My First Niece

Paul was back at work today. It was a nice one-day trial, and I'm glad that he'll be home Thursday and Friday, then his mom will be here for a couple of weeks. I can defintely go it alone with the two girls, but it's not exactly easy. Especially when I'm about a week post-partum, still feeling sore, and running a touch of a fever.

Ellie, Paul, and I all have colds. I'm the only one with a fever. I'm also sleeping very little and recovering from childbirth; perhaps these things are related. Ellie's been very weepy and needy, though still very attached to Adelaide so it might just be her cold. She melts down whenever Adelaide cries, which is touching.

But today I'm sharing someone else's story, not my own.

My sister's daughter was born one day after Adelaide, on her wedding anniversary. Middlesis wanted a natural birth experience, and read all about self hypnosis and The Bradley Method. Since her brain tumor experience several years ago, she's been concerned about her body's ability to bear children, and motherhood has always been her number one goal in this life.

She was due 5 days after me, which means that she too was overdue when her water suddenly broke late the evening I gave birth to Ada. So Middlesis and her husband headed off for the hospital. My mom had already left me in the recovery room to head north, so she got there in the middle of the night, as Middlesis was laboring.

Things didn't progress quickly, so she ended up with a pitocin drip. She was displeased with this, but much more than displeased when she was examining the IV stand between contractions and noticed that they were giving her a narcotic along with the pitocin. Without even telling her, let alone asking her permission! This proved to be a telling sign of the care she was to get at this hospital, the only one covered by her medical insurance.

Eventually, the pitocin contractions were too much for any of her coping strategies, and Middlesis got an epidural. Things were wonderful for a while, and the nurses kept ramping up the pitocin. Then the epidural stopped working. The pit was at 18 whatevers per whatever, then the nurse bumped it up to 20 despite my sister's obvious agony and the clear fact that the epidural was no longer effective. (20 whatevers per whatever, I'm told, is the maximum usual dosage for a pitocin IV.)

My mother said that seeing two of her daughters in such agony so soon after one another was very very difficult for her.

During a routine vitals check, Middlesis learned that she was running a fever, despite the antibiotics she'd been given. (My theory is that the fever had something to do with her body's response to the extreme pain she was in.) That was the final straw; these people didn't want to try a vaginal delivery "with her history" anyway, even though her neurosurgeon signed off on the idea. C-section time.

She prepared herself mentally. And she got bumped for a sicker baby. Again. Again. Finally, shortly before midnight, 24 hours after her water broke, my sister delivered a healthy, hearty baby girl. 9 pounds, 20 inches, and thighs like she could kick a field goal, according to my father (who was also there in time for the birth).

48 hours later, they decided to send her home. She talked them into letting her stay the night (!) then went home just over two days after giving birth rather traumatically. (There's more to the story, including the fact that she got stuck with the same nurse anesthetist for her surgery as for the failed epidural, but I'll leave out some of the infuriating details.)

At home, the baby never slept, cried all the time, and breastfed contstantly. At her 5 day check-up, the pediatrician was concerned about her weight loss and sent them back to the hospital. Where the baby became hard to rouse and was found to be quite dehydrated with low sodium. And she ended up in pediatric ICU, receiving fluids and other care.

Finally, finally, finally, in the PICU Middlesis found good doctors and nursing care that she could trust. And a really good lactation consultant. The baby is doing well now, and they expect to go home tomorrow.

Yes, I had a rough first day home alone with both girls. But I'm glad that my mother is with my sister right now; she needs more help. I just wish that I could be there too.

Sunshine and Light

Ellie is not me; I needn't have worried so about the jealousy.

When Ellie came to meet Ada in the hospital, Ada was in the bassinet and I was in the bed, waiting for Ellie with open arms, as suggested by all the books. Later, after we'd snuggled a bit, I asked Ellie if she'd like to meet the baby. She certainly would! And Ada had a little present for Ellie, but Ellie immediately tried to give it back. "Baby's!" she said. We've been home for several days now, and Ellie is still uninterested in that present.

"Ellie, do you have to go potty?" her daddy will ask her.

"No!"

"Ada and I will come along and sit where you can see us," I offer.

"K!"

Ellie also loves holding Ada. She'll come up to me while I'm nursing and hold out her arms. "K? K? K?"

She's thrilled to hold the baby for about a minute, then she's done, then she wants the baby again moments later. We're happy to oblige her, and Ada is quite tolerant. I also get down on the floor with Ellie in her room a couple of times a day, making sure that we have plenty of Ada-free 1-on-1 play time, though Daddy is doing a lot of the Ellie care lately (e.g. potty trips, diaper changes, and pony tails). We'll certainly miss him when he goes back to work, though his mother will be here to help.

There's so much more to write! Ada's birth story, my sister's birth story (Arria was born one day after Adelaide, and their names were almost much more similar), and more details than anyone could ever want about sleep and breastfeeding.

But right now, both girls are asleep and I'd be foolish to miss the opportunity to follow their lead!

Not a good first post, but a true one

There are lots of posts of sunshine and light to come. There are posts of my elation at Ada's birth, my happiness with how Ada and Ellie's first meeting went, my gratitude at how my youngest sister drove over from two states away and missed three days of work to stay with Ellie while I was in the hospital, so that Ellie got to feel like she was getting a special treat rather than being abandoned.

This isn't one of those posts. This is a 4:00 am post on our first night home all together. It's a post of extreme frustration.

I really really really didn't want to bungle this. I am still jealous of my middle sister, due in part, I'm sure, to how hard it was for my mom after MiddleSis was born. I'm sure that I got shorted, and I know that I've never quite gotten over it.

I made sure that Ellie had a cool big girl room and plenty of time to transition out of the nursery well before Ada was born. I made sure that Ellie had room to regress, to be held like a baby as much as she wanted, to crawl, to play with bottles, to avoid the potty, whatever. I was supportive; I didn't want her to feel like she couldn't do something she wanted to do just because of the new baby. I've never told Ellie that she has to be a big girl now because a new baby is coming, or anything like that.

I am not frustrated with Ada for not sleeping tonight. She is a newborn, as yet unclear on the concepts of night and day, and everything is brand-new.

I understand that Ellie is excited to have her daddy and me at home again, that she's excited to have the baby here, that she has a cold, that it's hard for her to sleep too. But she does know better; she does understand that it's nighttime and she should be sleeping.

So of course Paul and I are both up, trading turns with both girls, and we're both exhausted. Ellie's cold is driving me crazy. I can't keep her away from the baby entirely, and I'm not trying to do so because I don't want her to develop unnecessary resentment. But it's so hard for me to not freak out about those germs around the new baby. And, more selfishly, it's so hard for me to sit endlessly in Ellie's room when she's snotty and snuffly despite the Tylenol Cold - I have always hated hearing her struggle to breathe - and grinding grinding grinding her teeth.

And every moment, Ellie's inevitable dawn awakening grows ever nearer as my window for recovery in sleep closes further.

There are lots of great friends around here who have offered to help, to keep Ellie for us. That's very generous, but it won't work because Ellie wants to be here with her mom and dad. I think it would do irreparable harm to send her away on the first nights that the new baby is home.

What she needs - what we all need - is family here to help out so that we can take shifts and one adult can be sleeping at all times.

Because, you know what? I feel bad. I feel like I'm about 2 days post-partum. I feel squishy and squooshy in the middle, I feel sore on the bottom, I feel exhausted. My nipples are killing me (yes, yes, I'm wearing a good bra and plenty of lanolin; breast pain is just a natural part of the beginning of breastfeeding a new baby, especially one who loves to nurse and has a very strong suck). The afterbirth cramps really are much stronger with subsequent childbirth experiences.

My mother-in-law kindly offered to come help. And I gratefully accepted her offer, but requested that she come in a couple of weeks, when Paul goes back to the office and I'm trying to handle both kids alone during the day and take on more of the night shifts since he'll be having to be at work all day. I still think I'll really appreciate the help then. But I could use some help now, too.

You know, I don't begrudge MiddleSis the right to have family around her for the birth of her first baby. She had a traumatic experience with labor and delivery yesterday - more on that later. But this is her first child, meaning that she has a husband with whom she can trade off as necessary and no other children to tend. And his family lives nearby. And both of my parents are up there with them, even though they're still in the hospital and we're struggling through our first night at home.

I want to go back to the hospital. I want to say, hey, I've nursed this baby for 3 hours straight, I've made meaningful eye contact, I've sung to her and told her how much I love her. Now it's time for a kindly nurse to rock her in the nursery for a few hours so that I can sleep and Paul can be home with Ellie. 2 nights in the hospital weren't enough. Not nearly enough.

Having my mother here for well under 24 hours culminating immediately after I gave birth - before I'd even moved out of the recovery room! - was not nearly enough. It just sucks. And I'm tired and I feel bad.

But now I think Paul's gotten Ellie to sleep, at least for a little while, and he's walking Ada around the house, swinging her in her car seat, and she's quiet. I think I'll try to get some rest, now that I've vented some of my frustration here.

Adelaide (Ada)

Born: Jan. 23, 2007, 2:21 PM
Weight: 8lb 11oz
Length: 22in

Senioritis

Remember that end-of-semester feeling, that just-before-break feeling, the way it felt the last weeks of high school after you'd been accepted into college?

I've been feeling that way for weeks. It was hard to concentrate - or care - at work. Lately, it's been hard at home too.

Paul has been feeling less motivated at work too. Every day, he thinks he's about to be called home to rush to the hospital, which keeps him from caring quite as much as usual about his work. He's ready for a 2-week "vacation."

My mom - expecting 2 grandbabies weeks ago - is feeling much the same way.

And now me . . . I've been impatient with Ellie's increased demands on me. I've been short with her. I've been trying to think about why, and this is what I've come up with.

I love her. I appreciate her need for cuddles and snuggles and reassurances, knowing that it won't be too long before I'll long for these days again. But this has been my life, unremittingly, for over 3 years. I'm actually looking forward to 2 days in the hospital, for labor, for time with a new baby, for family being here and taking over Ellie care - for a break from my life.

Well, all that plus I'm tired and sore and uncomfortable.

I have it much better than my sister, though. She's a week overdue herself, and has suffered for the last couple of months. She's got horrible edema - she's so swollen that she can barely operate her cell phone with her clumsy fingers. And her blood pressure is way high, causing vision issues and general fear and discomfort. She's showing no signs of being ready for labor (I'm talking about her cervix here, for those who care) so her doctor is reluctant to induce. She has regular blood work to check for pre-eclampsia and is on bedrest until she either goes into labor on her own or a c-section becomes much safer than waiting any longer.

One way or another, there should be two new babies in the family this week!

I was a little hopeful . . .

First, let me say that I acknowledge all the literature suggesting that we can't exactly determine due dates, and inducing for being post-dates is therefore problematic, etc. But in my case, I know when my last period was, I know the first day I got a positive test result, and I know when my first ultrasound was. I'm pretty sure about the due date of this baby, and I'm pretty sure that she's "late." Also, I'm pretty sure that she's physically mature enough to be born! Since Paul's sister was "two weeks late" and suffering from serious post-maturity syndrome, that's something that I'm watchful of.

I didn't start trying to have this baby until the day after my due date. Here's what didn't work last week/end:

• an "internal exam" by my large-handed OB
  
• spicy Mexican food
  
• ice cream with Splenda
  
• regular (like, nearly daily!) sex
  
• raspberry leaf tea
  
• milkshake with chocolate and Splenda (I think Splenda's lost its "magic" with me)

Yesterday, I was 41 weeks pregnant. I had another appointment, this time for a non-stress test, which I found quite stressful, ultrasound, and visit with the OB. The ultrasound tech kept commenting on the extreme chubbiness of my baby's cheeks. And how hard it was to get a measurement around her belly. Seriously! Come on out, big healthy baby! Her verdict? 9+ pounds. We'll see.

The OB gave me a slightly "vigorous" internal exam, which he says can help start things off. And he scheduled me for an induction at midnight next Monday night/Tuesday morning. Not for size, for post-maturity concerns. But he did wonder aloud if I'd be able to deliver a 9-pound baby (for the record, he thinks 9 pounds is the high end of the range, bless his heart). I think I can. My pelvis was made for this.

Right. So I came home, where Paul was putting Ellie down for her nap after working at home all morning so that he could be here to meet her when she got off the school bus (!!). And we had some really good sex, hoping that that, in conjunction with the internal exam, might move some things along. (Aren't you just thrilled to know this about us? Lucky you!) Then he went to work and I, blessedly, took a nap.

After nap, I played with Ellie and took her to music class, where I popped up and down like everyone else. Before dinner, I walked around the block. Later last evening, I did 50 jumping jacks, which really freaked Paul out. Then we walked around the block again. Before bed, I spent 30 minutes hooked up to my fancy electric breast pump. In bed, we tried some relaxation and visualization exercises.

"Imagine that big bag of muscles working . . . "

All evening, I was having contractions about 15 minutes apart. I was getting hopeful . . .

And then I slept. Alas. Now I'm off for a longer walk.

Then and Now

January 16, 1997

I had been working on Paul for well over a month, and was beginning to have some success in getting him to notice me as an actual girl, complete with washboard abs. (Part of this process involved throwing an indoor beach party in mid-December, complete with a string bikini top and little denim shorts on my part. And lots of fruity drinks. Yes, there is a picture.) In the way of such things, by the time Paul got back to St. Louis after winter break, and I had arranged to pick him up from the airport, I was no longer so sure that I wanted him. I had developed a crush on another boy - a short Jewish boy from New Jersey who wanted to be a comedian or a sportscaster, basically Paul's opposite in every way.

But I picked Paul up from the airport and deposited him at his dorm anyway, as agreed. He invited me to dinner to thank me for the ride, but we both knew what this was to be - our first date. He was a sophomore, 19 years old, and I was a senior.

We planned to go out to dinner on Thursday, January 16th, then meet up with a large group of our friends who had previously planned a big bowling event. Afterwards, we'd go back to my dorm suite for Must See TV on tape. Since Paul did not have a car, I would drive. We'd just had one of St. Louis's famous ice storms, so instead of showering and primping, I spent my afternoon chipping a couple inches of ice off my car. I'm sure I wore a lovely aroma of eau de exhaust fumes all night.

I had asked my roommate for a recommedation, which is how we ended up at a cheap Chinese place when neither of us really loves Chinese food. And I was so nervous - having recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend, this was my first first date in almost 4 years - that I spent the early part of the evening drinking pot after pot of hot tea. And the rest of the evening running to the bathroom.

Dinner went well, and then came the bowling. Paul's best friend was a rather possessive girl who spent much of the time sitting on his lap while I stood nearby. And then a group of girls we both knew took me aside to warn me about cuddly, safe, geeky Paul.

"He's only interested in sex," they said. "Be careful with him."

Eventually, we headed back to my place for TV. My suitemates were asleep, so we had the living room to ourselves. As the night progressed, he did not scoot closer to me across the couch, reaching out for my hand or putting his arm around my shoulders. Instead, he scooched further away, eventually bolting for the door as soon as ER ended, shoes in hand.

He had to go to the bathroom pretty desperately, it turned out, and he was embarrassed. Plus, he'd been in a couple of bad, short-term relationships the previous semester (hence the warnings I'd received) and wanted to avoid going down that same path again. No worries!

His best friend (the possessive blond, remember?) was hosting a party on Saturday night. By the time my friends and I got there, Paul had already gone home to watch Braveheart. I convinced a couple of friends that they really wanted to see this movie, and we trooped over to his suite. Finally, eventually, they all left. And Paul and I didn't spend another night apart for nearly a year, the last time he ever went home for Christmas without me.

The story of how we got together is one we both enjoy retelling again and again, because it's so different from the roles we currently play in our relationship. It's long been the case that Paul's the more demonstrative one, the toucher, the cuddler, the romantic. And I'm more . . . self-sufficient? Independent? Something like that, possibly less flattering.

But these are roles, of course, and a bad habit to fall into. Because the feelings underneath are the same as they've always been, for both of us. We both knew, really early on, that we'd never date casually, that it would never be just about the sex, that this was something real.

January 16, 2007

So how did we get to where we are today? Threat of divorce, therapists, marriage in crisis. What on earth is this?

Over time and under pressure, we fell into some bad habits. Our marriage therapist talks about life being like the ocean. A child is playing right next to you in the ocean, and gradually begins being pulled to the side by the undertow without even noticing it, until she walks out of the water and finds herself so far down the beach that she's completely lost. I love that analogy.

Over time, Paul became very angry with me.

And we had been gradually tugged so far apart by various tides that he couldn't talk to me about it.

And he said and did some things to really hurt me.

And he was a lot more successful than he'd intended to be, since he'd become convinced that I no longer cared. I did still care - more even than I knew - but I was coping by walling myself off, being even colder than usual.

What's said cannot be unsaid. What's done cannot be undone.

The work that remains involves learning to recognize the patterns we've fallen into and acknowledge them. To look at the ways we've been hurting each other and be more thoughtful. To try to forgive. To try to move on. To remember that love and celebrate it, every single day.

Ten years today.

Shiver

Did you think my weekend silence might have indicated labor and delivery? Wrong!

It hasn't been all thumb twiddling, though. We did have an ice storm on Friday night. Ellie and I went to lunch with Paul at his office's cafeteria (they make individual pizzas on Fridays) and during the 45 minutes we were inside, the temperature fell from 60 to about 40. Overnight it continued to rain and get colder, so we awoke on Saturday to a fantastic wonderland, all the trees perfectly encased in gleaming ice, all the flags frozen stiffly in place.

Ellie enjoyed throwing the ice to watch it shatter on the driveway, brushing her unmittened hand against the frozen evergreens, and splashing in the puddles. It's been especially lovely because the ground hasn't frozen so it's not treacherous to get around. Branches and entire trees are falling everywhere, though. We've lost several branches from our trees, and lost power for a few hours yesterday. We are among the lucky ones; 60% of our suburb was without power this morning.

Paul and I often claim that there's not enough cold and snow around here, but it's also true that the beautiful ice storm we get nearly every January is a stunningly impressive part of the weather here that's much less common where we're each from.

So. Under 13 hours until my doctor comes back on duty. I'm thinking I can make it, given my lack of progress over the weekend.

At church this morning, everyone was surprised to see me. The woman who usually sits in the pew behind us has been asking me "how many weeks do you have left?" since my 20th week. Last week she commented on my plaid jumper, and this week she just looked at me and threw up her hands. I used to be annoyed by this; now I think it's funny. Really, without a sense of humor, what do I have?

I'll be laughing especially hard when I deliver a 7 pound baby instead of the 10 pounder that everyone seems to be expecting.

No Progress Report

Alas, deliciously spicy Mexican food followed by a non-appetizing, non-fat, no-sugar-added ice cream dessert (with Splenda!) along with the doctor's orders have served no effect. The water is currently boiling for my first cup of raspberry leaf tea, and Ellie and I are about to go to the park to walk around a bit. My mother called this morning to express some readiness for me to get on with things already; she wants to get down here before tonight's expected ice storm up her way. I'm game!

A friend just suggested I try shining a flashlight at myself to show baby the way out. Knowing this baby as I do now, I replied that perhaps I might be more successful trying to lure her out with a piece of chocolate. It's worth consideration if the tea fails.

Also, all those of you who live close to at least one side of your extended families? You're smart people.

Suddenly I feel a sense of impending doom. Moments ago, my front yard looked like a staged scene. There were several squirrels and chipmunks dashing around, and dozens of birds (cardinals, blue jays, starlings, and I don't know what all else) were pecking everywhere. Now, the yard - the whole street! - is deserted. How odd.

Well, it looks like it's time for my next plastic tea party. Adieu!

40 Weeks

This morning, after dropping Ellie off at school and enjoying my weekly visit with my OB, I took my writing sample to School #1 - application complete. A few minutes later, on the way to pick Ellie up from school, I put my writing sample into the mail for school #2 - application complete. Applications for schools #3 and #4 are due a few weeks from now, so . . . pressure's lessened! I can take a couple of days off. Perhaps to labor and deliver, for instance.

Today was my due date, which is of some importance because my doctor is reluctant to let me go too far beyond it. Fortunately, our talk of an induction next week quickly became talk of a non-stress test and ultrasound for size instead. He acknowledges the concerns with both tests, but feels they do offer some value.

And . . . there's some concern about this baby's size.

See, apparently most women measure about a centimeter a week for fundal height during pregnancy (from the pubic bone to the top of the uterus) until about week 33 or 34. Around then, it starts tapering off.

Not only have I been measuring ahead of dates, the growth rate has not slowed significantly. My freakishly large belly has continued to grow so that I'm currently measuring 42 weeks. I do have a family history of measuring large and having normal sized babies. But there's still some concern here. So. Maybe a big baby, maybe just a really really big belly.

I had some professional pregnancy photos taken recently, and they are amazing. I mean, this belly . . .

At church last week, a woman sitting down the pew from me suggested that I take my belly up for the Chat with the Children, because surely it was big enough. Hah! No, really, it was funny. Another woman congratulated me for having the nerve to wear plaid (a skin-tight jumper, because even my too-big-everywhere-else maternity clothes strain over this belly). For the first time ever, my belly button is actually an outie. It's impressive, amazing, and commented on everywhere I go, all day, every day.

So I asked my doctor which home-grown induction methods actually work. He suggested only one that is at all proven. So. Paul's brushing his teeth. This belly and I better go intercept him before he falls asleep.

Tomorrow we'll try Mexican food, Splenda, and probably more of the doctor's orders, if things don't get moving on their own. Pleasant dreams!

No News is Good News

Ellie was due on Wednesday, and I went into labor the preceding Friday evening. New Baby is also due on Wednesday, so it wasn't a big surprise when I started having unmistakable signs of labor late Friday night. After an hour or two, I woke Paul up.

I wasn't ready! I told him. It really hurts! I told him. I need to go into the office for just and hour, and nail down the recommendations for my grad school applications, and . . .

Drink some water, he told me. Then he walked around the bed, picked up my glass of water, added a straw, and held it to my lips until I'd done so.

After we'd talked for a little while (who to call in the middle of the night to watch Ellie? How inconvenient that my mom was unusually far away that night, up in Michigan with my also-pregnant sister) the labor, surprisingly stopped.

And I slept. And all was well.

On Saturday, I had my pregnancy massage (ahhhhhh!) and went into the office for an hour. I accomplished everything I needed to accomplish, then headed home and worked hard on grad school applications. I've completed the online application for 3 of my 4 schools (one school's online application is down this weekend but it's not due until February 1, so I'm not concerned yet). I just need to read over my personal statement, write a teaching statement for one school, and polish my writing sample. Then it's all ready to go.

Which means that . . . I'm about ready to go!

Except, perhaps . . . I do have a project at work that I should do more on. And I need to send out a postcard notifying my neighbors of the upcoming annual trustees meeting. And I am behind on thank you notes and . . .

Well. I don't think it's ever possible to be done, or ready, do you?

2006 In Review

This is the first sentence of the first post of the month thing.

January: First thing: housecleaning!
February: I used to go see Ani Difranco twice a year, in Chicago and in St. Louis.
March: OK, I have a queue of draft post ideas as long as my arm, but they're going to have to continue to wait.
April: I have been off my game for a while.
May: I made a low-carb chicken pot pie for dinner tonight.
June: I sometimes take my childhood for granted.
July: One of my favorite things about Ellie right now is her generosity.
August: I went to the mall today with my mom and Ellie.
September: We'll consider this one prep work for our upcoming Disney trip.
October: Paul has started feeding Ellie All Bran in the morning, which I think is hilarious.
November: This morning, thanks to wonderful friends keeping her up late for us last night, Ellie slept in a little.
December: Yesterday, I passed a new pregnancy milestone.

Clearly, I need to work on my first lines. I think it would have been more interesting to look at the titles of the first posts for each month. They told more of a story.

In other news, I am 40 weeks pregnant, Wahoo! My due date is a few days from now, and I don't think I'll go too far over it. (My official due date is Wednesday, though the perinatal specialist gave me a due date of this Sunday.) Ellie too was due on a Wednesday, and I went into labor on Friday night for a Saturday morning delivery. We'll see what happens this weekend!

I took the GRE this morning. I didn't love the experience, especially since my intended 3 weeks of study in early November became two intense nights of study in early January. And there was a mix-up about the testing center that involved me arriving at the "wrong" place then having to drive across town and start more than an hour later than planned.

It will be interesting to see how my essays score; I feel like they went pretty well. I enjoy writing, as always, and have missed it of late (hello, blog!) The Verbal section was fun, though a bit rushed at the end, and I scored well on it (700 out of 800, 97th percentile). The "Quantitative" section, however, was a bomb. I mean, a real bomb.

With little time to study and no practice test, I gauged the time all wrong, only answering 18 out of 28 questions (and not even having time to fill in all Cs at the end - I just left 10 questions blank!). I remembered enough elementary math to bang through many of the problems . . . given enough time, which I clearly didn't have. For example, I needed to find the length of a line. I could make it into a right triangle, and I knew the length of one side and the measure of one angle of the triangle. It was a 30-60-90 triangle, and not enough information to use the Pythagorean Theorem. I remember just enough to know that there's a formula for the length of the sides of a 30-60-90 triangle, but not the actual formula. I mean, seriously! This is relevant how?!! I'm all about a test of quantitative reasoning, but remembering formulas from Jr. High School is just not where it's at, folks.

So. The GRE is done. I'm due soon. And now I'm about to approach a few people, hat in hand, to ask for last-minute recommendations for last-minute applications. Perhaps I'll learn something useful to assist me in the reapplication process next year.