on my cat, especially since there’s a new baby to care for, and I’m not getting any overtime at my job right now (oh – and they also shorted my paycheck, too).

Saturday, 07 August 2010

Today we had a photographer come to our home and take some pictures of Isla (and some of Owen, too). Just as I like the idea of having midwives come to our home for appointments, I also like the idea of a photographer bringing all their stuff to us. It’s a good idea, if you think about it, ‘cause then the kids don’t get all cranky from having to get in the car and go somewhere. And if Owen got hungry, or Isla spit up on her outfit – no problem! Just go take care of it.

The photographer, Tami, decided the best lighting was actually in one of the stairwells of our apartment building, so we set up camp, with backdrops, props, chairs, tripods, and camera equipment right there in the hallway. A few people walked by and had to do a double-take, but apart from it being odd that we were hanging out in the hallway, things turned out okay.

I think there was a moment this afternoon, while engaged in the photo-shoot, when I can say that I really, truly became a father to Isla. That moment was when I had to lay on the floor and hold my arms straight out above my head. I held Isla, who was totally nude, in my hands. Tami set up her camera so that only Isla, with my supporting hands, would be in the frame. Well, right as Tami was setting up the shot, Isla decided to poop on me. I don’t know if it really qualifies as poop; it’s more runny mustard, really. Mercifully, none of it got on my face, but it took all my mettle to not put her down immediately and run screaming for help. Instead, I patiently held her there, waiting for Jennifer to take her from me. Then I got up and freaked out. I think we really bonded there.

Here are some of the photos from that day: CLICK THIS.

Sunday, 08 August 2010

Owen was really bored today. I tried explaining to him that it’s the Sabbath, and so we shouldn’t do any work or have any fun, but that argument didn’t go over so well. I considered taking him to the park, but, man, it is really hot and humid outside. Have I complained about the weather here yet?

I took Owen to Target to buy a few items today. While we were standing in line to pay, he looked up at me and said, “Wait, I know something we forgot!”

“What’s that?” I said, figuring he was going to name off some toy or piece of candy.

“Batteries.”

“You’re right,” I said, inexplicably surprised that he was so conscientious. “Let’s go get them.”

I asked the cashier if I could leave our other items sitting there, and she said that was fine. Probably because the guy in front of us was really slow. How slow was he? He was one of those people that didn’t bother to pull out his checkbook until after the total was announced. Man, I thought those people only existed in comedians’ routines. But no – this guy was real. The cashier said something like: “$33.72,” and only then did the guy reach into his pocket and begin to write out his check. Because, you know, there was no way he could have possible known the name of the store, today’s date, OR HIS OWN NAME! Before he knew the total. Also, he had to re-ask the total so that he could enter it in his register AND BEGIN BALANCING HIS ACCOUNT right there. Because, again, you know, it’s not like they give you a receipt with your totally on it. The guy actually turned to me and said: “Sorry for the wait.”

He must’ve been able to tell I was getting antsy. Must be a New Yorker thing. Then I said: “That’s okay.” Oh – that’s another New Yorker thing: I’m really good at lying, too.

Friday, 06 August 2010

So after spending my entire life without having a daughter or a nephew, I’ve suddenly gained both in a matter of days. Last night (though I didn’t find out about it until this morning) my wife’s sister gave birth to little Asa. After only ten days as the youngest member of her family, Isla has already one-upped by her new cousin. I’m not sure why, but my sister-in-law must have a strong drive to have the youngest grandchild in the family – her daughter Lyric had been the youngest grandchild for over four years, up until Isla was born last week. Now, she’s gone and taken that title again. Oh well. We’ll always have the oldest.

Also today: I’ve gotta comment on what a jolting contrast it is between our two interactions with the medical community.

This morning, the midwives came for their one-week visit. Then, this afternoon, we took Isla to her first ever doctor’s checkup. It was her first time in a car (which, hilariously, the midwife termed a “blandmark”). So, first we have to get in the car, then we have to find our way to this office, park in the ramp, then figure out how to get from the ramp to the office.

Next, we were greeted at the front desk by a, “We’ll be right with you guys.” Then we had to fill out some paperwork, and have a seat in the waiting room, where we they’d placed a sign that says “If you’ve been waiting for more than 15 minutes, please let one of the front desk associates know.” That’s a rather depressing sign, and I’ll explain why:

See, the very existence of such a sign proves that sometimes, some people DO have to wait that long. So…you might be among them. In fact, the existence of the sign indicates that there’s been a problem at that particular location, and this is their attempt to remedy it. But notice the sign doesn’t say they’ll do anything about it – it just says to let them know, as if they’re on some sort of twisted fact-finding mission. I’ve walked up to the desk a couple of times to inform them of the long wait, and they don’t do anything. They just say that they’ll remind the doctor (or whoever) that you’re waiting, and they ask you to go have a seat again.

Anyway, we didn’t have to wait fifteen minutes, but we did wait more than ten. Then we were shown to another room where we waited longer. Does the fifteen minutes “reset” at this time? I don’t know.

So then this nurse begins helping us. Despite the fact that Isla had just been measured and weighed at home, she felt the need to do it again. Which, is fine, but I thought it was funny she had to use this super-high-tech, digital computer thingy to weigh Isla, while the midwives just placed Isla in a sling and held it up as a spring registered the weight. The nurse got approximately the same weight, but she got a length measurement about two inches more than the midwives got. Despite her high-tech equipment, the nurse’s measurement was wrong, as Jennifer and I re-measured Isla at home and there’s just no way she’s more than 20 inches long, much less 21 inches (unless you pull one of her legs out of it’s socket. Do infants even have sockets yet?).

While on the super-high-tech weighing bed, Isla peed. The nurse said to Isla: “Oh, you naughty girl.” She said it in a playful manner, but I don’t like the implication. Isla didn’t do anything wrong – because peeing spontaneously, when 9 days old, and fully naked, seems like a perfectly natural, normal thing to do. There are so many other better things she could’ve said. Maybe I should’ve said something at that point, but all I could think to say was: “Fuck you, bitch.”

Then the nurse carried Isla back to the exam room. This, again, isn’t really a problem, but it’s funny that the midwives haven’t even held Isla yet. And when they’ve needed to handle her, they’ve said things like: “Is it okay if you put Isla in the sling here, so we can weigh her?” It’s just a different attitude. To me, the nurse is thinking: “I’ve gone to college for this sort of thing, so I know best how to carry an infant back into an exam room.”

And here’s the funny thing: she didn’t know how to carry a baby at all. She held Isla out, away from her body, as far as possible, as if Isla was some disease-carrying receptacle that needed to be disposed of. Isla is easily startled, so she was quite frightened to be held out, limbs flailing, being carried through a cold and unfamiliar place by someone who smells like iodine.

Anyway, the doctor was fine, but I wasn’t in a good mood after all that. The bottom line is, home visits from people who treat birth and infants with the respect and sacredness they deserve easily trump corporate drones who are instructed to treat the human body as a pathology.

Wednesday, 04 August 2010

Wanna know what I don’t like? That my kid was born in the middle of the summer.

I know, I know. It’s not her fault. We certainly could’ve had a baby born in May again, or even this coming September, but instead, we chose the hottest month of the year. Yech! Never again.

Let me whine about some of the problems inherent in having a newborn in July:

Do I want this tiny little body up against mine? No, not really. It just makes me hotter.

Should I turn the air conditioning on so we’re all comfortable, but so that she’s freezing? Or should I leave it off, so she overheats? Hmm. Decisions; decisions.

And did I just say turning on the air conditioning makes me comfortable? Sorry, I lied. I hate air conditioning. It’s such phony air. It dries me out, the noise is irritating, and I can’t sleep with it on. Of course, when dealing with (first) and pregnant wife and (then) a newborn baby, my preference doesn’t account for much. Central air, incidentally, is fine, if it’s regulating such a big building that it, somehow, becomes natural. I’m not sure what the difference is, but I hate air conditioning in my own and other people’s homes, yet I’m fine with it at work and at really big places like malls. Most small stores and restaurants are also annoying, as they keep the place too cold.

Anyway, the bottom line is: future babies (if any) will not be arriving in June, July or August.

Thursday, 05 August 2010

Isla received her first non-family visitors today. Our friends Ryan and Esther came over, with gift and dessert in tow. They stayed longer than our last bout of company, which was fine because A) they’re calm people, and B) we were getting bored with no external interaction.

On another note, I still don’t have any regular internet here at home. It’s frustrating, because I definitely have some time to do some things online, but I just can’t seem to get online. When I first start/open up my computer, then I have a connection for about five minutes. This is just about long enough for my emails to come in. In the meantime, I’ve taken to responding to emails and just letting them sit in the outbox until the next time I open my computer. I’ve also been updating this blog in Word, which works decently enough, but doesn’t allow me to make sure I got everything right or to insert links, videos, or images.