it's out

(8 days later!)
the size, shape and texture of a wasabi pea.
for the record,
J says childbirth is way worse.

romancing the stone

I was racing to school 1 to print my final project for diversity class when J called me Tuesday with a shaky voice. The pain he'd been feeling that morning had grown to active labor proportions. (he couldn't speak during contractions...) He was dropping S off at a friend's house and going straight to the ER on the orders of his PCP. After hanging up the phone I laughed at myself in baby mode, probing questions, calming voice, earnest reassurance followed by mad speed and frantic tying of loose ends the second I hung up. A trip to the hospital in my recent experience has lasted consistently upwards of 24 hours and with my busy life these preparations have become an ingrained behavior. As have the mental prep in the car. Quick call to child care person (who, incidentally, seemed quite well versed in the baby routine herself), a few deep breaths to drop everything in the hands of the universe followed by a quick scan of events leading up to this point, possible outcomes, and my role in what's ahead.

events leading up to this point:
J feels abdominal and CVA tenderness in the am,
ruled out UTI, (no fever or burning with urination)
ruled out appendicitis (wrong side)
wondered about amazon massage of previous day
(she couldn't have bruised a kidney?)
checked for tenderness or rigidity attributable to abdominal bleeding
decided to see PCP if pain worsened or changed

the poor man drove all the way to Ann Arbor to see our PA who said yes, he should go to the ER (in Ypsi).
J is on his way there when he calls me, shaking, twitching and moaning with the pain of it.

possible outcomes:
another blocked ureter (had one at four and at six years of age)
bruised kidney and abdominal bleeding
rupture of some other internal organ
gall stones
kidney stones

By the time I met him at the ER it was 4 pm.
He'd been there for an hour. There were no rooms, but a condescending PA took his vitals (kind of), called a tech to run a saline IV and sent us back to the waiting room. Apparently there was some sort of rule about administering pain medication to people who are not in rooms, but some kind nurse (he actually called her an angel of mercy) came out to him with a syringe of delodid. Here begins the romantic portion of our night.

With a much better PA on the case, an almost diagnosis of kidney stones (not too scary, just painful) and the benefits of modern medicine coursing through his veins, my J started to look downright happy. I was relieved and so glad to see him feeling better that we became almost giddy. We spend a good deal of time together, but it's almost always working on stuff or planning how we're going to fit in all the working on stuff that we have to do. If we do get a sitter it's usually because one of us has a show or we're hanging out with other people. Trapped in the ER waiting room, we realized that this was the most time we'd spent just talking to each other in months. The people watching was great, we'd just come through a minor crisis together, our babysitter was gracious, and our PPO footed the bill.

We ended the evening with Sidetrack takeout and Talladega Nights.
J's pain was all but gone by the time we got home, we can only assume that he passed the stone in the hospital urinal. All those lovely strainers gone to waste...

oh, the humanity

3 years ago, my friend (and former housemate) Keri went off to be a Mother-Teresa nun. I've always admired her for having the balls to actually do it. To commit the unknown rest of her life to a community of women (and priests) and totally give herself over to the service of the poor.
She came back to town this week, as much of an event on legs as she has ever been; but, as B says, "She has always been herself."
Here's the scene:
B and I drive with our wee men to the "party."
We've been invited by and are greeted by another old housemate who apparently still hates me.
Five seconds into the night and I already feel like I've been plunged into a bath of ice water. Trying to make a joke on the way up the stairs into the condo, I receive a heaping helping of that cold, compressed anger that no one but a frustrated, celibate Catholic woman can deliver.
The first twenty five minutes or so, I spend holding a shell shocked "babito" in relative silence. After being accosted in Spanglish by the just-post-Mexico postulant, I am regaled with stories of prayer outside of abortion clinics, an "exact digital replica!"of the image of our Lady of Guadalupe, people feeling her heart beat, flower petals and tears shooting out of her eyes, etc... by hater-roommate (Maybe I am missing something, but "exact digital replica" could be read "photo," right?) Our Lady is invoked countless times; the "devils" of poverty, impurity, divorce, and ignorance in "Our Lady's Land" (Mexico?) deplored; and our young sons' pockets pronounced suitable for "rosarios!"
The following twenty five minutes were marked by me opening my mouth and falling right back into my old role of uncomfortably "earthy" roommate, exhibiting such behaviors as calling body parts by their anatomical names, referring to activities not once mentioned in the Baltimore Catechism, and declining to respond certain pointed inquiries; aided by one speedily ingested Corona. (you can picture me, I'm sure, wide eyed and a little embarrassed, declining the proffered lime with a shake of my head, bottle in the air, as the first swig emptied half of the watery beer into my queasy, grateful, unholy stomach.)

Really, I should have expected most of what happened. But two things were genuinely surprising about the whole evening:
1) I knew that I had changed since university (and certainly since being at home as a kid on cultfarm) but I was really shocked by how deeply distanced I felt from the vocabulary and preoccupations of these people I'd once lived with. I've spent a lot of time since trying to deal with the fact that I really think that most of what I heard was superficial, and, in many ways could easily act as a distraction from what I'd consider to be true enlightenment, or "sanctification."
2) I have much more in common with B than I would ever have noticed or believed without being thrown into this particular situation.

Even more than I am surprised, I find myself relieved. I am no better or worse than my friends or anyone else, and I had every reason and opportunity to get caught up in the other-pitying, self-congratulating, pietistic escapism of "Catha-holic-ism" (as my sister calls it).
Instead, I find myself a fiscally poor, wildly liberal, car-pooling, semi-urban gardener, musician and student midwife; married to a heathen, teaching my two year old to meditate, and guzzling cheap beer in the presence of a Missionary of Charity.

I'd like to note here that I have no idea what is actually taking place in the hearts of these girls, and I fully admit to projecting my own internal analysis onto them, thereby creating for myself that false sense of "otherness" that I claim to so despise.

If I did pray the rosary to put myself to sleep, I would probably spend far fewer nights staring at the ceiling awash in anxiety about climate change, the relative unavailability of quality health care in the US, broadening racial disparity in birth outcomes, and the long term effects of genetically engineered produce; but I am so deeply satisfied to feel a part of this crazy, bleeding mess that it makes up for losing the veneer of sanctity and safety that accompany the superstitious adherence to the dictates of faith. I much prefer the idea that faith (if I even have any) is what keeps me from walking out of grad school classes or losing my shit with a kid tantrum; what makes laboring women able to push past the feeling that pushing is literally tearing them apart; what makes my husband believe that a good song can change the world, and that people really want it to. I guess what I'm trying to say is that any faith that denies the sacredness of each moment and each person in favor of an elaborately constructed and painstakingly maintained system of do's and don'ts and us's and them's just ain't happenin for this "chica."

school song misfortune

in case you've ever wondered what it sounds like inside the head of a primary school music teacher.
ALBUM: Go Go Smear the Poison Ivy
LABEL: Fat Cat
COMPOSER: Orvar Poreyjarson Smarson
COMPOSER: Gunnar Orn Tynes
POP GROUP: Mum

pro bono publico

Yesterday was a standard issue Thursday,

get up, shower, make the beds,
drink a lot of coffee and procrastinate leaving for school as long as possible.

Sneak in the custodial entrance,
Super-cheerful "Hey, Buddy!" from Mr. Mike as I wrestle my guitar, cello and giant music teacher bag past the tractor and up to my room.
Teach all day, sneak out the minute I'm done.

Get home, straighten the kitchen, feed the boys,
take two accordions to the basement, throw in a load of laundry,
welcome adolescent boy piano student number one,
make tea for his mom,
welcome the recording engineer,
here to set up to lay down cello tracks for the tai-chi video,
see off student one and mom,
welcome adolescent boy piano student number two and his dad the cellist,
put S to bed to the strains of electronica and killer cello licks.
see off cellist and son.

Open a bottle of wine, go upstairs to study fetal skull anatomy
(structure and function of the major sutures and primary fontanelles - in case you were wondering) to the sound of organ and keyboard tracks against afaorementioned electronica / cello

Crazy, but standard EXCEPT that in between dinner and kid A, Our lawyer friend called to say that he'd set up a board to do probono legal consultation for community records.

Pro bono publico (often shortened to pro bono) is a phrase derived from Latin meaning "for the public good." The term is sometimes used to describe professional work undertaken voluntarily and without payment, as a public service. It is common in the legal profession and is increasingly seen in marketing, technology and strategy consulting firms. Unlike traditional volunteerism, pro bono service leverages the specific skills of professionals to provide services to those who are unable to afford them.

In the UK, "pro bono publico" is sometimes used to describe the central motivation of large organizations such as the BBC, the National Health Service and various NGOs, which exist "for the public good" rather than for shareholder profit as well as legal or professional work.[1]

The lovely people are not only going to secure us 501c3 status (several thousand dollars worth of work) but will also act as the legal advisory board for setting up all of the recording and liscencing and copyright stuff that a record company needs.

We could never in a million years have come up with the money to pay these guys what the work would cost, but
we don't have to.
God bless Trent.

I was so excited that - during the cello recording, but after S was asleep -
I called my mom.
Who dropped another bomb.
It went something like this.

explain lawyer stuff...
"Oh, honey! That's so wonderful! Praise God!
I'm actually really glad you called. There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

stomach drops to my ankles as I silently panic and review what I could possibly have done to offend the pope within the last six months...

"It's about your sister."

wave of relief that it's not me...

"Your Dad and I were wondering what you'd think about her coming to live with you."

sphygmomanometer

My usual birthday reflection (what have I done this year to make the world a better place?) has made me really happy today. I don't know that I've necessarily done a god damned thing to improve life around me, but I do know for sure that I could never have done nor will I do anything good enough to deserve the kind of happiness I feel looking at my life.
I have a wonderful marriage to a beautiful man (who'd have believed that the crazy stressed out cynical overachiever could manage to not screw that up?) I have a healthy son who is absolutely delightful. I have healthy relationships with interesting, engaged, creative and passionate people (some of whom I happen to be related to). I live in a house I like in a town I like, I have a job I don't hate and the prospect of one that I love. I have an apprenticeship with a sane and lovely midwife who just happens to live down the street. I have a world class cello teacher who teaches me for free and a place to make art in my basement. I get to play music everyday and read books and drink beer and blog and now - thanks to J and my Mom and my sisters - I can also take people's blood pressure and listen to lungs and heartbeats with out embarassment because I have a beautiful! german stehoscope and a blood pressue cuff with a valve that doesn't stick!
See? I told you I could never have earned this kind of good fortune -
I guess I am going to take this to mean that I'm off the hook and I should just spend my energy appreciating it all!
Ok?

bye bye briarwood

For the last four years or so, my J has had an on again off again thing with the mall. Not because he likes to shop (hates it)Not becuse he likes the sound or the smell or the stuff or the starbucks, but because Von Maur is the only department store in the midwest still stuffy enough to hire a live pianist.

I have great memories of sitting on the stiff upholstered couches after a long day of teaching sipping my chai and listening to piano solo versions of everthing from Chopin to Led Zepplin to Keith Jarret to gut-bucket blues. Then later, when I was pregnant I used to go there and listen and knit. I always wondered what the high-heeled make-up counter ladies thought about the huge hippie girl and her snacks and projects so at home on that ridiculous uncomfortable couch. I'm sure it was clear that we were together. He was certainly the only bearded employee, and if that didn't give us away, the handmade binder covers or the faint hint of nag champa surely did. Now it's the two year old riding the escalator and shouting "I see my papa down there, mama!"

J has quit and been rehired a few times, but I really think this one's for good. He has enough gigs and lessons to make up the difference and just way to much other good stuff going on to put in 15 hours a week at consumer central. I love seeing the mediocre pushed out by the overwhelmingly great. Beyond that I am relieved to have some pressure taken off the calendar which was in danger of spontaneous combustion. It's kind of like lancing a really good abcess.
(sorry. to me its a fair comparison...
I know...It's a sickness.)