Originally published on Mother of Confusion
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 24, 2008

My son was born after midnight during the cooler days of May, before the Central Valley could blaze triple-digit temperatures.

The delivery room was packed full of people. The doctor, several nurses, my husband, my parents and my mother-in-law were in attendance. As my son emerged into the world, I expected him to gasp and then cry about the abrupt ejection.

He did not.

Instead he was quiet and blue. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his slender neck several times. Of course I didn’t know that yet, but the jubilant faces of the others gave way to peaked, pinched expressions.

When I asked what was wrong. The response was, “Nothing. Everything’s okay. It’s okay.”

The reassurances scared me. I was only 20-years-old, but already I knew people lied when things were really, really wrong.

Did I not push hard enough or fast enough? The doctor had yelled at me to stay focused, but I kept passing out. He had to assist the delivery with a vacuum device.

Before I could convince myself my baby wasn’t coming home, he cried.

Once assured my son would keep breathing, the doctor plopped him on my belly. When his skin touched mine, I panicked. My stomach felt as slippery as satin sheets on a waterbed. The baby was going to shoot right off and smack the floor. I grabbed on to him and asked for a blanket — something, anything — to give some traction.

Maternal fear knifed sharp and deep. The days of planning the nursery, rubbing my swollen belly and wishing my son would be born sooner, rather than later, felt whimsical. What the hell was I thinking?

I searched for my mom. She sat on the left side of me and appeared happy, but exhausted.

“Mom.” I felt shaky. “I can’t do this. I can’t.” I wanted her to hug me and to tell me it was going to be okay. I wanted to be reassured.

It took her a moment to process my proclamation. When she figured out what I’d meant, she chuckled. “Well, too late now kid. You already are.”

Originally published on I Should Be Folding Laundry

(click title for more)

Originally published on Mother of Confusion

My son was born after midnight during the cooler days of May, before the Central Valley could blaze triple-digit temperatures.

The delivery room was packed full of people. The doctor, several
nurses, my husband, my parents and my mother-in-law were in attendance.
As my son emerged into the world, I expected him to gasp and then cry
about the abrupt ejection.

He did not.

Instead he was quiet and blue. The umbilical cord was wrapped around
his slender neck several times. Of course I didn’t know that yet, but
the jubilant faces of the others gave way to peaked, pinched
expressions.

When I asked what was wrong. The response was, “Nothing. Everything’s okay. It’s okay.”

The reassurances scared me. I was only 20-years-old, but already I knew people lied when things were really, really wrong.

(click title for more)

Originally published on Social Impressions

As you become increasingly active in social
media, you will find a wide variety of competitiveness across the
board. Some want to be regarded as A-list bloggers, to reach a top
status on social bookmarking sites, and to have the most number of
friends on Facebook. While some can maintain genuine relationships with
people, others see them as part of their massive network. Competition
is usually healthy, depending on the amount of competitiveness involved.

Although there are many gray areas between each level, I have
observed roughly five main levels of social media competitiveness and
involvement.

Lurker

Lurkers exist online; they just aren’t visible. These people don’t
actually participate. They quietly watch the activity on their favorite
sites. They may identify core sites and users that they admire or enjoy
and follow them religiously. Even the most offensive of posts won’t
incite a comment from them. Although these lurkers might sign up for an
account on a social site, they are usually the users without an avatar.
Their activity on these sites is minimal, and their contribution is
non-existent.

(click title for more)