Two Weeks

Can you believe it? Bunting is two weeks old.
Stats:
9lbs, 4 ozs (re-attained his birth weight, put on 16 ozs in 10 days! Thank goodness the incessant eating is paying off- this nursing business is such a leap of faith. I can't actually see the milk that he is consuming, there are no ounce markers on my breasts, dammit)

Exhibit A: Cheeks!

 
21 1/4 inches (has grown 3/4 of an inch since birth)
37 cm head (noggin has grown 1 cm)

He is a delight. I always knew I would love babyhood (I had such an incredibly good time with the babies when I was a nanny), I just didn't know how fun it would be right off the bat. I figured that I would just have to sort of survive the first weeks, and after the fabled 'fourth trimester' things would get fun.  I think that I am able to enjoy these early days so much because:

A) I have Mepher and FRK.  Mepher and I are as close as sisters can be, plus she is super baby competent.  I know I can just hand him over and she will take care of things, whilst I eat, shower, etcetera.  FRK has been around babies more than most men, is very hands on, and is a naturally cautious but very affectionate person;  I know how lucky I am.

B) Just say no to drugs!!! I am very sensitive to pharmaceuticals, especially narcotics.  I refused anything in my epidural except for the numbing agent (bupivacaine). Which worked disturbingly well; I was advised that I would be able to feel pressure, but I felt nothing. Nada. I could hear them operating, but no sensation.  Usually the protocol also includes a long acting morphine, which I explicitly refused.  I have heard so many anecdotal stories of women who are woozy and out of it after a c-section, so much so that they don't have a chance to begin bonding with their baby for hours (which is proven to hinder breastfeeding). Though my legs were numb for hours, I was mentally alert every single moment.  Also, narcotics are binding, and the hospital requires that you display that 'all systems are go' before they will release you. Their solution is to give you stool softeners.  So the drugs bind you up and make you woozy and unsteady on your feet; yet you cannot have the godawful catheter and IV removed until you can demonstrate that you can take yourself to the bathroom.

C) Perspective.  When Mama was dying, we were up two or three times a night, tending to her needs. We all managed to haul ourselves out of bed and to work every day (we felt like shit, but what other option was there?) and there was no upside.  Just the knowledge that things would inevitably get worse, and then she would die.

So along comes Bunting;  every night I am wakened every 2-3 hours by my baby.  Big deal.  Truly.  We have this beautiful baby boy to love. I don't have to get up at a certain time in the morning. Win-win!

 Bunting is just hilarious- he makes the funniest faces, and lately he has been trying to get his eyes to focus, which he cannot yet do; he just ends up cross eyed, and we (his loving parents) hoot with laughter.

Yesterday F had a meeting, so Bunting and I went to see the pediatrician, ran an errand, met Mepher for lunch, and went for a walk.  A very busy, enjoyable day by my current standards.  Just two short weeks ago, a day like this would have been filed under 'what the hell did you do all day, you lazy layabout'.  I couldn't be happier.

He's here!

 

Our smiley boy. 

Smith Andrew Peng Kraft 

December 15, 2009 at 11:02am

9 lbs, 2 ozs. 20 1/2 inches long. 

Smith in honor of F's grandfather Snuffy. 

Andrew in honor of my father Andy. 

Both of them noble, steadfast, brilliant men who are sorely missed. 

 

  

38 weeks/5 days

Check-up on Tuesday:

Me: Gained 1/2 a pound, blood pressure normal.
Bunting: Strong heartbeat, very wiggly, now transverse (head at 3o'clock, bum at 9o'clock).

The Boy is moving, slowly but surely.  Will he get to where he needs to go in the next week or so? That  remains to be seen.  My midwife, F and I all agree that no matter what, we want to give him as long as possible to cook, so we are in no hurry.  I don't know if I was late (born past my official due date), and I can't ask Mama, but both Nan (paternal grandmother) and F were 'late', so if Bunting cooks past December 20th it won't be a surprise.

Project Flip Bunting 2009 continues- every night F applies the moxa stick to my toes, I lay on the closet door, and put a flashlight betwixt my legs.  There is a theory out there that the baby will turn toward the light (seriously). Who knows if it has any merit- but really, except for looking absurd, what is the harm?  And hey, it might actually work. What is amazing about the moxa stick is the the moment F applies it to my feet Bunting starts wiggling like mad.  It's pretty trippy. I feel like he is trying to move, and so I am doing my best to give him space. I have been seeing a chiropractor certified in the Webster Technique, and I can feel a difference in the level of tension in my uterus.  I have mild scoliosis, and have always had issues with my back getting wonky and leg length discrepancy, so no matter what I think the adjustments have helped as my load gets heavier.

My affirmations (click to make larger)

It's only in the last week that I have begun to be uncomfortable, as my joints loosen up and Bunting grows bigger and bigger.  I seriously waddle at this point, and getting out of bed is a two person operation (I bellow for help, and F levers me into a sitting position, then upright onto the ground).  I am sleeping a lot- but many women have a really hard time sleeping by this point.  I do not.  I have always been an Olympic caliber sleeper (I sleep deeply, and I can sleep anywhere; bed, chair, train, plane, automobile).  I hope Bunting takes after me in this regard.

I have been so blessed throughout this pregnancy, I have felt so incredibly good, ever since the narcoleptic fatigue of the first trimester subsided. I worried for so many years about pregnancy; how I would feel about gaining weight, being nauseous, how it would affect my relationship with F.  It was all for naught. Pregnancy has been an across the board marvelous thing.  I love how I feel, how I look, how it has made my love for F grow even deeper.

Today I am going to buy nursing bras (courtesy of Gigi, aka The Artist Formerly Known as Florence).
OH MY GAH.
I am going to have a baby.
Who let this happen!?!?!?!
*Forehead smack*

Behold the Bump. The Stars and Stripes in the background is a nice touch, yes? 

Still Upside Down

Score at the end of the first half: Bunting 1, Baby Flippers 0


Cliff Notes Summary:
The external version failed. Bunting is still breech.

Extended Club Mix: 
I have long known that if I ever got pregnant, I wanted to avoid a hospital birth if at all possible.  I have been under the care of a very experienced midwife, and have had a homebirth planned since day one of this pregnancy.

Babies of course have their own ideas, and so this morning F and I showed up at our local hospital at 7am for the external version (manual flipping of the baby).

While the doctors and nurses were all very nice and competent, the experience only reinforced my feelings about wanting to avoid a hospital birth.

First and foremost, you are treated as if you are sick.  I am not ill.  I am pregnant.  Despite being present for a fairly simple and uncomplicated procedure,  I was required to go through the whole rigamarole; register as an inpatient, hospital gown, monitor, IV.  I was given terbutaline and fentanyl, and had to wear a fetal monitor.  The monitor kept slipping, when the baby moved the signal would become faint, which freaked out F every time it happened. I could only lie on my back due to the monitor, hands down the most uncomfortable position in my 9 months pregnant state. Ugh. It was terrible.

The version itself was not too bad.  I am extreme lightweight when it comes to drugs; I asked them to give me a very small dose of fentanyl, but wooeee, could I feel it. I felt it going into my veins (a chilly, creeping sensation) and instantly the ceiling became all sparkly.  My sister was cracking up, evidently I become glassy-eyed when high.

The two ob-gyns who attempted the version tried really hard to flip Bunting; he refused to budge, not one iota.  It was not painful, but the pressure was extreme.  My midwife, who has observed many versions, said she had never seen doctors try harder.  The good news is that Bunting tolerated the procedure VERY well; though we were warned that a drop in fetal heart tone was normal and to be expected, and would bounce back quickly, the pushing and prodding did not bother him one bit. His heartbeat remained strong and steady throughout. Basically, he is very strong, and very stubborn. Hmmmm, I wonder where he gets THAT from?

So the plan is to try everything that we can to flip him; I went to an acupuncturist on Thursday, who did needles and moxibustion, I am doing inversion (laying with hips higher than shoulders) to make it easier for him to flip, visualizations, talking to him and encouraging him to flip. I will leave no stone unturned (heh-heh),  and my feeling is that if after all of this he is still breech- well, maybe he is that way for a reason.

Inversion. We are very green. That is an old closet door I am lying on. 

If he remains breech, I will need to have a c-section.  The good news is that the doctor who performed my version, and who would perform my section is a prominent and very experienced perinatologist; all he does is c-sections...so I guess if I have to have one, I couldn't find a better doctor to do it.

37 weeks: a major wrinkle (baby related) and major heartbreak (not baby related)

Officially, Bunting is 'full term' today.  If he was born today, he would more than likely be 100% healthy. Huzzah!

I. Wherein Our Tiny Hero Tests His Mother Even While In Utero
Baby Bunting, who was cozily in the proper position just two weeks ago (vertex, aka head down), has flipped, and is now breech (buttocks down).  So tomorrow (Monday, 11/30/09) we are going to flip him.  The technical term for this is an External Cephalic Version (more info here if you desire: http://www.webmd.com/baby/external-cephalic-version-version-for-breech-position ). Basically this involves manually rotating the baby from a breech to a vertex position.  I am an ideal candidate, and the risk of complications is low.  We'll see if Bunting cooperates. 


II.  Our Argos is Gone
On Thanksgiving Day, our beloved Chug (Chihuahua/Pug) dog Fanny died.  She had been failing for many weeks, and at age 15-ish (she was rescued from a puppy mill, her age was estimated at 4 when we adopted her from a rescue organization, but we have a sneaking suspicion that they underestimated her age to make her more adoptable) she was deaf, mostly blind, increasingly incontinent, and had lost most of her teeth. 


She was such a fantastic companion; all she ever wanted was to be with her people. She was a great traveller, the best car dog ever. 

Fanny in the car, somewhere in the Southwest, on our final road trip together. April 2009. 

In her final days, she no longer followed me from room to room, and when I retired at night instead of following me into the bedroom and curling up on her bed on the floor next to me, she remained wherever she was.  She was slowly separating from us, trying to ease us into not having her around anymore- but there is no easing. We are heartbroken.  I miss her so much.  I cannot stop weeping. (pregnancy hormones are not helping right now)

Argos waited 20 years for Odysseus to return, never believing that he was dead. When at long last he laid eyes on his master, his destiny of faith was fulfilled, and he laid down and died. 


Fanny was our loyal companion, our child substitute (at last count she had 6 beds, in our 1200 square foot house), our friend and entertainment.  She kept us company and was part of our family for over a decade, and stayed with us until we were on the cusp of a new life.  Her destiny was fulfilled, and so she died.

36 weeks. Oh. Mah. Gah.

This week I started training the woman who will cover for me while I am leave.  She is very nice, and very experienced, but it is emotionally trying for me to have her accompany me through the day.  Not only am I creature of habit, and used to doing things a certain way (I so relate to my spectrum kids in this regard), but I cannot help but feel a bit guilty for 'leaving' them, albeit temporarily.  Some of them have made such dramatic and impressive strides, and I don't want them to lose a single bit of progress.  I realize that this sounds a bit egotistical...but I have been with some of them since the very first day they began receiving services, and I know them and their personalities and quirks like the back of my hand. I simply cannot convey to her every single little (but important) thing to look out for, though I am trying.  At the same time, I don't want to overwhelm her with an avalanche of detail and minutiae. Oy.

Bunting is an active little thing, squirming and wiggling around all day long.  Periodically I look down and see various lumps and bumps protruding from my stomach, now that is bizarre.  And really amazing. But increasingly becoming old hat; I look down and think "Oh look. That is his foot. (stomach jiggles) How neat." As his energy level increases, mine decreases.  I continue to be blessedly free from aches and pains, but my need to nap has increased dramatically.  It gets dark so early now, and has been drizzly and cold, so I have begun using the elliptical at the gym instead of jog/walking on the trail.  I get some slightly panicked looks when I show up and hop on the machine; late evening seems to be the province of young men who lift weights; the sight of my waddling, gravid self seems to strike terror in their hearts. Devilishly, I  admit to greatly enjoying their reaction. Shamefully, I will also admit to enjoying the wide spectrum of TV choices offered.  We have not had cable for years, so the opportunity to watch Sarah Palin be interviewed by Barbara Walters or watch a documentary on Nixon or an MMA fight (the popularity of which I find even more perplexing than NASCAR) or a decade old rerun of "Frasier" is actually quite novel.

We had a checkup on Tuesday; weight gain continues to be healthy, blood pressure normal, urine is clear (free from sugar or protein), fundal height is appropriate. "This is not a small baby"- so sayeth the intern who measured and palpated me.  My sister and I were both close to 8 pounds and 21 inches long (and Mama was much tinier than I ), so this is no surprise. 

F has begun to have dreams about Bunting. Oh, I cannot wait to see him with his son.  Cannot. Wait.

Le Drop

Well, it is becoming increasingly apparent that I am going to have a baby, sooner rather than later. 


The latest evidence is that Bunting has 'dropped'.  Last night I felt some very strange shifting around, and began to feel him squirming much, much lower than I had previously- it feels like he is tucked behind my hip/pelvic bones. 


Today I woke up with my bump dramatically lower.  My shelf used to start right under my boobs; there is now a space there.  Yesterday, I could not see my bellybutton for love or money; today it is there, plain as day. My heartburn is gone. I can take a deep breath again. He also seems to be now positioned directly on top of my bladder. 


This development is exhilarating and terrifying. 
Both F and I would like to be able to hit the pause button right about now. 

Vaccines, Heartburn, and Nesting

I. Vaccines

On Saturday I waited in line for 5 hours to get the H1N1 vaccine.  I have never worried about cold and flu season; I have worked with kids for such a long time that I have always had a very robust immune system.  However, 6% of the fatalities in the country have been in pregnant women, who represent only 1% of the population.  I work at 5 different school sites, and kids have been stricken with H1N1 at each one, so I was becoming very concerned. I had been taking Vitamin D and C supplements, washing/Purell-ing my hands like crazy, and calling my doctor,  the Santa Clara County Department of Public Health and the CDC on a daily basis, trying to get my hands on a shot.  There was no vaccine to be found, even for a very high risk individuals like me.  The vaccine is supposed to be distributed on the basis of population, but our county, with over 1.8 million residents, has received to date only 40,000 doses (half of that the nasal mist, which pregnant women and the immunocompromised cannot take, due to the presence of live virus).  Much smaller counties like Santa Cruz have received almost double that amount.  And of course we have all heard that Citigroup and Goldman Sachs have received theirs. 

On Saturday the county held the first public vaccination clinic, for high risk patients. The clinic (held at the fairgrounds) was scheduled to begin at 9:30am.  I arrived at 8:10am.  Later, I learned that people began to line up at 3:30am.  The line was nearly 2 miles long.  During numerous conversations with the Health Department, I had been assured that there would be a separate line for pregnant women, the very ill, the handicapped.  This turned out to be not true. There was one mass line, and people were not triaged until they got to the head of the line. 

I was in line with a very chatty woman, and the first few hours passed quickly.  Repeatedly I corralled police officers and Health Department workers, to inquire as to whether there would be a separate line for truly high risk patients (my gut feeling was that many of the people that were in line were not in the high risk category).  The police officers were friendly but clueless, and the health department workers just kept telling me "No cuts. No cuts." It was their mantra.  Words are woefully inadequate to describe how infuriated I was by being told this.  I was not trying to ride a roller coaster at Great America, dammit.  There were no provisions for bathrooms, just one overwhelmed McDonald's across the street. 

While waiting,  I was interviewed by the local CBS affiliate.  Finally after 2 hours (3.5 if you count arriving early), I had enough.  There was another pregnant woman in line right behind me; unlike myself, she looked very physically uncomfortable.  In my broken Spanish I exhorted her to join me in storming the ramparts; even with translation support from others in line, she declined.  So I marched to the head of the line, and opened up a can of 8.5 months-pregnant-Peng-whoopass.  Anyone who has witnessed me indignant and with a full head of steam can imagine the scene.  Add pregnancy hormones to the mix- as I informed the reporter when she asked if I was worried about vaccine running out before I made it to the head of the line- I was not going to leave without that shot. 

I stood by the police officer in charge of crowd control at the gate, and made nice with him (Manners really do go a very long way. My style of whoopass involves lots of smiling, talking incessantly, and giving the general impression that NOTHING you tell me will make me go away).  After telling me repeatedly that there was nothing he could do, he consented to allow me to stand near him and wait for someone from Public Health who was in a position of power.  Finally someone clutching a walkie-talkie passed by, and he gestured her over.  I pled my case, that I was 8.5 months pregnant, worked in a school setting, had been in line for almost four hours, my feet were swelling, I had spoken on the phone with someone in Dr. Marty Fenstersheib's office (the head of Public Health- god bless the Internet, I got his number right off their website), and casually mentioned that I had just been interviewed (I had the reporter's business card)...finally she agreed to let me in.  Just to shut me up, clearly.  I asked if she was going to make any changes in protocol so that the preggos and people in wheelchairs and walkers wouldn't have to stand in that hideous line, but she refused to answer. 

Once I was inside the gates, I still waited for an additional hour and a half.  But I got my shot, and I am very relieved. And you can bet your sweet bippy that I am writing a letter and calling that reporter.  I could not believe how disorganized things were; it was like the Soviets circa 1985 were in charge. 

II. Heartburn

My most heartfelt (yuk yuk) apologies to anyone who has in the past complained to me about their heartburn, and found me lacking in sympathy.  

I had never had heartburn before.  I now have it all my waking hours.  It sucks. 

III. Nesting

Bunting now has something resembling a nursery, in the room that was formerly the movie/junk/acoustical insulation storage room (more on that in a moment).  This weekend I will empty out the closet and paint it, with an eye toward installing some closet organizers ASAP. I took off the ugly sliding doors and put up a cheerful polka dot curtain instead. In any case, he will sleep in our room for the first few months at least, so there really is no hurry. I did decide that it was IMPERATIVE that we have diapers in the house. They are impossibly tiny.

crappy pic of very cute curtain

FRK's version of nesting is to embark on a DIY bass trap project.  Bass traps...well they trap low frequency waves, eliminating standing waves that compromise the quality of the sound coming from the speakers.  This involves wooden frames, the aforementioned acoustical insulation (a giant bale of it), fabric, and stapling. My man is many things- handsome, smart, very funny, a great cook- but handy with fabric and a staple gun are not on the list. 

Anyway, over the course of about 4 weeks we have built six 4'x2' traps.  Along the way, we visited the fabric store twice (What an interesting sub-culture that is); snapped at one another innumerable times; took apart a decades old staple gun (We inherited it from Snuffy, and are loathe to retire it, but common sense prevailed) that jammed repeatedly (It was a nightmare- we had to look up a schematic on the web to figure out how to put it back together. And still the piece of shit wouldn't work), purchased an electric staple gun, and finally finished the damn project. 

Stratigraphy, top to bottom: wood backing frame, rock wool, fiberglass, fabric

Much to my pleasant surprise, I can actually hear a difference with the traps installed. 

IV. Summary and Conclusion 

34 weeks/3 days today. 39 days left. Thirty-nine!!!!

Aside from the aforementioned sucky heartburn, I feel great.  I love being pregnant.  Today he woke me at 6am wriggling and squirming.  I just lay there, chatting with him (in my head), until he went back to sleep, and then I did too.  Check ups every two weeks now. Yeepers.

 

Yeah. 1/2 pound a week he will gain, for 6 more weeks. I may need flying buttresses when all is said and done.

Bunting Update: 33 weeks/ 2 days

This week Bunting weighs approximately 4.5 pounds, measures about 17 inches long, and his respiratory system is almost completely mature.  He will continue gain about 1/2 a pound a week from here on out.

I had a checkup today, and everything is just as it should be. Heartbeat (his) is strong- 140 bpm, fundal height (top of pubic bone to top of uterus) is right on track, blood pressure (mine) continues to be normal.  I am up 1 pound in two weeks, 16 pounds total so far (also normal).  He is already head down, and will  likely stay there for the duration-- there is little room in there for him to flip around.

On Thursday F and I went to see Ravi and Anoushka Shankar in concert.  Ravi Shankar is 89 years old, so this may very well be his last American tour.  The concert was fantastic.  When he appears on stage he looks like a doddering old man, guided by the elbow by a handler.  Then he sits down on a platform, adjusts his sitar, begins to play-- and decades melt away.  He plays with such vigor and virtuosity that it is truly amazing.  His daughter was fantastic as well.  At one point F had his arm draped over my belly, and Bunting kicked with such force that F's arm jumped in the air. He's a strong little bugger, and he really reacts to music. If I stand right in front of one of F's speakers he moves like crazy.

Last Saturday was our baby shower.  My sister did a phenomenal job hosting (she has been planning this since about week 8); our friend Pilar very generously lent her beautiful house as the venue, and it was a gorgeous, sunny day.  Showers can be kind of tedious, no matter how joyful the impending arrival, but I dare say that everyone had a good time.  The emphasis was on visiting and socializing, and just having a good time. The food was delicious, my sis procured a divine guava cake, and it was so great to have so many of my friends in one place at one time.

My only pregnancy related complaints are that getting in and out of bed/chairs/the car is increasingly difficult; F has to help me put on socks; and I have a bit of carpal tunnel in my right hand due to pressure on the nerve from increased blood flow and fluid retention. This is apparently not uncommon in pregnant women. Overall I continue to feel great, and am beginning to feel wistful that I am closer to the end than the beginning of pregnancy.  I love feeling him move inside me.  As much as I am looking forward to finally meeting him, I will miss this time when it was just the two of us, communing in such a special and unique way.

This week the kids at school suggested that for Halloween I should be a pumpkin. "'Cause you're shaped like one already!" Ahhhh, first graders. They calls 'em like they sees 'em.



 

The Mama Lucy INS Boxcutter Incident

Part I: Background
My mother came to the US from Hong Kong in 1970, and has lived in CA ever since.
She became a resident alien sometime in the 80's.
When the Wen Ho Lee thing was going down, it occurred to me that she could possibly be deported.
Which would not be 100% negative, from my standpoint...but obviously after 20+ years in the US it would be difficult for her. She has no family to speak of in Hong Kong or China.

So I filled out the proper forms, and got the ball rolling on her becoming a US citizen. In a surprisingly short period of time, US Citizenship and Immigration Services notified us of her in person interview. In our part of California, the wait for an interview can be up to 2 years, we heard back within 6 months.

We receive the study booklet for the written portion and Mama begins reviewing the content. Basic American History, the 3 branches of government, who is the governor of your state, the senators, etcetera. Mama cannot remember to turn off the stove, but can memorize UPC codes, so she mastered the pertinent facts quite quickly. I am not concerned about the written exam...but the interview is another matter entirely. You never know what the woman will say.

Part II: The Interview
The USCIS (U.S. Citizen and Immigration Services) is part of the Bureau of Homeland Security. The INS does not technically exist any longer.
It used to be that it was first come, first served, and in San Jose people would pitch tents in the parking lot and camp out overnight to get a spot in line.
The process is much smoother now, you are given an appointment, which you can reschedule online if you need to.
Mama's appointment is for 7:30 am. She does not drive, so we head out at 6:30am.

I must give you some background on the Mama/S.A. relationship. She has been dependent on me since my father died in 1990. When he was alive, he did everything for her. She didn't have to think, not one iota. When he died, the job was transferred to me, and it's a role I've never been able to shake. So our dynamic is more like I'm the parent, and she is my wayward child.

Before we head in, I give her a pep talk slash admonishment. I remind her that this is a very serious, very important interview. I am confident that she will do fine. She knows all the info.  She must not discuss me, my sister, the dog, the cat, my husband (whom she adores, she will tell "Fritzie" tales to anyone with a pulse), the most recent "Lifetime: Television for Women" movie she has seen...just listen, and answer the questions. Act like an adult. Don't sing. Speak English. She nods, and acts as if she understands the gravity of the situation.

I tell her to leave her handbag in the car. I assume (correctly) that security will be tight, and our belongings will be searched thoroughly, and so she brings only her Green Card and her appointment form. I bring only my keys, my license and some lipgloss.

I give her a final inspection before we head in. She is wearing a skirt, a blouse, a sweater vest, hose and stiletto heels. Knowing what a weird pack rat she is, I once again ask her if she has anything else to leave in the car. She answers no. She looks good, we have everything...so we head in.

I must tell you...I flirted with the idea of physically patting her down. I've done it before, and I'll probably have to do it again.
But I didn't. I wanted to have faith in her, to believe that she is an adult, with common sense. I was just tired of having to think of everything, of having a mother who is so comfortable with being utterly helpless.

Part III: Conclusion
There is only one entrance to the building. There is an armed Homeland Security guard standing in front of it. Before we are allowed to get near the door, he demands ID and our appointment form. The guard is in his early 60s, white, tall and very serious looking. There is no foyer; the X-ray machine is flush with the doorway. We are told to remove our shoes, and put them on the conveyor belt.

Before I can stop her (and I see this coming, but like a toddler, Mama often seems to exist in another dimension of space and time), she has removed one of her stilettos, and is aiming it at the flaps of the X-ray machine- you know, the pieces that hang down.
She hucks it through the flaps from about 3 feet away, then turns to me, does a Tiger Woods fist pump, and hollers
"YESSSSSSSSSSSS! TWO POINTS!"

I am lightheaded with rage.

I grab her, drag her away from the machine and hiss at her to stop acting like a child. I snatch her other shoe, and put it on the conveyor belt, adding my shoes, and the box containing my watch and keys.

The security guard is staring at her with utter consternation. If two headed aliens showed up and asked him where the nearest Taco Bell was I don't think he could have been more stunned.

There is another guard manning the machine; he is a young Latino, in his 20s-- and he is trying with every fiber of his being to not laugh his ass off. Our eyes meet, and his lips start to quiver...he turns away and pretends to pick something off the floor.

The older guard then gives us the standard spiel, asking us if we have anything else to put through the machine. I say no, smiling at him and giving him my shiniest smile; I want to charm him, for him to forgive my mother her idiocy. I am afraid he won't even let us into the building. I begin to usher my mom toward the metal detector.

Suddenly she stops, turns to face the guard, and says "What about this?"

(You know what's coming. My mother works at a Rite Aid. She is responsible for the shoe aisle. She opens a lot of cardboard boxes.)

She reaches under her sweater vest, and I see that she is wearing a little leather pouch- like the type tourists wear to keep their passports safe from pickpockets. She whips out a BOXCUTTER, and holds it in front of his face.

He simply stares.

So she bangs it against the wall, so that the little razor blade thingie pops out.

(This is less than a year after the 9-11 attacks. A boxcutter. I shit you not.)

At this point I am awash with a sense of zen tranquility. There is simply nothing else I can do. Mama will be deported, and that is that. We will simply have to set her up in Hong Kong. We'll visit regularly. I hear the shopping and the food is excellent.

The young guard is convulsed with laughter. He is trying to be quiet, and thus looks as if his head is going to explode. The older guard just takes the boxcutter from her, and says "No, that is not okay."
He looks over at me, and we stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, he shakes his head, and gives me the smallest of shoulder shrugs.

I am galvanized into action. I rip off her sweater, take off the damn pouch, and throw it in the garbage can. I pat her down, to make sure there is nothing more.
She begins to protest. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Don't say a goddamn word. Shut up" I hiss at her. It is my mantra. I hiss it all the way through the 2 metal detectors, down the long hall.

We reach the end of the hall. Just before we go through the double doors, she turns around and hollers "HEY!!!" at the older guard.

He looks over. 
"You going to give me back my boxcutter?"
He shakes his head no.
She looks at me in outrage.
I drag her through the double doors.

She passed her interview.
When they asked her to write a sentence, any sentence at all (to demonstrate literacy), this is what she produced:
"America is a land of opportunity and freedom."

Boarding School

Now don't worry, I am not considering sending Bunting to boarding school.  Yet.  It's still a bit early to consider, no? Technically he has 7 more weeks to incubate. 

I have been thinking about boarding school all day (more on that non-sequitur in a moment), but really, this belongs under the umbrella heading "ways my thinking/perspective have changed since I became a pregnant person".  

Back to boarding school. (I know you're dying to know what crazy train of thought my pregnant brain has wrought. Or not.)  My mother was adopted as a toddler (1-ish?) and her mother (Elizabeth, she dubbed herself, after the Queen, natch- she was an Anglophile) was something of...oh how do you say?  An evil bitch?  Completely unfit to be a mother? Someone with unwashed socks instead of a heart?  Something like that.  

Elizabeth sent my mother to boarding school when she was 5.  (My mother's father did not figure into the decision making equation.  Distinguished in his professional life, he was a total cipher at home.)

A boarding school that was within walking distance of home. WALKING DISTANCE PEOPLE. 

Every Friday afternoon my mother's nanny would walk to boarding school, pick her up for the weekend, and they would walk home. Come Monday morning, the route would be reversed.  Many of the children at the school were day students, so that was certainly an option, but Elizabeth elected to have her live away from home.  Anglophile that she was, this was a British-style boarding school, so one can imagine how warm and affectionate an atmosphere it provided. 

Yesterday I was in the car, and I realized that at some point Bunting (who, let's remember, is not born yet) will go to Kindergarten.  And I wept. (Note: I am not a weeper.  Pregnancy has fixed this.  It is disconcerting and embarrassing, but totally beyond my control.)  Then I realized that some day he will go to college, and NOT LIVE WITH ME, and then I really wept.  As my sister would put it, sinus infection crying. 

AND THEN I remembered that my mother was sent to boarding school.  Now, this is not new information.  I have known this for many years.  The details of my mother's life story, which make 'The Joy Luck Club' seem like a snoozer of a technical manual, have emerged in dribs and drabs over the years. For instance: a few years ago she mentioned to F that as a child she A) had a German Shepherd as a pet and B) was once kidnapped, albeit briefly, for ransom.  WHAT!!?!?!?  I am your daughter for 30+ years, and neither of these ever came up?  That is how Mama shared information. 

All this time, pre-Bunting, I have always shook my head and thought "Man, that Elizabeth was a cruel woman.  Within walking distance!  Unbelievable." Intellectually sad on my mother's behalf, and certainly outraged.  That was about it.  But now? Now that motherhood is impending and I am so in love with this fetus, this child I have not even met yet?  It is almost unfathomable.  I see kindergarteners at work every day, and they are so little, so chubby and soft and still with a patina of baby-ness.  I can't imagine sending my child away, yet having him so close.  I think of what it must have felt like for my mother, and it is almost unbearable. What it must have felt for 5 year-old Mama to be left behind, knowing her beloved nanny and mother and father were just a few blocks away.  And I begin to understand, at this late date, why she held me and my sister (but especially me) so close, so smotheringly close.  Why as a child we shared a bed for so long, why she never let me out of her sight, why she chewed my food for me and rocked and sang me to sleep every night long into my school years. 

The abandoned 5 year-old inside of her demanded that she do these things, demanded that she right the wrongs of her childhood.  Just as I vow to teach Bunting how to fall asleep on his own (so he will not wrestle with insomnia as I have), how to be brave and confident about being in the world (so that he will not be cripplingly terrified of leaving his mother's side, as I was), to feed himself and embrace and enjoy food with gusto (so that eating food will not be a terrible, corrosive, power struggle, as it has been for me). 

No matter what craziness my mother inflicted upon me over the years, I always knew, without a doubt, that she thought she was doing the right thing.  I always knew she was doing these things out of love.  I knew without question that she loved me.  Not all children can say that.  I hope that years down the road, Bunting will feel the same of me.