From the Archives: I Don't Want to Freak You Out, But...

 Hello, friends. We are traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday and then catching up from traveling, so I am posting a favorite post from the first 8 years of Harry Times in my absence.

This post was originally published on Tuesday, June 15, 2010.

Yesterday morning, I was driving to campus congratulating myself on leaving the house for my first day of my summer class before 8 am and looking pretty darn cute. I should call Ben and tell him how together I am, I thought, taking a swill of Diet Coke. At that exact second, my phone rang, and I looked down to see that Ben was calling me. Perfect timing, I thought, and answered with a cheery "Hola!". "I don't want to freak you out," he said. "But I am in an ambulance on my way to the ER." "What what WHAT?" I screamed. "I told you not to freak out," he admonished. He explained that his heart wouldn't top racing and had been racing for 20 minutes when he called 9-1-1. The paramedics clocked his pulse at 150, which is pretty freaking scary. I spoke to one of the EMTs who told me he thought Ben was probably fine but that they were taking him in to be monitored. Ben came back on the line and told me to go ahead and go to class. So I did, long enough to pass out my syllabus to a group of students who didn't look too bummed to get out of class early and freak out our department secretary when I told her I was going to the ER to be with my husband who thought he was having a heart attack (note: the ER doctor, who was both an MD and a PhD, said a fast heartbeat is NOT a sign of a heart attack. Good to know, Dr.Dr.). I started to mince toward the hospital, which is half a mile from my office, because thought it would be faster than retrieving my car from the garage, driving through campus road construction, and parking at the hospital. Mid sashay, I realized that Ben came in an ambulance, so I needed my car to take him home. OMFG. By the time I got to the hospital (which totally has valet parking, so it was a cinch), Ben's room was empty, and I freaked out for a minute, thinking he was dead. Luckily, he was just upstairs getting a chest X-ray. Which was fine. As were both of his EKGs. As was his blood work, except that his electrolytes were a little off, and his blood sugar was a little high. "Why is my blood sugar high?" he asked a nurse. "Well," she considered. "It's not THAT high. What did you eat for breakfast?" "Peanut butter silk pie," he admitted. Dr.Dr. said she thought he was probably dehydrated and that he didn't help anything by stopping for an espresso to calm down when he first felt his heart rate accelerate. He followed up with his primary care provider today, and everything was normal. Except for his cholesterol, which was a tiny bit high. This elevated number, which has nothing to do with his heart incident (which is completely unexplained) coupled with my own gain of 3-5 pounds made us reconsider our eating habits.Every night after the kids go to bed, we sit on our couch and eat soft cheese and pretzels.We go through 14 ounces of this shit EVERY WEEK. Not to mention at least one-- but usually 2-- bags of pretzels. No more, I tell you. We have purged the cheese. Starting now. (Because there is still birthday pie in the fridge). But enough about the scariest thing that's happened to us in forever. Back to Harry's birthday. He started with presentshand-delivered by his faithful servantwho got a couple of bears as a consolation prize for it not being his birthday.The infamous birthday pieMy grandparents sent Harry and Jack gift cards to Build-a-Bear for Harry's birthday, and they had the best time ever making their bears. Jack (who was totally the trendsetter--he picked his bear skin first, and Harry copied him) refused clothes for his bear but demanded a stroller. Harry decked his bear out in Star Wars gear and named him Darthy. Darthy Vader.We ended Harry's birthday with dinner at a new chain restaurant that opened down the street. Harry has been wanting to eat at this pace since it opened, but we usually avoid chains. We said he could eat anywhere on his birthday, so that's how we ended up at a "thteak" house, where Jack fed his bear and Harry had a "thteak."This morning when my alarm went off and Ben didn't move, I put my hand on his chest to make sure it was rising and falling. It was. He's okay.

From the Archives: So You're 38 Weeks Pregnant, and You've Gone and Peed Your Pants A Modern Girl's Guide to Embarrassing the Eff Out of Yourself, Now With Pictures!

 Hello, friends. We are traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday and then catching up from traveling, so I am posting a favorite post from the first 8 years of Harry Times in my absence.

This post was originally published on Sunday, April 13, 2008

First, as soon as you feel that gush trickle down your legs, open the bedroom window and call out to your husband, who is playing on the driveway with your toddler, "Oh my god! My water just broke!" This adds a classy touch to what will shape up to be a simply fabulous evening.

Next, call your mother, who lives 4 hours away, and tell her to hurry her ass up-- the baby is coming! The baby is coming! This is an especially good thing to do if your mother plans on bringing lots of frozen food with her.

Then, email all your colleagues short, panicky emails. Make sure your husband does the same.

Fourth, spend forty-five minutes wondering why you haven't felt anymore "water" beyond that first initial gush-- also use this time to re-do your make up and flat iron your hair while plunking your increasingly agitated toddler in front of a Caillou DVD because your priorities? Always in perfect order.

Fifth-- and this step is crucial if you really want to be the effing jackass you're destined to be-- pee your pants AGAIN and say "That must be my water. I'm going to call the hospital and the baby sitter."

Sixth, laugh when your husband says, "Yeah-- I mean it's not like you peed your pants twice in a row. But that would be awesome, too."

Next, take your freaked out kid with you to Labor and Delivery because your mom is en route but still coming from quite a distance, and his beloved babysitter is rushing back from her weekend at home celebrating her belated birthday with extended family. Note, it is absolutely crucial that you inconvenience AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE, you goddamn idiot.

At labor an delivery, a nice nurse will want to spare you any invasive tests because she says from what you've described, it must be your water breaking; I mean otherwise you'd need a bladder lift, right? She will send you into the bathroom with a glass slide and a strip of paper that should turn blue in the presence of amniotic fluid.

Break the slide.

Lose the paper.

Later, when another nurse suggests you get out of bed to encourage gravity to help get more fluid out, make sure the back of your hospital gown is tucked into the elastic of the monitor you're wearing around your belly, so that you can flash your bare ass around as much as possible.

Be glad your husband left to take your freaked out kid home and missed seeing that, since he would so mock you.

Do not believe the nice nurse when she tells you that this happens all the time. Most people are not as dumb as you.

Finally, let many strangers stick their fingers, cotton swabs, and sterile specula inside you to see what's going on.

What's going on is this: You peed your effing pants. Twice.

And then you told the internet, you goddamn incontinent idiot.

And oh yeah? You're still pregnant.


A little teary at the thought of your little baby becoming a big brother? Don't be, you jackass. Be teary because you're such an IDIOT


At least you can still blush about it.


Oh look, the bed you won't be staying in because you aren't in labor-- note to self: Pick up Poise pads on the way home.

Fat Kid in a Little Suit

 I originally posted this in 2009, and it's still my favorite Thanksgiving story of all time.  Happy Thanksgiving-- I hope it's the best one yet.

Thanksgiving, circa 1985-ish

My brothers and me-- I was 7; Ben was 3, and Jon was 2.

Shortly after this picture was taken, I pushed past a houseful of guests to be first in line for the Thanksgiving buffet and heaped my plate high with turkey, chopped liver, stuffing, cranberry orange relish, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole-- you get the idea. I marched into the library where the folding kids' table was set up, delighted that I didn't have to waste time talking to my brothers or any guests, plopped both my plate and my fat little self down on the bench, shot my cuffs, picked up my fork, opened my mouth, and raised a heavy, quivering bite of buttered roll and gravy-drenched meat to my eager lips. And then the table collapsed under the weight of me and my leaning tower of flesh and carbs.

Happy Thanksgiving. May you eat like no one's watching.

From the Archives: Harry: A Busy and Important Baby

 Hello, friends. We are traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday and then catching up from traveling, so I am posting a favorite post from the first 8 years of Harry Times in my absence.

This post was originally published on Sunday, November 11, 2007.

When his green plastic cell phone made a sheep noise, Harry knew the call would test his patience. The only calls to which Harry assigned the sheep ringer were those from his employees, and Harry hated when they called him at home. He unclipped the phone from his sweatpants. "Bah," Harry said under his breath, sitting in the toy tray he'd removed from his Chicco activity table and answering the phone with a terse "Hiya."

"Mr. Harry! We're so glad we caught you at home!" cried a manager at one of Harry's overseas factories.
"Where else would I be?" Harry asked. "It's almost night night."
Harry took another deep breath and started at the phone, reminding himself that staying on top of his foregin operations was the number one reason he purchased this Little Tykes phone in the first place. Well that and the tiny mirror above the keypad. Harry loved that handsome baby in the mirror.

Although he recognized the harried voice on the other end as belonging to a supervisor of some kind, Harry scanned through his contacts to connect the voice with a name.

"Ahhh, that pain the ass," Harry said to himself and began to pace. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Did someone get their fingers stuck in a spinning wheel again?" He listened to the voice on the other end for a moment and interrupted impatiently. "Child labor my ass," he sanpped. "All I'm interested in is nimble fingers-- how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Harry's walk became more purposeful as he passed the portrait of himself that he'd had hung close to his eye level for inspiration. "Workman's comp?" he spat. "Isn't that why we moved our project to your shores?" Unhappy with the answer, Harry swore under his breath. "Do I have a choice?" he asked.

Harry fumbled in his Little People Silo, pulling out a pair of socks, some dried up string cheese, and a months-old pacifier to fidget with while he did some quick math in his head.

"Listen," Harry said, feeling a bit calmer as he paced through his piles of books and toys. "I know it was an accident, but there goes my profit this quarter, you know what I mean? Do you think I'm made of money? Diapas aren't cheap my friend. Speaking of which, I've got to go. It's time for my bap and my bup, and I think I have some poopy in my diapa." Snapping the phone shut, Harry arranged his features into a smile and said "Mama, poopy," as he toddled out of the room, hoping his parents had not listened to his call and discovered his evil empire. Those liberal commie hippies-- they may not understand. When Harry heard them say things like "sweatshop," "outsourcing," or "violation of human rights," they seemed derisive. Oh well, he thought. When they were old, infirm, and resting comfortably in the best nursing home money could buy, they'd open their minds.

From the Archives: 6 Months: A Retrospective for Harry:

Hello, friends. We are traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday and then catching up from traveling, so I am posting a favorite post from the first 8 years of Harry Times in my absence.

This post was originally published on Thursday, December 14, 2006.

Dear Harry,

When you were still a tiny baby in my tummy, I started a journal, so your Dad and I could write to you and tell you about our lives as we anticipated your arrival. We began your book on the first day we felt you move around inside me, which was before we even knew that you were a little boy. Well, we sort of had a hunch because your baby journal, titled "Dear Baby," --because that's how we always began our entires, even after we knew your name would be Harrison--is navy blue with silver stars-- very "boy" looking. I have to admit that I have missed writing to you like that. The free time I used to spend journaling, I now spend blogging, and my free time is getting scarce as you start to move more and more everyday. All of this is a roundabout way of explaining to you (and the Internet) why the form of today's entry differs from all the others.

Six months is a long time-- half a year-- and sure enough, you're getting so big and independent, Harry. Sure, sure, you still need your Dad and me to feed you, change you, dress you, and carry you around, but you are starting to express your preferences, and you're beginning to play on your own-- for a little while anyway. You're not the tiny little baby you used to be, and to illustrate that claim, I'd like to take a trip down memory lane, showing you all of your important sixes.

Here you are in my tummy SIX DAYS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN. You surprised us all by showing up almost 3 weeks ahead of schedule, but when you look at this picture, it is clear why you made such an early entrance: You were completely out of room. Look at how puffy Mommy is. I am not a large person, Harry, and I am afraid that 6 pounds, 4 ounces is as big as you could be. Besides, if you stayed inside for one more second, I surely would have gotten a stretch mark-- thanks for letting me off the hook streak free.


Here you are SIX SECONDS OLD. Your Dad and I couldn't stop staring at you, and we thought you were the most handsome baby in the world. Now, of course, you are the most handsome baby in the world, but in this picture you look a little goopy, stressed, and scrunched up. You were really crammed in there, Harry. Even your little ears were crinkled up and smashed flat. On a gross (to you-- beautiful to me) note, I am pretty sure you were still connected to me when this picture was taken.


Here you are SIX MINUTES OLD all snug and with your Dad, who looks like the proudest man in America. See how much we loved you right away, Harry?


Here you are SIX HOURS OLD, and it looks like you were burping-- something you did a lot because all we did in the hospital was nurse, nurse, nurse. Not even much time for sleeping, Harry. You were born hungry, and you were determined to make Mommy's milk come in right away, which it did! Note that Mommy has taken a shower, something that probably made nursing more enjoyable.


Here you are SIX DAYS OLD and sleeping like a tiny angel. This picture is so sweet; it transports me back to those days when all you did was eat and sleep and pee and poop and cry.


Here you are SIX WEEKS OLD and finally not so darn scrawny! You were kind of scary, kiddo, with your itty bitty arms and legs and your floppy little head. By six weeks, you were starting to get more solid, and you weighed over 10 pounds. You still didn't DO a lot, but as you can see, you were great at steadying your head and posing for the omnipresent camera.


Here you are SIX FORTNIGHTS OLD and getting good at tummy time. Don't worry, Harry. There hasn't been a major change in slang since I wrote this. Nobody says fortnight now, either.



Here you are SIX MONTHS OLD enjoying some rice cereal and prunes. Your Dad and I are worried that the solid food will hurt your tummy, but we both know you can't take a Thermos of breast milk to kindergarten.


Your month-by-month progression






Here are some random pictures of you being adorable. I especially like the ones of you sleeping on the couch like a tiny old man, waking up with pillow face and messy hair, and looking just like your Daddy sitting there in the sunlight.





























We have had a wonderful time getting to know you, Harry, and we know what kinds of milestones we have to look forward to: teething, creeping, crawling, cruising, talking. What we are most exctied to find out, though, is what milestones you'll reach that "the books" don't talk about. For instance, it melted your dad's heart when you started holding his finger when he fed you your bottle, and I can't describe the joy I felt when you smiled at me and squeezed my face with both hands when I got you up after a nap. Your dad and I love when you pat our cheeks as you're falling asleep or waking up in our bed, and we both got a thrill when you started to help us change your diaper by keeping your legs in the air.

I also wonder what you'll think of this blog when you're older. I know that when I see my baby pictures, I think "Oh, what a cute baby. Why didn't her parents notice her crossed eye?" in a very detached way-- that tiny thing with the creepy hair couldn't be ME because I don't remember her at all. What interests me most about my own baby pictures is seeing my parents looking so young, and my grandparents, too. THOSE are the people I remember, and that's just how I'll always remember them. I feel the same way looking at my brothers' pictures (though compared to the number of photos of me as a baby, Ben and Jon barely have any pictures), whom I remember as babies and toddlers-- their baby pics look more familiar to me even than their grown up selves. I only recently stopped instinctively responding that your Uncle Jon was 8 when people asked. For some reason 8 is the age he stuck for me-- I have no idea why. Weird, huh?

So, I have to stop typing this, Harry, because you are having a screaming conversation with the legs of your swing. You are rolling around your room right now, and the swing has impeded your progress, so you've propped yourself up on your arms to look it straight in the leg and tell it exactly what you think. I'm going to help you find a clear path around it.

Lovingly looking forward to seeing you get bigger, but hoping you'll slow down a little,
Your Mom