Birth Story - Take 2

For the last two months I've been taking this amazing writing class from Stefanie of Baby on Bored. Every week a bunch of funny, talented cool chics gathered - got instruction, wrote for a chunk of time and then read our work aloud. It was so damn fun, I'm truly bummed it's over. I'll be putting up some of the fruit of that labor in coming days, but speaking of labor - I want to share a new draft of the birth story that I put up here a few weeks ago.


So to be clear - LCD regs, you've read a version of this story back here. I'm re-posting it because I've spent hours and hours and HOURS rewriting and editing it, and then in a bold move performed it at the staged reading the other night that was the culmination of the class. I swore to myself I wouldn't cry in the telling, and then I did.


Ah well.


This one is 1000 words less than last time, if you're up for it, see what you think....

----------------

“Stop it! Stop yelling at me! Please stop. I just can’t have that right now. It’s not
helpful.”

A hush falls over the room, but I keep up the stinkeye. I’m guessing it’s not very
often that the flushed, sweaty, very fat lady squatting in the middle of the bed yells
at the help.

She says,
“I don’t think I was yelling”.

I say, “You were definitely yelling”.

It won’t be long now before another crushing combo platter of pressure, pain and
pinch will arrive along with the need to bear down. We need to get through this
little discussion fast.

“I wasn’t yelling” she repeats a little under her breath and turns on her heel. I have
time to think, did she just turn on her heel? She’s gone and here I go again.

I’m wild, I’m swinging my head. The wave is back and I’ve got a job to do. Fuck her
and her yelling ways. Fuck that noise and fury. Now I’m the one making it.

I squint my eyes into slits and push my legs up on the bar. Holding up the blue
sheet in an effort to give me some dignity is both useless and pointless, but god
bless that sweet nurse for trying. I bear down and think. Damn. I’m pushing so
hard. I really hope poop isn’t coming out. That’s pretty gross. I don’t think poop is
on my birth plan.

Ah, the birth plan. According to it, right now I’m home in warm water giving birth in
one of those tubs you see in Youtube videos. I’m the picture of serenity and grace,
my husband swabbing at my head with a warm washcloth. No wait, is he in the tub
with me? Is he wearing anything? What did we ever decide about that? Of course I
won’t be wearing anything in the birthing tub but is it weird if he doesn’t wear
anything? Maybe a speedo?

A contraction only lasts between :30 and :90 seconds but it might as well be the
staging of War and Peace. It finally ends and I slowly catch my breath. I gather the
sheet around my puffy legs and stare out the giant plate glass window. The sun
came up some time ago, what the hell time is it? More to the point, what day?
We’re going on hour 54 of labor, for me time and space have given up and are
making out in the corner.

My midwife comes into view, the one I hired for my fantasy homebirth. Her white
turban blends with the blownout bright morning light behind her. She is concerned.

“Jane, you’re going to need to play by their rules here. You’ve been pushing for
three hours now. If you want to avoid...”

She trails off here.

The knife. The knife is the end of her sentence. I don’t have the heart to glare at
her. Her face is too kind. My heart is too tired.

“I suggest that you really try to be accommodating. Let them guide you, perhaps
some extra coaching will help.”

“I don’t want yelling” I weakly assert.

The key yeller marches back in the room, followed closely behind by the physician.
“You’re not pushing effectively,” says the mean midwife. Mean midwife, it’s an
oxymoron, I know. I was driven forty-five minutes across town in screaming labor
to this particular hospital so I could stay under midwife care, and the result is that I
get the mean one. I glare at her squatty form.

The physician takes over.

“Now, I’m going to help you focus your efforts by keeping my hand here during the
contractions.” By ‘here’, she means on his little head which is coming down
sideways. And when I say ‘on his head’, you’ve likely gotten to the right image. Up
the Vajay. I’d squirm but really, why bother? At this point I’ve lost track of how
many people have had their hand there. Too bad I didn’t charge for admission.

In our birthing class, we watched all of these videos of waterbirths. The woman
would be all ohh and ahhh and then at some point a face muscle would twitch like
maybe she’s having a small orgasm and then a baby would pop in between her
legs. A tiny upside down face would suddenly appear there, squinting in the watery
world.

I watched with avid interest. That’s going to be me! I thought. That’s so totally
going to be me! When the birthing coach discussed the epidural I waddled off in
search of more snacks. When she talked about a fetal monitor that attaches to the
baby’s head I scoffed. And pitocin?. Oh no, that won’t be me. Totally. Not me.

Stranded on the hospital bed, the shiny floors are a sparkling sea miles below me. I
am on a barge with sheets and I use the pushing bar to row. I hang up my
birthplan like a sail, its navigation powers are useless against the tide of medical
madness. Pitocin – check. Epidoural – check. And the fetal monitor attached to his
tiny head? Check. Right now surrender looks like me in bad lighting and a gaping
hospital gown.

So I push. And I push. And. PUSH. The physician's hand is there. Her curly head
shakes back and forth as I bear down. They yell, I don’t care anymore. It’s a wash
of sound and wonder, light and shaking muscle.

I am raw and exposed, there is not a single shard of dignity left. My self capital S is
no longer part of the equation, my body is just a powerful machine that’s in heavy
use. The constant pain has become irrelevant. And though that epidural has long
since worn off, I’m still attached to the end of it like a dog on a leash.

So I’m pushing out a person. This important fact has faded into the blur of the long
anxious minutes. What I know for sure is that I will never be the same. I will never
walk the same. I will never have the same fears. I will never wonder if I am strong.

Now my friend runs around the room weeping and brandishing my camera. She
yell’s He’s coming! He’s coming! I can see his little head!

And now he’s crowning. Jesus, ouch.

And then nothing.

We’re between contractions - I guess we’ll be hanging out here. This is what they
call the ring of fire.

In this extended, stretched moment I take a look around. It’s an unreasonably
bright room filled with people I don’t know. There is not a candle in sight. Sure my
friend has the ipod going and Yo Yo Ma is cranking out the Bach, but that’s the end
of the sweetness. The population doubles when a team of dudes shuffle in with
their eyes averted. Apparently there was meconium in the water, (which is an
indicator of fetal distress) so these guys have first dibs on him. All scrubbled up,
they await his arrival across the shiny floor.

I'd heard of the 'ring of fire' - I believed it would be accurate name. And I won't go
on here but suffice it to say it is a fine, fine name and the fire is 1000 angry wasps.

In the next contraction he comes out in a gush. I don't know much about it because
I can't see anything. I have pushed so hard that my eyes are rendered useless –
they are only registering fuzzy forms in white. I’m now looking through the lens of
an impressionist painting, perhaps this is for the best.

He is quickly ripped away and flown across the sea into their waiting hands. I am
left there - stranded in the tangled sheets and blood. I have just turned my guts,
heart and other parts inside out in an effort to bring this guy onto the planet - and
now he belongs to them: medical science.

A team of gloved hands rapidly scrub him as plastic tubes descend deep into his
throat and very being. My dear husband stands by and watches helplessly. Our tiny
infant is being manhandled like a car in a car wash without the water.

3 minutes slowly pass.

He isn’t breathing and neither are we. The air feels heavy, like the moments before
a thunderstorm. Alone on my island I watch the storm approach and I wonder. I am
curious. I am quiet. For me it’s white light and blur and the pound of my heartbeat
in my head.

Finally we hear a raspy cry. A cheer goes up in the crowd.

My midwife insists that he flies back to my chest. I guess this is a little tip of the
hat to my original dreamy birth plan. The trouble is that it's an old idea and I'm not
sure how to get back to her, or back to that warm water. My hands are heavy
flippers as I try unsuccessfully to comfort this little being who is bound and perched
on my chest. His little mouth yawns open and closed with a weak cry. I join him.

56 hours. I did that dance with the force of nature designed to bring human life to
the world for 56 hours.

I know in my heart of hearts that nature knows best, that a tub of water or a pile of
hay is a perfectly fine place to land a baby. But that wasn’t the way it went for us.
Nature took us to a hospital.

And was it okay? It was. Because he was okay.

And my body won’t bear a scar from a knife. Of course there are endless other
scars and gifts that come from moving through the hardest thing I’ve ever endured
cheered by strangers, the sparkling sea, my husband and Yo Yo Ma.


Pictured below - Boy in the NICU with Dad on day one of life.

Telethon

I am watching this Hope for Haiti Now telethon and it's so incredibly moving. My confession is that I've avoided the news for the last 10 days because I knew I wouldn't be able to bear the images or the facts. I hate that about me, it's not that I don't care or don't want to know. It's just that knowing makes me feel like someone took a potato peeler to my skin and is lurking close by with a juicy lemon and a smirk.

But I'm watching. And trying to call, but the good news is I can't get through. When I go to the Hope for Haiti Now website I get a weird certificate message which is making me hold off on entering my credit card. Likely it's not actually an issue but ack, you know? I guess I'll wait until that is resolved or just donate to the Redcross which can also be done through the handy button over there to the left. Of course I'll admit I want to chat up Steven Spielberg or Sigourney Weaver. Or Leo. I love these conversations that they are showing us. How extraordinary and genius is thing that they've created in such a short time? George Clooney is truly a stand-up guy. How many people are like me and have been hiding from the news and are now watching these stunning performances and watching the Twitter map go off and just think of course I'll donate. Of course. Lemon's be damned.

I am always somewhere between embracing my sensitive ways or crucifying myself over it. But I am damn sensitive, it's just true. I'm sensitive to lighting. Fluorescents make me feel hopeless. Overhead lighting makes me angry. I'm sensitive to sound. Basically most of the time it's too loud and there are pitches that are perceivable to me and my brown dog, no-one else. And perfume? Let me summarize, by saying - Ugh. I can't wear it and if I hug someone who's got it going I often get it on me but where I don't know how to scrape it off and then I smell it all day and then...continued ugh-ness.

I watch BHB closely to see if he's got the same issues. I was once told by a psychic that he would be a 'sensitive child' and that I should buy the book The Highly Sensitive Child. While I'm not embarrassed to say this (okay a little) I'm all ears when it comes to the spiritual info that is downloaded onto me...I 'm going to wait and see before full tilt panic. Or book buying.

Lately I've been in the darkness again. I can't say whether that has something to do with ye olde PPD from days of yore. I have judgements about that - I think to myself - he's almost 10 months old! How is this still PPD? More like wtf getoveryourself which we shall initialize as GOYJ. But it is in fact why I've avoided the horrifying news from Haiti or for that matter our Senate. I just get taken down by this information and often don't recover for hours or even days. To truth is as I've shared before I have my own glimpses of psychic moments and also medium moments (I see dead people!) so I figure the whole sensitive bit is just par for the course. (regardless of how mysterious the course is to me....) But. I am looking for some solutions to get a little more de-sensitized.

Have you heard of the book The Mood Cure? Cute hubs picked it up and so far it's darn interesting. I haven't gotten very far into it, but I'm interested in the part that talks about overly senstive/overly emotional people and how this can be treated with diet. Since as I mentioned recently that I saw a family member successful treat a major psychiatric illness with diet changes, it totally makes sense to me that I could potentially find some relief from my endless weepy ways and inability to deal with bad lighting and bad news. Of course I've recently begun that journey by kicking the sugar to the curb but it may not be enough. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime please enjoy some pics of the BHB livin' large with big joy (and big drool) despite my temporary lack of it.

Hubs dressed him in this plethora of stripes. He was trying to be funny and it worked 'cause this is true striped awesomeness.

FB friends sorry for the repeat. It's just too good to pass up...

Yours in the search for ease n' grace,


PS - I know I have just over-linked to past post-ness. And I'm sorry but, uh, not totally. That last one is a personal fave and a shortie if you're willing...

PPS - Yes there is a movie called Telethon (on TV). No, I've never seen it but IMDB says it exists. Oh and for Monday? Vote my sisters! I promise to do your bidding!! And thanks too btw for voting to keep that in. That's really nice, I appreciate it. So I'll keep yappin' about movies...it's good for my brain.

City of Angels

Sometimes magical things happen that are inexplicable.
And sometimes they don't.

Almond Joy has nuts, Mounds don't.

OH MAN I am showing my age. If you're young and fabulous and you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, move along. And if you're old and fabulous then yes I just dragged that catchy tune that tortured you from your childhood into your mind, you're welcome.

Back to the topic, thanks for going with me on that. I live in a city called Los Angeles, loosely translated: " city full of pretty people who drive like completes shitheads and have a shocking lack of confidence which is hilarious considering the attitude". No wait, that's not it. According to wiki the full name is "La Ciudad de la Reina de los Angeles" - or The City of the Queen of the Angels.

And who is that you might ask? The Virgin Mary is apparently the Queen of the Angels. Now this makes no sense to me because according the Doreen Virtue's Angel Cards, Angels are totally hot. And from what I remember from bible study Mary is a no-sex-havin', virtuous holy gal who you know, hangs out with sheep.

Man, I keep wandering off here tonight. Clearly I'm tired. Okay. Here's what's up.

I am going to reveal something kinda embarrassing and ridiculous and/or totally bitchin' depending on your point of view. But here goes. I talk to the Angels. Like. All the time.

Yep. Uh-huh. Totally.

I am tempted to close the post here and see what happens, but foolishly I"ll go on. I've referred to the oovey-groovy side of myself a few times up here and just sorta whitewashed over it. But I'd be remiss in sharing a real picture of this little Momma if I didn't just overshare a little bit on this topic.

It seems like ever since I gave birth and had my self, physical and otherwise, split open I've been exactly that, more open. I'm getting more 'information' from you know, guidesn'shit. And taking care of this little tiny Angel-faced person has inspired me to chat up the other Angels more often. I 'read' the Angel deck, pulling cards for every reason I can. What's amazing about this is how often the information is so freaky-deaky truly uncanny and also quite soothing. Or how I'll ask a question and the same card will come up again and again. Seriously. In a deck of like 44 I think, I ask the question get a card. Shuffle. Shuffle again. Ask the question again, here comes the same card. Fuuuuhreaky


In fact, when I was preggers with BHB I talked to a psychic and she mentioned that he will love unicorns. Well, that remains to be seen - his only interests at this point involves my anatomy. But at some point I'll be able to confirm this and that will be hella interesting. In the meantime, anytime I would ever ask a question of the angel cards that relates to the boy, I get the same card over and over again that happens to be a damn Unicorn. Unicorn Angel. Which is nuts, right? In so many ways, but I mean in the 'whoa, that can't be a coincidence way'.

Tonight I went to a class to kinda purse this new line of thinking some more to see if all of my talking to Angels and various other folks seen and unseen was a reasonable thing to do. But you know, when you go to a place promoting such activity you're not going to get any kind of helpful perspective. So I don't have any. So instead of going on here, I  am going to go chat up the Angels about sleep. Mine, his and yours.

Btw, thanks so much to all of you who commented on my previous post about that topic, I totally freakin' appreciate you. Nothing has been resolved over here, in fact the cute hubs is singing song #4 right now as I type to see if he'll go back down. I've already offered way too much food for 11:42 at night and so now we're into the Opera (again). I will keep you posted.

Sigh. Now a new song is in your head, isn't it?

Says she talks to Ang-el-s, they call her out by name..

Falling Down

Today started out like any other day. Stayed up too late last night, slept in while the boy hung out with the cute hubs. This is an almost daily ritual, while I fade in and out of sleep, BHB sits in his bjorn bouncee chair doing his screaming banchee thang and kicking himself into a rockin’ rhthym while Hubs does the dishes. And if you’re wondering why I”m such a lucky Momma that gets to sleep in and did I say Dad does dishes? I did. I’d say I wonder too. But since I am the one on the hook to get up during the night, I think it might be semi-fair.

Went to the Feeding Little Foodies workshop and met some awesome other Momma’s and got some handy tips on how to make baby mush. It was great. I totally recommend it. I feel that much more capable and willing to make the food and freeze it and ya know, if I open a jar, I open a jar.

So in all the excitement about learning how to be feeding a little foodie I had not put any foodie in my body and since I’m still producing all the food for the little doody, I was famished.

To solve this problem I skipped loading the boy into the car and left him in the Ergo carrier and wandered down to the main street. Wilshire. I immediately found a cool little snackee place next to the El Rey theater that has found a hilarious line between Indian Food and Mexican. It’s called Cowboys and Turban’s and um hi, how fun is that? I ordered a chicken tandoori quesadilla (seriously).

I sat outside with my big-headed baby as we waited for this wacky concoction. In recent days I’ve realized he’s no longer the patient lap sitter he once was, he’s now a guy who needs entertainment. You know, like toys n’ shit. And in my haste to find nourishment, I dropped off the diaper bag that contained such things in the car and so I was caught basically empty handed. This is where my perfectly lovely day became other than.

BHB has been enjoying practicing his standing skills on our laps and laughing into our eyes. Needless to say looking into his starry blue eyes is uber sweet and this is what he was up to in this moment.

My arms are looped around him (imagine like a basketball hoop) and he leans into the left arm. I laugh at his laughing while the hand at the end of the right arm digs through purse for something fun for him to hold onto and or stuff into his tiny mouth. Two thoughts, lightening fast. Give him the glasses case. Take the glasses out first. So I avert eyes to open hinged case only I realize now the boy is missing. He’s down, he’s fallen down, he leaned back too far over my arm and flipped onto the marble below. My six month old child is screaming bloody-murder, no wait that scream was me. Now it’s him.

Before the brain has time to think, don’t pick him up he could be seriously hurt his back could be broken he’s up in my arms and I’m moving on the tiny patio in circles my voice says My baby, My baby oh my god I dropped my Baby and the nice Indian Man is out of the door saying, he’s okay, he’s okay I dropped both my kids yesterday this is what happens this happens all of the time until they are five then a nice guy who I noticed a few moments before as a hipster lanky guy with kind eyes is next to me saying He’s okay, he’s startled he’s okay he’s startled and I’m thinking or speaking Startled? Are you fucking kidding me? he hit the marble, that floor is marble is that cement or marble oh my god I dropped my baby as tears stream down my face and I try unsuccessfully to contain hysteria.

And now I’m also trying to get him to eat. Doing anything to create a sense of normalcy, my usual very modest public breast-feeding has become completely national geographic tribal and I just don't care. And the nice Indian man is yelling, seems to me he's yelling You have to Calm Down, He’s not going to calm down unless You calm down. And they are both very close to me, everyone is too close to me and I’m finally sitting down and the crying baby is thinking about latching but is too busy being upset. Like me.

And then he eats and it grows quiet except for the buses thundering by.

And lanky guy says, okay did he hit his head? And I’m looking at his perfect little head and I don’t see anything, not a mark. Lanky notices the angel's kiss on his forehead and thinks that is a problem, no I say, it’s a birthmark - there is literally not a single bit of evidence. I’m circling his fuzzy little head with a frantic hand as he feeds. It feels perfect.

And I call the pediatrician, only a nurse practitioner on duty today, she is going to call back.  And I sit there, on the patio looking down at the place where he fell. And he eats and he falls asleep. And the Indian man eventually comes out and brings the quesadilla. And lanky comes by a few more times and shares more kindness...and concern, what if he has a concussion? He should not sleep. So I wake the poor guy up, even though I know in my gut he is okay. Somehow he managed to perform a triple Lutz onto cement or was it marble three feet below and leave his head out of it. I guess all of that belly time paid off because he kept his head up.

After about 40 minutes, after the nurse practitioner called and we rule out head injury due to the fact that his head is not scratched and the fact that he’s giggling and banchee screaming and focusing fine and just basically behaving perfectly normally. My breath is finally coming back. The tandoori and cheese is good comfort food but you know, too rich but I’m not ready to be separated from his sweet breath by a car seat so we continue to sit there. I steal glances at the spot on the marble or is it cement where he landed.

Split seconds change a life. These moments which were orchestrated by random facts. I  didn’t bring food for me. The weather was nice so I walked. I found a place where we laughed. I looked for something for him to do and he was gone.

How fleeting. How dangerous this place. How much do I want to lock my family into a padded house with single ethnic food (no need to mix) and just laugh into each others eyes and steer clear of all hard surfaces. Needless to say I’m so grateful he is okay. I’m so sorry that he potentially wasn’t. I don’t know how anyone would survive this same moment going differently, I just don’t.

The good news is that I know what happened. After he backflipped out of my arms, he was caught by angels who then carefully lowered him to the ground where they placed him on his belly. The reason he cried was because I screamed. And cried. See Lanky was right, he was just startled. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Signs

One of my BF's ever was my roommate for about eight months. That actually didn't go so well but thankfully the friendship survived it. She and I shared a love of looking for 'signs' from the universe, which some days I am totally tuned in to and other days you could land a flock of angels on my head who are delivering pdf instruction booklet's on how to live joyfully and have s-loads of cash but I'd be too busy watching dog videos on YouTube to get the message. My friend/roomie was always noting that there were planes going overhead right at a particular moment that related to her mental state and was also concerned because she heard sirens alot and wondered darkness it might be alluding to. My then boyfriend-now-husband thought it had something to do with the fact that we lived under a flightpath and three blocks from a hospital. Jeez, what a cynic.

So I was just sitting down to write this post about a recent event that we could easily categorize under 'sign' when I heard a little voice outside my front door. We have an impressively large front door, and due to the hot evening it was open. Apparently this very large door is very inviting to a little-voiced- completely-ineabriated women which is what I found when I shushed the yelling dog and peered out into the semi-darkness. Unfortunately the porch light was off but through the screen door (not security door mind you, this is a troubling fact) I witnessed a wobbly little blonde person with what I believe was a large bottle in each hand. We enjoyed the following conversation:

(bongo kicked it off)

bongo: Hey! Wtf are you doing on our porch! It's freakin 11pm lady. Hey!
drunk lady: Hi there. Nice doggy. Can I sit on your porch?
me: No sweetie, I'm sorry.
drunk lady: (indignant) Whaaaat? Really?
me: No, I can't have you out there I have a baby sleeping in here and this dog is going to keep barking...
my head: WTF! Why am I telling a crazy lady on my porch about my sleeping baby!?
drunk lady: (heading toward the chair) It's nice here.
me: I'm sorry, no you cannot.
my head: Is she wearing bunny ears?
bongo: Dammit! My porch! Hey!
drunk lady: (turning back toward the street) They call me tinkerbell!
me: That's great. Okay! Have a good night!
drunk lady: somethingelseverytraceyjordanfrom30rock
me: (swinging giant door shut) Have a good night!

So okay, that's an odd little scenario. And yes you bet it makes me grateful for my brown dog even though he looks drunk too with a lampshade on his head.

But here's the really weird thing. I was thinking about how I was going to link back here to talk about the recent sign I experienced...(please stay tuned, it's coming). And if you went back there, you can see why this is weird. And if you didn't, fine! I'll tell you. At the top of that post, (did you finally go that time?) is a picture of tinkerbell. Seriously! Is that nuts? Okay, I'm kinda freaked out.

Let's pause to illustrate a few points using photo evidence:

Giant door behind big dog head

above: Big headed baby and post-op pooch on the porch. I guess tinkerbell has it right, it's a great porch for hanging out...


Me looking all glam for a pregnant lady. Again, as large as I am, how big is that door? BHB was almost fully baked, this was the week before he showed up.


Ok! I'm finally getting to the story. So if you did follow one of my 45 links back to the Courage! Courage! post you probably read about how the hubs and I are making a movie. Starting with a short first, which is very billy bob uh-huh slingblade of us. And if you did read that simpy stuff about how a-scared I am about it, then you'll appreciate what happened. And if you did go back there, you should probably comment there so I know you did. Omg I'm annoying.

The feature is called Nov 13th. The short is called Nov 1st. I won't say much here but I will tell you that the story involves a vedic astrologer. One night hubs and I were talking about said movie and how we need a website for it. So I decided to go search an image for the background of the site. I typed in 'Vedic Astrology Chart' and used google images. I find a few, nothing thrills me until I scroll down and find this one.

So if you just went there you might have noticed what I next got very excited about. Try it, go to that image, and hit 'save as'. Tell me what happens.

Right? Isn't that crazy? Here is what I saw:

I literally almost threw my laptop out of my lap from the shock of it. How! What! Why is this image called "Nov_13_chart.gif". So for those of you reading late night with blurry eyes here is just a reminder: Our feature is called Nov 13th. Seriously.

Upon further review I find that the image comes from another blog, an astrologer's blog. Big whut-whut to Juliana. I scrolled through in search of the answer, and apparently she created this chart for a full moon last Nov 13th, 2008.

So can I get an amen on the freaky-deaky nature of this event? So is it a sign? Do we pretty much have to make this movie?

Tonight handsome husband and I had another meeting about the shoot. We've decided to make it a daily ritual to meet for 20 minutes to check-in on our progress. My current journal (which is being handily ignored in favor of this blog) has this on the cover "Anything you do everyday can open into the deepest spiritual place which is freedom". Rumi.

So, we are going to meet daily. And I'll keep y'all posted. Right now we're choosing between two long weekends to shoot the short. Either Nov 6-9 or Nov 13-16. That's pretty much a no-brainer, right?