Flip flop

Baby girl Shaw has been in an unwavering breech position basically since the first time we peered into her world with our very first ultrasound.  I'm not sure if she liked hearing my stomach gurgle or the thump of my heartbeat on her forehead, but she never showed any sign of turning. It didn't matter what I did - from hanging upside down, moxibustion, visualization, swimming, chi swirling, or daily conversations with her about the benefits of coming into the world in the proper, natural way - she held her breech ground.  So, at 37.5 weeks, my OB doctor decided to try to manually turn her into the proper head-down position whether she wanted to or not, a.k.a. external cephalic version.

Today was the day.  Nothing to eat after midnight the night before made for a grumbly tummy but, given all the balls we've been juggling this past week, I was surprisingly without much worry.  We showed up at the hospital at 7am, got checked into the labor room closest to the OR in case baby girl strongly protested the forced movement, and finally got an IV started after 4 attempts. (Apparently I have deceptively difficult veins. I couldn't help but think, "where is Matt Garrison when you need him?")  The nurse then politely asked me, "Where is a nice fatty part of your body where you'd like the terb shot?"  That's the anti-contraction medication to keep my uterus from freaking out with all the pulling and pushing.  I can't say I was proud of all the options I could give her but I was happy not to have as difficult of a body habitus as my vascular system.

So there I sat on a hospital bed, naked but for a skimpy gown and ankle socks, in a room with a thermostat that read 55, with an IV and a plethora of bandages on both arms like a sad leaky pin cushion, tied to the bed with two baby monitors and sneaking "what a long strange trip this is" looks at my amazing husband when the effects of the Terbutaline hit. Now, if you've never had Terbutaline, let me enlighten you on the pleasure that is that drug. It basically makes one feel like one has just driven off the edge of a cliff and has suddenly realized that gut-dropping feeling is the fast descent to the hard ground miles below.  Palpitations, jitters, anxiety, lightheadedness, hot flushing, nausea.  Clearly, it's not, nor ever will be, a drug of abuse.  Fortunately, it passed fairly quickly and did exactly what it was supposed to do because I distinctly saw a white flag rise up from between my legs when my uterus cried "uncle."

Then Dr R walked in.  She's quite a character. I don't know if it's the red hair mixed with the insanely thick Southern accent or her unflappable demeanor despite even the most harried of circumstances, but she's one of those people that fills a room instantly.  "Alright girl, you ready for this?" she chuckled as she took off her white coat and hung it on the back of the door.  Rolling up her sleeves, she pulled the portable ultrasound over to the bed, gopped my belly with goo, and got the lay of the land.

"Yep, that's head.  That's butt.  She's still backwards.  Let's do this."  I imagine Stephen's viewpoint was rather benign as she didn't do The Haka or crack her knuckles or even spit into the dirt.  She just laid her hands on my belly and started to push.  She used her right hand to pinch the baby's bottom and the heel of her left hand to push on the head in a counterclockwise movement.  It sounds so easy, so benign, so....painless.  But I can promise you, short of labor, that is a distinct pain that I wouldn't wish on anyone.  The idea is to get the baby's bottom out of the pelvis and basically coax her into a forward somersault.  A little push and hold, check the heartbeat, push a little more and hold, check the heartbeat.  The doctor could get her halfway there but once completely transverse across my abdomen, it's like she jammed in her heels and her fingertips and said, "Sorry, not gonna happen. Nice try but I'm stronger than you."  Two attempts counterclockwise and the red streaks on my belly must have already been bright enough to make Dr R ask, "Well, do you want to give it one more go or just call her stubborn and be done."

Call it mother's intuition or strange fetal connection but as soon as she asked, "clockwise" popped into my brain.

"Let's give it one more try.  Backwards this time."  I said.

Reaching down to my spine and flattening my innards like a double-sized steam roller, I felt her bottom pop into my side and then the sweetest whispered words I've heard since Jackson first said "Mommy?" on the phone to me, "That did it."  Confirmed with the bedside ultrasound, baby girl Shaw was upside down for the first time in her life and I was absolutely beside myself.

I've had in my brain this entire time she was going to be breech, the version wasn't going to work, we were going to have a scheduled c-section next Friday, and I had come to terms with that.  Fate, lately, has been throwing us a number of curve balls, but this was a high, easy, slow pitch that was a simple hit out of the park and the circling of bases after Dr R cleaned off the goo from my belly was a sweet, welcomed reminder that life is ever changing and badness can only stack so high before goodness is bound to follow.



There is no guarantee this little one won't flip back where she started and the c-section I have not wanted will actually happen.  But for today, at least, she's where she needs to be and her gesture of compromise has renewed my excitement for the days that are to come.

Holy pageviews, Batman!

Blogger has finally added built-in traffic analytics to the Waltzing Matilda blog. I had dumped the Google Analytics code into the template a while back but always forgot to check it - the new inline stats are much easier to use and show up in the Dashboard.

What's even more interesting is that we've had 304 pageviews this month alone! Holy cow. Didn't know we had such a strong readership! (of course, a couple of dozen came from Google searches for "Waltzing Matilda" and "The Master Speed", which I am sure were unintentional).

UPDATE I: Apparent viewership* of Waltzing Matilda has skyrocketed over the last month to over 830 pageviews, including China, Brazil, Argentina, Russia, Germany, Canada, India and Taiwan. Who are these people?

*I say apparent because I have no idea if the stats app is discounting the many times Doc and I look at the blog to see if the other is keeping up with their blogo-marital duties.

Caroline Rachel Garrison - July 16, 2010

Congratulations, Matt and Rae! Welcome to a great family, Callie.

The Man Behind the Gun

Sweet Dreams, Baby...

It's funny how the things you come to rely on have a tendency to change without you really noticing, until one day you look over at you wife and son and think: "My God, when did THIS happen?"

Jack (after about 7 months) used to be a reliable go-to-bedder, as long he could get his little paws on a worn-out, purple screeching monkey. He would clutch the little creature to his face, sucking on a thumb or mouthing the monkey's tail, as his eyes rolled back in his head and he drifted off to dreamy wonderland bliss for (hopefully) a dozen or so hours.

We owe those months of bliss largely to Great Granny Frannie, who had the wisdom and foresight to buy us this little purple monkey while we were at the beach last summer, and it has carried us through a complete cycle of seasons. Little did we know, a stuffed singing bear that she gave us at the beach the year before, while Jack was still a bun-in-the-oven would soon be of near-equal importance.

Our going to bed ritual now includes, as absolutely necessary, Little Monkey, Big Monkey, a Blankey, and Roy Or-bear-son, an electro-mechanical singing stuffed animal, crooning his classic ballad "Sweet Dreams, Baby". Every night, we now rock for a half-hour in Jack's room, clutching both monkeys, wrapped in our Blankey, and repeatedly listening to Roy Or-bear-son sing his song as we nod off to dreams in Mommy's arms.



Sometimes we get fuzz in our mouth. Maybe we should just listen to Bear, instead of trying to eat him.

Sunny Smiles

I snapped this shot of Jack right after he climbed into Dean's bed this morning. He was so pleased with himself, he just couldn't contain it.

Our little breech Tarheel

She may not be in the right position and she may be using her head as a battering ram against my stomach, but at least she's letting us know she's a true Tarheel. Wonder what body part she would have shown if she was a Blue Devil?

My best accessory

Jackson likes to be involved.

Very involved.

Brushes with Fame

To The Colors

"On June 14, Theodore Roosevelt was dining outside Philadelphia, when he noticed a man wiping his nose with what he thought was the American Flag. In outrage, Roosevelt picked up a small wooden rod and began to whip the man for 'defacing the symbol of America.' After about five or six strong whacks, he noticed that the man was not wiping his nose with a flag, but with a blue handkerchief with white stars. Upon realization of this, he apologized to the man, but hit him once more for making him 'riled up with national pride.'" See generally Wikipedia (internal citations ommitted); cf. 36 USC §110.

From the Flag Code:

• When the flag is displayed from a staff projecting from a window, balcony, or a building, the union should be at the peak of the staff unless the flag is at half-staff. When it is displayed from the same flagpole with another flag, the flag of the United States must always be at the top except that the church pennant may be flown above the flag during church services for Navy personnel when conducted by a Naval chaplain on a ship at sea.
• When the flag is displayed over a street, it should be hung vertically, with the union to the north or east. If the street runs north-south, the stars should face east. For streets running east-west, the stars should face north. If the flag is suspended over a sidewalk, the flag's union should be farthest from the building and the stars facing away from it.
• When flown with flags of states, communities or societies on separate flag poles which are of the same height and in a straight line, the flag of the United States is always placed in the position of honor—to its own right. The other flags may be the same size but none may be larger.
• No other flag should be placed above it. The flag of the United States is always the first flag raised and the last to be lowered.
• When flown with the national banner of other countries, each flag must be displayed from a separate pole of the same height. Each flag should be the same size. They should be raised and lowered simultaneously. The flag of one nation may not be displayed above that of another nation in time of peace.
• The flag should be raised briskly and lowered slowly and ceremoniously.
• Ordinarily it should be displayed only between sunrise and sunset, although the Flag Code permits night time display "when a patriotic effect is desired." Similarly, the flag should be displayed only when the weather is fair, except when an all weather flag is displayed. (By presidential proclamation and law, the flag is displayed continuously at certain honored locations like the United States Marine Corps Memorial in Arlington and Lexington Green.)
• It should be illuminated if displayed at night.
• The flag of the United States of America is saluted as it is hoisted and lowered. The salute is held until the flag is unsnapped from the halyard or through the last note of music, whichever is the longest

Boring is my kind of perfect

My exceptionally wonderful day that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world went like this:

Get home from my very last overnight call ever to find Papa and Jackson on the floor of the kitchen, naming the animal magnets. I promptly copped a squat and joined in the fun with Dean sitting on my hip. John Prine on the ipod.

Winkeyes for breakfast. With syrup.

More lounging in the living room whilst watching Jackson discover how to use objects as stepstools.

Lunch and family naptime.

More lounging on the living room floor interspersed with playtime on the patio.

"Honey, are we boring?" asks Papa. "Yes, but I like being boring," responds Momma. "Uh-huh," adds Jackson. Dean just added his flatulence, which I took to mean he was comfortable with the level of activity at the moment as well.

Quick trip to Home Depot to look for a mosquito killer. Jackson rode in the racecar shopping cart. It was a very big hit.

Dinner at Casa Vallartas. Jack made some new amigos and Momma got her fried ice cream.

Grocery shopping - also riding in the spaceship cart with not one but TWO steering wheels and startling old people with our squeals.

Forty-five minute walk on the powerline with Jack in the backpack carrier and Dean on bunny-patrol. His performance was less than impressive. Most of the conversation revolved around the height of the grass. "It's good for the songbird population, you know. I like it," says Papa. "Makes me itch," says Momma. "Uh-huh," adds Jackson as he steers Papa using his ears as handles.

PJ playtime on the floor in Jackson's room. Two rounds of the Marine Corps Hymn by Papa and Big Monkey, tooth brushing, then bedtime stories. Lights out for Jackson.

Movie time on the couch for Papa and Momma. "Seriously, are we boring?" asks Papa. "Yes." "Should we try to be more creative?" "No." "What's that smell?" "Dean agrees with me."

The end. Life doesn't get much better than this.

Little Hoot

 

The hardest part of bedtime is not figuring out which pajamas to wear (this handsome outfit, of course!) or whether to give Dean Dog a goodnight kiss (of course!), or even which stuffed animal to sleep with (all of them!) - it's trying to pick which book to read!

 

Tonight it was Little Hoot. Thanks, Heather.

Beach III

Finally got all of the pictures from Memorial Day posted to Picasa:



Enjoy!

Fortress Europa

"D-Day: June 6, 1944"

Fix Bayonets!

On the evening of June 1st, 1918, Marines from the 5th Marine Regiment serving under the command of the U.S. Army Expeditionary Force conducted a forced march along the road to Chateau-Thierry, and plugged into the line against the Boche. One of my very favorite books is Fix Bayonets!, written by Captain John W. Thomason of First Battalion, 5th Marines. The cadence and imagery of his prose and his battlefield sketches do credit to the esprit-de-corps of the Marines in a way that few other authors have, before or since:

There is no sight in all the pageant of war like young, trained men going up to battle. The columns look solid and businesslike. Each battalion is an entity, 1,200 men of one purpose. They go on like a river that flows very deep and strong. Uniforms are drab these days, but there are points of light on the helmets and the bayonets, and light in the quick, steady eyes and the brown young faces, greatly daring. There is no singing—veterans know, and they do not sing much—and there is no excitement at all; they are schooled craftsmen, going up to impose their will, with the tools of their trade, on another lot of fellows; and there is nothing to make a fuss about. Battles are not salubrious places, and every file knows that a great many more are going in than will come out again—but that is along with the job. And they have no illusions about the job.

There is nothing particularly glorious about sweaty fellows, laden with killing tools, going along to fight. And yet—such a column represents a great deal more than 28,000 individuals mustered into a division. All that is behind those men is in that column, too: the old battles, long forgotten, that secured our nation—Brandywine and Trenton and Yorktown, San Jacinto and Chapultepec, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Antietam, El Caney; scores of skirmishes, far off, such as the Marines have nearly every year—in which a man can be killed as dead as ever a chap was in the Argonne; traditions of things endured and things accomplished, such as regiments hand down forever; and the faith of men and the love of women; and that abstract thing called patriotism, which I never heard combat soldiers mention—all this passes into the forward zone, to the point of contact, where war is girt with horrors. And common men endure these horrors and overcome them, along with the insistent yearnings of the belly and the reasonable promptings of fear; and in this, I think, is glory.

THEY LOOKED FINE, COMING IN THERE . . . THROUGH THOSE LITTLE TIRED FRENCHMEN.

Semper Fidelis, Marines.

Bonus Update: On tonight's edition of Jeopardy!, the $1200 question in the category "Woodrow Wilson's War" featured the 5th and 6th Marine Regiments at Belleau Wood.