Now that's Awkward

I'm proud of my labour and my daughter's birth. I know I haven't written about it yet, but I'm still working out how I want to present it out there on the world wide web, and well, I don't really have a lot of spare time these days... it's coming.

Suffice it to say, I worked really hard, did my best, had a pain-medication-free birth even though I did end up in a hospital on pitocen (stupid arbitrary timetables). I felt overwhelmed in the moment, but strong and capable in the afterglow.

Kim, my friend and doula and the most wonderful woman to walk the earth, was by my side for the it all. She somehow managed to hold my hand, mentor Andrew, play advocate vs the nurses oh, and shoot a great video at the same time. The woman is to be admired.

But to the video, which is the point of the awkwardness. I loved my labour and I'm proud of it. I believe that birth should be viewed as a natural, beautiful part of life, but who exactly should view my labour? (Before my mother begins to have a panic-attack, I am NOT considering posting this video online. She may already be phoning, lecture on internet boundaries primed.) No, I was just at church this morning not really thinking of my birth video when confronted by Kim's 7 year-old son, Niko.

Niko sidles up beside me and says, "Hey, my mom shot a video of Katya's being born."

"Yes, she did."

"She says I can't watch it, because I don't have your permission."

"Hemph."

"Can I watch your birth video?"

"Well, um, birth is a beautiful, natural..." (voice trailing off as I wonder where exactly I'm taking this speech).

"Or would that be awkward for you?" Asks the smiling, seven-year-old boy.

Now it would.

Good Cop, Bad Mom

My baby is sick. She has a cold, just a little one, and it's terrible. For me. I only assume that it's not really that great for her either. We're new. She coughed and we went to the doctor. Our doctor who is not really our favorite person said she was fine, but recommended we take her to the doctor if she gets worse. I am confused about who our doctor thinks she is and what she thinks we have just done arriving at her medical office and awaiting her white-coated opinion.

All this has lead to a rather serious discovery. My helpmate, my partner, my co-parent, the father of my child has apparently chosen his role and apparently he called it first. He is good cop. Leaving one of us to pick up the slack, in this case, saline drops.

To help Katya (pronounced almost like "Caught-ya" in case you were wondering) breathe better we need to give her tiny nose a little nasal spray. This, incidentally, helps her sleep quieter which helps me sleep better which is never a trivial thing. I tried this nasal sprayer thing out, it's very helpful (I also have the cold), but incredibly unpleasant. She HATES it.

Last night as we were getting ready for bed, it was time for another round of nasal spray. I turned to Andrew to ask which task he wanted: holding her head or spraying her nose. He firmly opted for holding. Then he proceeded to duck out of site by the bed side while offering a single hand around her head. "I'm not getting associated with this thing," he said.

I had an image of Andrew calling out to a teenage version of our daughter, "No you can't go to the movies with that boy," while ducking leaving me standing there alone, bearer of all things unpleasant.