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Thursday, January 28, 2010

The Night Shift

My daughter Ella was, at best, reluctant to join us out here in what we laughingly refer to as society. Twenty days past her due date, a Cuban surgeon pulled her from a blood-covered incision in my wife to bring this diaphanous angel to us, still enjoying the protection of vernix and fairly a little surprised to be sucking down oxygen with the rest of humanity while 2009 was still churning on down the tachyon-strewn road of time.

She's still not adjusted to what most people consider a normal circadian rhythm. She sleeps about eighteen hours a day, but sometimes chooses to make the waking hours in the dead of the night. "Just like her father," my brain tossed up at 3:30 AM one night, remembering the years and years of nocturnal activity, sitting up writing or watching Star Trek reruns, navigating the digitally hazy streets of Vice City or simply staring into the crisp void of a blackened sky. Unfortunately, many nights this burden falls on my wife, who wakes up to breastfeed our littlest girl and try to comfort the furrowed brow back to something resembling slumber.

Fun side fact: when I was little, I'd place my thumb between my index and middle finger a lot, sometimes sucking it, sometimes just sitting around with my hand that way. Turns out that whenever she's hungry or eating, Ella does the same. Weirdest damned thing. Wonderful, though.

Somebody's not ready to sleep just yet ...

However, there are nights when my wife can't take it, and I gladly leap into service. I have, as many would suspect, a method. Since Ella responded to both motion and me singing very, very early, I set up my wife's iPod docking station next to my black leather recliner in the living room -- a wide open expanse of hard wood and earth tones -- I tended to cradle Ella in the crook of my arm, parallel to the floor, and "walk it out."

"... cause you know, I can't live without my radio ..."

Moving slowly but rhythmically, I moved in a lazy oval (I learned sharp turns slowed down her path to sleep) around the living room, often singing in a low voice so there was less concern about my voice carrying (very different from my karaoke hosting days) and more about the vibrations of my voice in my torso, sticking to my lower register as much as possible. I have literally sang every song I know to this girl -- "As" by Stevie Wonder, "The Scientist" by Coldplay, "My Girl" by the Temptations, "Smile Like You Mean It" by The Killers, "Raspberry Beret" by Prince, "Alone" by Heart, "Hold My Hand" by Sean Paul and Keri Hilson, plus so many more -- and learned that I know far fewer songs by heart than I thought I did (rap songs, sadly, didn't do anything for her). If the music's playing, even an instrumental, sure, I can pick up the thread and sing probably fifty or sixty songs ... but in the silent coolness of a winter night, sleep-addled size twelve slippers treading along a hardwood floor, my knowledge is considerably less comprehensive.

Hence the iPod. At first, I had music playing through my phone's earpiece as I sang along (which immediately upped the number of songs I could pull off geometrically) but I realized the ambient nature of the sound helped, as Ella was used to the swishing and sloshing of her mother's innards performing their duties, sustaining life, and the unnatural quiet of the world was sensory deprivation that distracted.

"Why not just sing the same songs over and over?" Good question. The answer: I tried that. Much like her father (again), hearing the same song (or even snippets of the same song, as "Hard" by Rihanna got stuck in my head for almost a week, and I kept interpolating riffs of that, which made her live up to her nickname, Fuss) too often can annoy. Her sister Mooch? That girl can hear the same song, over and over, for ... heck, probably days on end, and she's fine with it. Mooch drove my wife nuts with "We Will Rock You" because it's on some commercial ... which I didn't realize until after I put it on Mooch's playlist in my iPod.

But we digress ...

So there I am, mostly after 3AM (and unfortunately often on nights before I have to work in the morning), I've been making my orbit of empty space, humming and singing along to mostly jazz, slower alternative rock and soul music. As Ella settles down, I am not so confident I could safely lay her back down in the bassinet (sp?) and get back in bed without taking precious moments of rest from my wife. I've found it easier to just grab a couple of these "throw" blankets populating the living room, sit down in the recliner, prop a pillow under whichever elbow is supporting Ella's head, lean the chair back and keep humming until I fall asleep myself. My phone nearby (and Mooch waking up and wandering in as sunlight sneaks through the blinds) has kept me from dangerously oversleeping so far, and I actually spent many nights conked out in this chair after a session of Grand Theft Auto, so I don't even mind. and it's a little thing that I have with my new daughter, something I can cherish and embarrass her with as a story when she's at her rehearsal dinner.

There's baba's little angel ...

I thought that taking a "normal" job and giving up my night life working schedule (save still doing comics reviews on Wednesday nights) would mean an end to my enjoyment of the quiet of night. Thanks to my new daughter, I have an all new joy in the period when the earth turns away from the sun, and it only cost me a little coherency and my seratonin/melatonin balance ...

"... I can't get to sleep ... I think about the implications ..."

Playing (Music): "Taking Chances" from the first volume of the Glee soundtrack

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

Labels: daughter, ella, fatherhood, music, parenting, sleep

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Older 2010

I am selfish.

I am childish in a way that borders on embarrassing. I'm arrogant in areas where I have no right to feel superior, I'm weak when I need to be strong, I've been known to let go when I should hold on and vice versa. When I should be a soldier, I've stood on the sidelines and when I needed to stand down, I've been in the thick of the fight.

It's very rare when I know that something has gone "too far." I am beloved and betrayed by some of the most interesting people around. I've revealed things about people that they'd much rather never been known. My trust has found its way into the possession of many, many people who didn't deserve it. I've easily thrown out close to a hundred thousand dollars through making bad decisions. I've been many things -- villain, scapegoat, surprise philanderer, probable cuckold, patsy, scoundrel and fool -- that I never should have chosen to be.

Or, to speak in the words of Crossfade, "what I really meant to say is that I'm sorry for the way that I am ..."

However ...

I know how to build a website from the ground up. I can comfort a child or make dinner for four. I know how to drive with some rapidity, regardless of time of day, from Granada Hills to Rancho Palos Verdes on the streets, avoiding the freeways. I know all the words to "Wonderwall" and "As" and "The Scientist" and "Raspberry Beret" and "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get."

I work hard. I'm probably a workaholic. At this very moment, I am simultaneously working on three novels and twenty or so poems, while keeping three sitcom pilots, four children's books, sixteen songs and a website design project that's at best overly ambitious (given how much time I have on my hands). I have two and a half jobs right now, after cutting down from my height of five.

I'm a husband, a father, an employee, a brother, a son, a writer, a fan, a critic, a journalist, a novelist, a poet and a friend.

I'm thirty seven years old today. I don't know a whole lot about a whole lot, but I know I'm still here, putting one foot in front of the other.

Happy birthday to me.

In that vein, here's the big announcement: I am retiring from social networking for 2010, Jay-Z/Jordan style.

Take a moment. Take it all in.

Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Plurk ... all those accounts of mine go dark for 365 consecutive days starting ... well, now. This may mean an uptick in blogging, and email's still going to be up and running, but I will not check nor respond to any social networking communications during the next year. No retweets, no notifications, no instant messaging (save for work), no GMail Talk -- no digital mingling of any kind.

Why? There are many reasons -- focusing more on real conversations and writing taking place in spaces longer than 140 characters, et cetera. Pretty much at the top of the list, I'd hope it goes without saying, would be this ...

That's what I'm talking about ...

Also, I feel like taking this time off and gaining some perspective will help make me a stronger keynote speaker for Blogworld 2012 (which should take place in LA, I should be taking the stage alongside Erick Sermon and get introduced by Jenny "The Bloggess" Lawson ... what, you thought I was kidding? That's still happening, so keep talking to people about it). So, in the words of my wife's "other husband" (I hate saying that), "I've been thinkin' I've got my reasons ..."

Shade and sweet water, travelers. Tabu out.

Playing (Music): "Nothin' On You" by B.O.B. featuring Bruno Mars

Labels: birthday

Monday, January 4, 2010

Guest Blog: The Ax Forgets But The Tree Always Remembers

Note: Today, I'm guest blogging on my wife's site, and she's blogging here on mine. We each wrote about the birth experience from our perspectives. If you would like to read mine, please check that out on Supa Sista Designs. Her inestimable perspective follows ...

While hundreds gathered in New York's Time Square last Thursday for America's largest New Years Eve ritual, I sat at Kaiser Permanente in West Los Angeles waiting for a different ball to drop. I had carried my daughter for 43 weeks, and it was time to give birth.

I lay in the observation room with a saturnine disposition plastered across my face. I'd been cajoled into just doing the surgery on the 31st instead of the first. I'm assuming surgeons prefer not to work on New Year's Day. Still experiencing the violent irregular contractions that had been initiated five days prior with Castor oil and blue cohosh, I wasn't the most difficult person to talk into getting it over with. The IV of electrolytes (and other crap found in Gatorade) had at least managed to space the pains out. I was only having a contraction every 20 minutes at this point, so there was time to think, pray, and worry. I was excited that I'd be meeting my baby girl after waiting so long, but I was making lists in my head of things that needed to be done. Just when I realized that I needed something to turn my brain off, I looked up and noticed the idiot box staring at me. Turning it on, I fished through a bunch of Tiger Woods crap until I got to something at least slightly funny -- Seinfeld. I watched the episode and started to doze off when Wendy Williams came on. I swear she used to be a man.

Anyway, in the middle of one of my snoozes, Hannibal returned from dropping off Mooch, buying a new cellphone, and getting a much needed haircut. We talked, laughed, and joked like we do most of the time. We find amusement even in things that probably shouldn't be funny. I'd been there since 9am with no food. 5pm was quickly approaching with no sign of my4pm surgery beginning anytime soon. Then our nurse came in and told Hannibal to get dressed. He had way too much fun with his outfit. He popped and locked, professed to be a scientist, and even brought the darn thing home. Don't believe me:

The surgeon, Ramon Yera, a high-strung Cuban guy with a friendly yet borderline snarky sense of humor (Think Ricky Martin meets Simon Cowell. I know Ricky is Puerto Rican, but still.) came in to discuss something that I'd asked the nurse. After walking me through a detailed explanation of the surgery, he and Hannibal started planning a musical number to perform during the operation. *blank stare*

"I can't sing, but I'm an excellent salsa dancer." exclaimed Ramon.

"I've got you covered on the singing!" Hannibal said adjusting his glasses.

"I'm having a c-section not a Glee-section" I thought. He left after bragging about what a great job he does on bikini line incisions, and we waited another 2 hours for an operating room to be cleaned. During this time, the shift changed. I hate change! My nurse came in and said she was leaving. I almost had a nervous breakdown. Hannibal offered to pay her to stay, but she said she couldn't accept. "What about all the stuff we discussed -- no Erythromycin, no Vitamin K, etc. -- will the new nurse know that?" I asked.

"Of course. I briefed her on everything. You'll be fine." She said.

"You said you'd bring the baby to my face so I could kiss her, does this other lady know that?" I asked.

"I'll tell her." She said. "You're really kind of freaking out." I sat up and tried to meditate. I thought positively. Then I had to pee. I unhooked all my monitors and threw the cords over my shoulder. When I got back, the new nurse came in and said it was time to get going.

Here's what happened next:

My partner was ushered into a green room to wait.

I was taken into the operating room and asked to sit on a table leaning forward and be very still. All alone. No team. No partner. No hand to hold. I leaned on the new nurse that I didn't know. She barely spoke my language. I was told if I felt an electric-like shock to let them know, and then I was stabbed in the spine and quickly crucified on a cross-shaped operating table. Arms strapped down, my legs became heavy. A catheter was inserted. I didn't feel most of that. This spinal was much more dense than the epidural I had last time. I felt powerless. Nauseated. Dizzy.

They brought in my husband with camera in tow. I hated for him to see me this way. Betadine solution smeared, taking short lifeless breaths, my words were muffled by the oxygen mask. "Don't take any pictures of me like this. I don't want to remember it. I don't want to know what it looks like."

I stared at the blue drape, and hoped that Hannibal couldn't see over it. He can't even stomach a scene from from Grey's Anatomy or Nip/Tuck [NOTE: Just the needle parts!]. Was he holding my hand? I guess. I was numb up to the chest. They seriously discussed the musical number while he was operating on me. I felt so helpless. The anesthesiologist kept checking on me. I felt pressure. Lots of pressure on my chest, and then I heard loud screaming. "She's here." I thought. I didn't have the strength to cry, but I was overcome with emotion.

"She has a tooth -- a natal tooth!" The surgeon exclaimed.

"I've never actually seen one in person." said the attending Certified Nurse Midwife.

"What the hell?" I mumbled to myself. "Did she come out with a college degree, too, because that would save me a lot of money?" They gave me a quick glance of her from 6 feet away. That's not what I was promised. She screamed for the next 20 minutes. "I want to touch her. I want to kiss her." I said loud enough to be heard.

"Hang on. Hang on. I've gotta stitch you up. Hold your horses." the surgeon said. I didn't like that tone at all. I'll never forget it (especially since Hannibal video taped it). Hannibal talked to the baby through her whole process, but it wasn't soothing her. I saw nothing. The doctor and the midwife sat discussing their holiday vacations as they wrapped up the procedure. They cleared my womb, stitched my uterus, fixed my "sticky" bladder, mended my muscles, stapled me closed, and finally transferred me to a stretcher. It felt like forever.

She stopped crying as soon as they handed her to me. I kissed her forehead. As soon as I rubbed her cheek, the Morphine itch started. They used a new type called Duramorph, which would wear off in 18-24 hours, but that's still a long time to be itching. I fought through the itching to connect with my baby. I even breastfed her in the recovery room. She latched on like a pro.

I was so uncomfortable. Cords were plugged into me everywhere. My blood pressure was being taken every 3 minutes automatically. All my vitals were fine. I just had to remember to breathe. They put some futuristic leg cuffs on my calves to promote circulation. It worked, because I could lift my hips within 30 minutes. It still took almost 2 hours for us to go to our room though.