& a tale from the inside: the birth story, part 1

You haven’t seen me for a while. Sorry about that. I’ve had every good intention of bringing updates, but got a little sidetracked with moving and a new job and the start of the school year. Oh yeah, and a baby.

I promised the birth story, and I haven’t delivered. That’s mostly because my perspective on the birth would be kind of pointless. I wasn’t involved. My participation level mostly consisted of saying things like “Breathe” and “Do you want more ice chips?” I wouldn’t say I was useless, but—okay, I was useless. So I was going to have Karli help. Only she’s been busy, too, with the moving and the baby and she apparently has an “overgrown, hairy manchild” to take care of that I apparently haven’t met. Which means we weren’t getting too far on this birth story thing.

Then I realized—there was someone else involved in this whole thing, too. And, as of Tuesday, he turned two months old. Time to start pulling your weight, kid. Without further ado, here’s the birth story, as told by Squatch.

It all started with that damn Mexican food. We all I decided to go get some enchiladas for dinner, served just the way I like them: Placenta*-style. I’m getting a little mouth-watery just thinking about it now. It’s hard to find good cooking these days.

*Miss you, Homie. R.I.P.

Anyway, it wasn’t long after I got done that things started getting really tight. It wasn’t like the normal times, where the part behind my leg would stiffen up, then the part under my elbow. It was the whole thing, squeezing me. I could tell Mommy was feeling it, too, because she popped about 73 of those candies that made her stomach feel tingly on my butt, only those didn’t help. She was telling Daddy that her stomach didn’t feel so good, and we tried to sleep. It was not a good night.

Author photo


The next morning, Mommy decided to stay home from work, which I couldn’t have agreed with more. The Mexican food was still making Mommy’s belly squeeze me, and it was starting to make a pattern. I probably could’ve set my watch by it. If I had a watch. And knew what a watch was.

Sometime around when we usually ate some crackers, but not quite when we would go to lunch, Mommy decided to get out of bed and walk for some reason. She went to the kitchen to talk to Daddy. As we were walking, I could tell something wasn’t quite right. Something was happening.

“I think—*” Mommy said, and just then it got really cold. I dropped a little bit. I heard Mommy say, “I think my water broke,” and it was all I could do not to scream for a repairman to fix it. Because whatever that meant, it wasn’t turning out well for me.

*Daddy’s note: She was about to tell me, “I think I might tell [my boss] that I’ll try to be in for work this afternoon.” Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. It’s all in the timing.

Even though I was flailing, upside-down, in a growing pool of coldness, Mommy decided to take a shower. And shave her legs. And eat something, but I was too scared to realize what it was. After about an hour, we got in the car.

I don’t know what it is about that thing, but it always makes me fall asleep. Every damn time, without fail.

But here we were, my life in certain jeopardy, Mommy’s belly squeezing the poo out of me, and I drift off to sleep. If only I knew what was ahead, maybe I could’ve done something to save myself.

Till next time, Squatch fans!

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& catching up

Just like that, I’ve got a six-week-old. And not just that, but I’ve got a new address and a new job. So you can forgive me for not being around as much as I had been. If you can’t forgive me, well then why are you reading this?

There’s a lot to cover in six weeks of baby-raisin’, but I’ll tackle those over a few posts. This is just a quickie to make sure that I haven’t completely lost everyone. I figured I’d entice you to stick with me by including a dose of adorable.

Not just adorable. Like Diaper-Box-and-Baby-Food-Jar adorable.

The biggest thing out of the first six weeks was the first of our prenatal plans to go bye-bye: Breastfeeding. We gave it the best shot we could, but when the kid was about four weeks old and under his birth weight, something obviously wasn’t working. After several late night meltdowns and hours-long feeding sessions, we made the change over to formula. I’d like to think that if there were actual resources and help available to us where we were living, it wouldn’t have gone down quite the same way. But things are what they are, and we ended up having to adjust on the fly. Parenting, yo.

Squatch before we decided to start feeding him.


Squatch almost a week after the switch and almost a pound heavier.

On the plus side, it means that we both end up getting a little more sleep because we can trade off feeding. We refuse to feel like this is a failure*. We tried. We did everything we could. We utilized every resource that was available to us in the middle-of-fracking-nowhere. And we decided we didn’t want our kid to starve.

*Suck it, militant breastfeeders. You can’t make us feel bad about this.

In the course of changing over, we ran across articles about a study that said breastfeeding doesn’t actually make any difference in brain development in kids. It said that links previously made between breastfeeding and brain development were probably due more to the fact that “brighter women” tended to breastfeed more often, and that “brighter women” tended to encourage intellectual development in their kids. I think Karli is a “bright woman,” so I’m thinking that Squatch isn’t going to miss out on college now just because we started giving him formula.

Sure, breastfeeding is best. Except for not starving your kid. That’s really best.


Now that I’ve got internet again, you can expect that birth story soon. Plus a post on diapers. And other good stuff to come out of the Squatch-rearing. For now, though, a reminder from Squatch to smile and be happy.