The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

All right. She's asleep, for a few minutes at least. Little tyrant.

I'd hoped to have something for you here in the last week or so -- perhaps posted while on vacation.

Oops. There she goes. Be right back.

All right. Now I'm standing here, in front of a relatively high counter between our kitchen and dining area. Imogen's in a baby carrier hanging in front of me. So I can type on Theresa's laptop for a few minutes while still honoring Imogen's need to be held and rocked -- a near constant in the evenings between about 7 PM and 1 AM, when she's not eating.

So here I stand. It's not ideal. For one thing, it's too damn close to the cat litter (in the hall closet) for comfort. Because that cat litter needs changing tonight. And that's not something you can do with a baby hanging off you.

For another, I have one of those headaches one doesn't even notice most of the time, until you suddenly realize what's making you perpetually irritable. I've had one, on and off since about Sunday evening. It's triggered by, among other things

• that maddening chirp made by cell-phone walkie-talkies
  
• incomprehensible medical bills
  
• incomprehensible statements from our health insurance
  
• medical-bill-related notices from collection agencies¹
  
• news about housing prices in New York
  
• Rumsfeld
  
• commercials for Mind of Mencia
  
• almost any news about Atlantic Yards
  
• the smell of an unchanged cat litter box
  
• the sudden realization that I haven't had any caffeine in the past three hours
  
• "Fruit Salad"
  
• the bad lighting in our apartment
  
• the consideration of the cost of rectifying the bad lighting
  
• the awareness that the baby momentarily sleeping in the front-carrier hanging off you is just recharging her batteries, and is a long, restless away from being down for the night.
  
• the awareness that I can't accurately remember whether I already took a couple of ibuprofen yet
  

But still, I've gotten this much written. Or this much complaining done. That's something, right?

All right, maybe it's closer to nothing. At the moment, I have to wonder what point this all is. I can't share anything about the nearly all-consuming world of work, since that's an invitation to all sorts of trouble. And if I share anything more about the diaperrific frustrations of parenthood, this space can be consigned permanently to the hell of Gen-X Parenting Blogs. I don't get out at all any more, so I can't bring news of the livesly arts andd my brain, having been evacuated of all consciousness exclusive of do-we-have-any-clean-onesies and what-do-you-mean-we're-out-of-milk, is in no shape to respond properly to interesting stuff that's been posted on the sites I like to read.

I've gotten a bit of writing work done lately -- just a bit, but something. But I've already scotched the idea of sharing any of it here. So, that's the last point of possible interest gone.

But I am not quite ready to let the file go the way of all wombats just yet. You see, I'd miss you terribly. Even though I strongly suspect you wisely stopped reading a long time ago.

¹Not to be alarmist, there. But when you have an insurer that won't pay claims until they have been resubmitted two or three times, and sometimes not even then because of some secret codeword they want the doctor/lab/hospital to say, those same doctors and labs and hospitals waste no time in dunning us for the missing amounts. And even though our insurer usually clears up there end after some amount of prodding and/or pleading, we have no way of knowing which bills we should pay and which are in a sort of insurance holding pattern, awaiting landing. Do you send in that check for $400 on a statement marked FINAL NOTICE? Because it might still turn into a statement for $32.98. Or not, in which case you'll be hearing from that collection agency. Now, you might think it would make sense to establish with the insurance company which of these claims they'll be paying and how much. However, when a single illness (Imogen's, say), generates separate claims and bills from, the hospital, the emergency room visit to the hospital, the hospital's affiliated lab (which generates very possibly more than one statement, incidentally), the physicians in the hospital, and your own doctor...all of which the insurance company handles individually -- well, it would be a full-time job just managing that. I literally can't imagine how people with chronic illnesses in their families cope -- that's assuming, of course, that they have insurance at all.

Posted by BT at 11:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Where are we? Here, that is, the purplish blob above the "n" in "Kent." Alternatively, you could say that we were here, though that's a distinctly wintry perspective. You can get a glance at one of the features of our little hideaway here, though the bloke rowing the boat in that picture isn't the wombat, but one of our hosts, who have kindly lent us this use of a wonderful lakeside retreat for a few days (Thanks, Eric and Dominique.) It's proving both an excellent spot for basic lounging, as well as a much nicer place to rendezvous with the wombatly parents and sister than our space-limited burrow in the city would be.

The change from our world of a few days ago is nothing short of head-spinning. No hospital -- no vital signs, no meeting a new resident seemingly every day, no complicated chess-game of how to switch parent-on-duty at the hospital while taking care of Helena. Of course, eleven and a half days in the hospital is peanuts compared to the amount of time some parents I know have put in. I have now an expanded appreciation for parents of children with chronic illnesses.

In any event, it's wonderful to have even this small burden lifted. We didn't really believe our doctor was going to let us leave town, until we were discharged and all at home in our wreck of an apartment -- with the task ahead of packing for six days out of town. Now we're here, with the family I haven't seen in a year . Imogen's recovered so well that it almost seems she was never sick. And I actually got to write today. OK, it was more like editing something I'd already written. But it was still, in it's own way, a triumph. Tomorrow, perhaps a hammock. Now, if you'll excuse me...I have to go fatten a baby.

Posted by BT at 10:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Home from the hospital for the night, and off to bed in a minute. But, since next week the wombat will be on a brief but well-earned vacation, it was decided that even at the close of this tumultuous week, some kind of quizlet was in order. Please accept this scrap of a fragment of a mind-muddler, and though most of you will divine the answer in an instant, know that we at least made a gesture toward providing the usual Friday distraction.

This flag of this nation resembles, in some important points, the flag of the United States of America. It has fourteen horizontal red and white stripes -- to reflect the fourteen states that at one time made up the country. It has a blue upper-left-hand corner field, which contains two emblems. One of these two emblems is common to many different kinds of flags, but one -- while not unusual -- is unique among flags that sport the red, white, and blue color scheme.

What is the country, and what is the emblem? For a bonus point – what part of the country split off in 1965, making the fourteen stripes something of an anachronistic symbol?

First correct answer posted to comments wins three goddamn acorns that I've been carrying around in my bag since Helena started picking them up off the street and forcing me to hoard them like some kind of enormous, balding squirrel. Who knows what kinds of invisible filth coats each and every one? No Googling or calling up the They Might Be Giants Dial-a-Song and hoping that the current song just happens to contain the answer to this particular question. One guess (at each part) per comment, though you may waste your day away commenting and commenting. Nothing would please me more.

Posted by BT at 11:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Thanks for the notes and comments of concern. Imogen ("Iggy" to her intimates) is doing better and better. I'm again posting from her digs at Long Island College Hospital. An exciting evening of rattle, bottle, and a finely calibrated electronic scale, which puts the Ig-weight at an impressive new high of 10 lb. 11 oz. With her quietly intense gaze and demure post-feeding belches, she's become the darling of the pediatrics ward.

The extra-good news is that our stay here is not going to be quite as long as first predicted -- she gets sprung on Sunday, and we may yet get to take an abbreviated version of our countryside holiday with her grandparents and aunt and uncle. Seems, at this point, to be almost too good to be true. Which just goes to illustrate how much one's sense of good fortune is largely a matter of perspective.

And now I'm going to sleep in a pull-out chair. Which, in my current state, will be as good as a king-sized bed. Context is, indeed, everything.

Posted by BT at 12:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

...in which Imogen remains asleep in her big o'l hospital crib. Really, down to seconds now, as she just made one of those "waking-up-pissed-off" cries that she gives in increasingly frequent intervals before actually, well, waking up pissed off.

At 3 AM she was a bundle of unmanageability. No hold, no swaddle, no angle, position, rocking action, butt-patting (for our childless readers: the judiciously applied butt-pat is, improbably, one of the single most important get-the-kid-to-sleep tools one can employ) or shushing was of interest or effect. The bottle was an affront, the bed a place of torment and outrage. Eventually, exhausted by her own discontent (her father's daughter, to be sure), Iggy fell asleep on my lap at about five, waking up to nurse an hour later.

And then, blessedly worn out, she consented to be wrapped up and placed in her bed. A series of ingenious light-baffles has been deployed in Macgyver-ish fashion, to keep the rays of the rising sun out of sleeping beauty's eyes and extend this unexpectedly peaceful early morning. And with an enormous coffee from the 24-hour carbo-purveyor downstairs, it's actually pretty nice hanging out in here (the wireless network from a nearby apartment, which I am forced to admit we seem to be, um, sharing, is a big plus, and the reason -- natch -- I can bring you this little report).

Medical news isn't much different than yesterday -- we are not entirely certain that there is no infection of the spinal fluid, but preliminary results are promising, according to our doctor. This would put Imogen's stay here at a probable max of two weeks. All to the good, especially considering that we were gearing ourselves for worse. The doctor assures us that the treatment she's getting is very effective, and that Imogen won't require anything further to beat this. We're certainly hoping that's true. And, a night of serious fussiness aside, she's doing about as well as can be expected, considering she's had two spinal taps this weekend...

Posted by BT at 07:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

i'm reaching across, w/ my left hand, to type, cradling Imogen in my right. We're in the hospital -- the little one has a bacterial infection that needs IV antibiotics. She's stuck in here for 2 weeks at minimum. Theresa has been spending nights in a pull-out chair, next to Iggy's enormous chrome-plated cage of a crib.

For all that, the wee one is blessedly calm, eating well, and mostly sleeping well too, though she naturally wants to be held much of the time.

The worst right now was/is the spinal tap, to make sure the microbes haven't spread to the cord fluid. Yesterday's was both harrowing to watch and unsuccesful --they couldn't get a clean draw, and will have to try again today. We're dreading that. If that comes up positive, we're here for yet another week of treatment.

Our doctor, who is as always one of the most impressive people i've ever met, is pretty confident that the treatment is going to go smoothly. Imogen's not running any high fevers now or seeming more than expectably fussy. Still, it's a very scary experience, and the endurance angle for the one who stays night after night with her -- sure to be Theresa in the main -- is daunting to contemplate.

Oh, and we were looking forward to a week out of town starting the 21st. That's by the wayside now -- the least of the unwelcome consequences, but still rankling...

UPDATE 3:40 P.M.: They were able to get a clean draw on the re-try of the spinal tap. That, unfortunately, takes 72 hours to fully culture; when it does, we should know if Imogen's in the hospital for three weeks, or merely two.

Posted by BT at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The littlest wombat is a bit under the weather, and so duties in the burrow and elsewhere prevent your host from offering up an underwhelming followup to Rachel's skull-scraper of last week.

Anyway, if I understood the President's address yesterday, you should be spending today meditating on how you're much, much safer now than you were five years ago. Really; he said that. So, I wouldn't want to interfere with this opportunity to bask in the glow of how incredibly secure the modern world has become...

Posted by BT at 08:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I've got a pillow in my lap, and a sleeping 2-month old propped against my belly, resting on her side on the pillow. Occupying a good bit of the rest of the pillow is Theresa's laptop, which is proving surprisingly easy to use in this configuration. More surprising is the fact that even though Imogen's head is resting in the crook of my left elbow, she's actually tolerating my typing with two hands (although even as I type this sentence I feel her stir -- perhaps I've grown too ambitious).

It's not, I wish to note, an arrangement conducive to keeping cool. Baby hot; laptop hot; wombat hot...but that I can do anything at all while keeping Iggy here asleep is amazing. Given that, I can handle the sense that my core temperature is being permanently altered.

Speaking of heat's effects -- last week, it seems, the heat wave produced a quasi-riot at one of the city pools close to our own Lady B. Yogurt (aka Bootsy 3000) and her consort, Hackly (though we received news of this particular episode of civilization's discontents from discerning wombat reader Josh G.) We hope they remained far from the scene of such unpleasantness.

Posted by BT at 11:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I'm not going to lie to you. This week has been defined by swelter and cattarrh, by writhing babies and stubborn little girls, by the knowledge that in electrically rendering our apartment cool enough for wombat habitation, we're joining in the Global War on Tundra, and by the video-musical plague of The Wiggles. An examination of how the Wombat Burrow became infected with Wiggles (specifically this strain) is the sort of painful inquiry likely to lead to even more suffering, so we'll simply have to accept it as part of the cosmic retribution for our many moral failures. Karma is, as many a coffee-shop tip jar reminds us, a boomerang.

Ahem. On to today's head-slapper, submitted by generous sometime Wombat reader Rachel Barney. Yes, that Rachel Barney, the author of Names and Nature in Plato's Cratylus. It's just as we've always maintained -- even people who know how to pronounce "Cratylus" take a healthy interest in the Quiz, when they're not playing online 3-D go or chuckling over the "LinguaBloopers" column on the back page of the latest Popular Philology.

He began his career as a criminal lawer lawyer and teacher of criminology; he went on to become an editor of an outspoken newspaper (whose name in translation might be rendered as "Speech"), and later rose to the post of regional minister of justice. After fleeing his native country, he worked as a newspaper editor elsewhere. Attending a conference, he interfered in the attempted killing of one of the other attendees, and was himself killed; the shooter's target was unharmed. The eldest of his five children later became globally famous.

Who was he?

First correct answer posted to comments wins a copy of former quiz subject John Tesh's 2002 CD the Power of Love. Honest. I have it right here, and I might even be cruel enough to send it to the winner. Go on. Try me. No Googling or consulting the Popular Philology archives. One guess per comment, but pile on those comments, by all means.

Posted by BT at 11:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)