Our Christmas was pretty peaceful this year, which is the usual for us. On Christmas Eve we ferry out to Peaks Island to Scott's parents' house, which is always fun. Each year someone takes their turn writing a version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" but with each of the family members names included. It's a very cool tradition. And this year we were of course quite focused on our new nieces. The evening ended with everyone rushing to catch the last boat, to the tune of what can only be described as "Extreme Caroling"~ I really can't say more than that. : )
On Christmas morning we headed over to my parents for some gift openin' and brunch. Then it was home for a nap, before returning to my parents for Chinese takeout and a raunchy movie. Although this year I must say the raunchy movie was much less raunchy than usual (usually we go with something Apatow-esque), and we watched Burn After Reading. Scott and my mom and I had all already seen it, so we were mostly anticipating my dad's reaction to discovering what George Clooney's character was building in the basement...
I have mixed feelings about the whole Christmas thing. I'm don't consider myself a Christian, so that piece of it isn't there for me. Our version of decorating for the holidays has mostly been arranging Christmas cards on the mantle and Clementines on the kitchen counter. Some years I get totally into the gift giving thing, and others years I feel like it's all a superficial clusterfuck. After my brother and other loved ones died, I had a really hard time wanting to celebrate at all. But this year I was mostly thinking about how different next year will be, with a little dude crawling around getting into everything (or as one friend so kindly put it-- he'll be walking around, because of course he'll be quite advanced for his age).
When I was a kid, each year my grandma Jeanne would proclaim that it was the "last of the big Christmases." I'm not sure if it was about all the money that gifts cost, or if she, like me, had some ambivalence about the holiday (she was also brought up Jewish, which might be part of it too), but each year she'd make sure to let everyone know that this was it. And yet, the next year, there we all were again, opening Skeletor's castle or heaps of books. So I declare this year the "last of the little Christmases." Not that I plan to spoil our child too much, or hit the eggnog, or start wearing sweaters with prancing reindeer because that would be very, very scary. But there could be a Christmas tree involved next year, and maybe even some lights, too.
Plus, does it mean you're really, totally, completely a grown up when you ask for a Crock Pot for Christmas? And receive one? I fear it does...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Today a headline on AOL caught my eye-- "Apocalypse Now Star dies at 53." This rang a bell for me, and I clicked on the link and sure enough, it brought me back to a former life (not in the literal sense-- I'm hormonal, but not totally out of it!).
A few months before I decided to come back to Maine, I ended up moving to L.A. with a friend to do an internship at a movie production company. It was pretty spur-of-the-moment and kind of nuts, especially for a homebody like me. I ended up interning at a small production company for the woman who had just won all sorts of awards for Traffic. I was pretty sure I was going to meet Benecio del Toro and have a bunch of dark little babies, but (fortunately) that was not to be.
I drove down from Olympia, Washington to L.A. right after 9/11 and so I was also pretty sure that the Universal Studios lot where I was working would be the next target of the terrorists. Getting the underbelly of my car checked with mirrors for bombs every day as I drove onto the lot didn't assuage that fear.
Both my roommate -- who had set me up with the internship, as she had one at another nearby studio--and I quickly grew to hate L.A. It was sunny every friggin' day which was jarring to this Southeast Alaskan girl-- where was the rain? I began to fantasize about winter coats in place of Benicio-- a sure sign that the end was near. Besides, the people-- at least the ones I worked for--were pretty ridiculous. One day I was asked to drive to the home of the head of the production company and fetch her special "meeting shoes" as she'd forgotten them. It was on this occasion that I briefly met her husband, Sam Bottoms, who had been in Apocalypse Now. He seemed nice enough as he handed over the shoes, but I wasn't much a fan of his wife-to-be. On one particularly bad day, while she had asked me to listen in on a phone call of hers (in Hollywood there are generally at least four people on phone calls-- the "important" ones and a few others to do the actual dialling and note-taking) she badmouthed me to the person she was speaking to, knowing full well that I was on the line.
Still, there were some good times-- mostly created by my roommate and I. This being right after 9/11, we both developed crushes on Tony Blair and created a Tony Blair shrine over the mantle of our fireplace. We'd purchased one of those Mexican "Our Lady of" candles and taped a small perky newspaper picture of Tony Blair's face over the face of the saint. And there was the famous poo in the pool incident that I won't go into, but suffice to say that a trip to the pet store and dark hooded sweatshirts were involved.
But, my roommate and I broke our lease and headed back to Olympia. Never was I so happy to see rain, and I even splurged on a J. Crew pea coat before I left L.A.
Not long after that, my roommate and I broke our lease and I made the drive back to Olympia. Soon I decided to make the next road trip-- the one that brought me back to Maine and set my life here in motion.
That other life seems like a million years ago instead of seven. Sitting here in our nice, old home (my brother-in-law is currently crouched at one of our windows with a hair dryer trying to fix the symptoms of an ice dam on our roof-- ah, home ownership!) with a big baby belly and a sweet husband. Life is good, and I won't be fetchin' anyones shoes but my own these days.
A few months before I decided to come back to Maine, I ended up moving to L.A. with a friend to do an internship at a movie production company. It was pretty spur-of-the-moment and kind of nuts, especially for a homebody like me. I ended up interning at a small production company for the woman who had just won all sorts of awards for Traffic. I was pretty sure I was going to meet Benecio del Toro and have a bunch of dark little babies, but (fortunately) that was not to be.
I drove down from Olympia, Washington to L.A. right after 9/11 and so I was also pretty sure that the Universal Studios lot where I was working would be the next target of the terrorists. Getting the underbelly of my car checked with mirrors for bombs every day as I drove onto the lot didn't assuage that fear.
Both my roommate -- who had set me up with the internship, as she had one at another nearby studio--and I quickly grew to hate L.A. It was sunny every friggin' day which was jarring to this Southeast Alaskan girl-- where was the rain? I began to fantasize about winter coats in place of Benicio-- a sure sign that the end was near. Besides, the people-- at least the ones I worked for--were pretty ridiculous. One day I was asked to drive to the home of the head of the production company and fetch her special "meeting shoes" as she'd forgotten them. It was on this occasion that I briefly met her husband, Sam Bottoms, who had been in Apocalypse Now. He seemed nice enough as he handed over the shoes, but I wasn't much a fan of his wife-to-be. On one particularly bad day, while she had asked me to listen in on a phone call of hers (in Hollywood there are generally at least four people on phone calls-- the "important" ones and a few others to do the actual dialling and note-taking) she badmouthed me to the person she was speaking to, knowing full well that I was on the line.
Still, there were some good times-- mostly created by my roommate and I. This being right after 9/11, we both developed crushes on Tony Blair and created a Tony Blair shrine over the mantle of our fireplace. We'd purchased one of those Mexican "Our Lady of" candles and taped a small perky newspaper picture of Tony Blair's face over the face of the saint. And there was the famous poo in the pool incident that I won't go into, but suffice to say that a trip to the pet store and dark hooded sweatshirts were involved.
But, my roommate and I broke our lease and headed back to Olympia. Never was I so happy to see rain, and I even splurged on a J. Crew pea coat before I left L.A.
Not long after that, my roommate and I broke our lease and I made the drive back to Olympia. Soon I decided to make the next road trip-- the one that brought me back to Maine and set my life here in motion.
That other life seems like a million years ago instead of seven. Sitting here in our nice, old home (my brother-in-law is currently crouched at one of our windows with a hair dryer trying to fix the symptoms of an ice dam on our roof-- ah, home ownership!) with a big baby belly and a sweet husband. Life is good, and I won't be fetchin' anyones shoes but my own these days.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
It's all in the eyes...
This week, I had the routine eye exam I'd been putting off for almost a year. All was going well until the doc said it looked like my right eye was a little dry but she wanted to look closer and make sure it wasn't a virus. She squirted some dye in there and took another look and said "well, it looks like a virus. It looks like the herpes virus."
Huh?!?
"Not that kind," she said quickly, waving her hand vaguely over her genital area.
I've had the cold sore strain of the Big H since I can remember, but this was a new one. It just sounds so gross~ I'm already not feeling my cutest~ my cheekbones have entirely disappeared, my stomach is getting larger by the minute, and my energy level on a lot of days is equivalent to one of those drugged polar bears at the Anchorage zoo. So now we're going to add "eye herpes" to the list? Which, my doc explained, meant I couldn't wear contacts for "at least weeks." Now, nothing against those who wear glasses, but I just don't like to wear them. It brings me back to what we refer to as "6th grade Lynn." 6th grade Lynn had very short hair and Tootsie glasses and was a bit of a chubster. And when I wear glasses, I feel kind of like there's a windshield between me and the rest of the world. And not in a good way.
So I came home to call Scott and my mom and tell them the good news. Now lest you think I've been putting unsavory things in my eye, ocular herpes are the same strain as the cold sore variety. Apparently the virus lies dormant in the nerves of one's face until something like undue stress brings it out of hibernation and it travels to yer eye. I figured that the compromised immune system that pregnancy brings (which is pretty brilliant as it ensures that the mother's body doesn't reject the fetus) had spawned this new treat. We had an appointment with the midwives that same afternoon, so I asked about the eyedrops my doc wanted to prescribe me, since they were of course a category C drug-- with unknown side effects on the fetus.
The next day I had to go back to my eye doctor. Much to my amazement, when she peered again into my infested right eye, she proclaimed that it was in fact dryness, and not the dreaded Eye Herpes. Never before had I thought to put "not having eye herpes" on my gratitude list, but there you go.
Huh?!?
"Not that kind," she said quickly, waving her hand vaguely over her genital area.
I've had the cold sore strain of the Big H since I can remember, but this was a new one. It just sounds so gross~ I'm already not feeling my cutest~ my cheekbones have entirely disappeared, my stomach is getting larger by the minute, and my energy level on a lot of days is equivalent to one of those drugged polar bears at the Anchorage zoo. So now we're going to add "eye herpes" to the list? Which, my doc explained, meant I couldn't wear contacts for "at least weeks." Now, nothing against those who wear glasses, but I just don't like to wear them. It brings me back to what we refer to as "6th grade Lynn." 6th grade Lynn had very short hair and Tootsie glasses and was a bit of a chubster. And when I wear glasses, I feel kind of like there's a windshield between me and the rest of the world. And not in a good way.
So I came home to call Scott and my mom and tell them the good news. Now lest you think I've been putting unsavory things in my eye, ocular herpes are the same strain as the cold sore variety. Apparently the virus lies dormant in the nerves of one's face until something like undue stress brings it out of hibernation and it travels to yer eye. I figured that the compromised immune system that pregnancy brings (which is pretty brilliant as it ensures that the mother's body doesn't reject the fetus) had spawned this new treat. We had an appointment with the midwives that same afternoon, so I asked about the eyedrops my doc wanted to prescribe me, since they were of course a category C drug-- with unknown side effects on the fetus.
The next day I had to go back to my eye doctor. Much to my amazement, when she peered again into my infested right eye, she proclaimed that it was in fact dryness, and not the dreaded Eye Herpes. Never before had I thought to put "not having eye herpes" on my gratitude list, but there you go.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Negative Nelly
Hi, I'm Negative Nelly. Cousin of Grumpy Gus.
Seriously.
So I'm no Pollyanna (clearly) but I generally am patient with strangers. I get a little kick out of friendly cashiers and waiters, and when speaking to people like telephone surveyors or insurance representatives, I like to overcompensate for all the folks that treat them crappily. But the last few days, I've been a total beyatch.
It might be because I'm sick for like, the third time in the last two months. Or because heartburn plagues me, and even made me throw up the other night, and I can no longer eat the spicy foods I enjoy and I have to slow down and chewwww my food. Or because the cat was vomiting last night, and managed to sandwich in a ridiculously stinky crap in between the vomitting and howling. (I think Max is somehow fetally communicating to her so she can train us for his impending arrival.) Or because dragging around an extra 20 pounds or so is a little tiring, or because I keep getting dizzy spells even when I'm sitting down.
But yesterday I finally spoke with the woman at Mercy who is in charge of Childbirth Ed classes-- I'd sent my registration in months ago and had never heard back from her about registering for classes. So I called her, and despite the fact that someone from Mercy received my registration because they called me to verify info on it, she never received it. Then when I tried to call her this morning on the direct # she gave me, the woman who answered could not seem to put me through to the lady's voice mail. I just kept ringing back to the telephonally impaired woman, who kept blissfully answering "hello?" as my low blood pressure began to rise. I finally managed to leave a message and stomped upstairs to spread my joy to Scott. "Those jerks at Mercy are a bunch of Schmorons," I declared, merging our favorite words to describe annoying strangers-- Schmohawk, derived from the fabulous "Curb your Enthusiasm," and "morons," which is Scott's favorite word to use when he gets the occasional burst of road rage. Combined with another word that starts with an "f."
Then I went to the grocery store because I'm sick and I need peanut butter. As I gazed at the shopping cart blocking me from unloading my heavy basket onto the counter, my blood began to boil. I began thinking some very nasty thoughts about the sweet-faced elderly woman ahead of me, purchasing perky wreaths. Except it wasn't even her cart. Whoops.
Normally this stuff wouldn't bother me. I generally save my aggression for those closest to me. And I guess I did this time, too, because Scott wasn't all too impressed with my outburst.
So. I wanted to make a little gratitude list to try and counterbalance my unfounded rage with some cheery shit:
~ I got some sprouted grain english muffins at the grocery store today.(it really all comes back to food, doesn't it?)
~ The cat no longer seems to smell bad and is curled up next to me.
~ I have not yet experienced hemorrhoids or constipation.
~ There should be a disc of CSI, Season 8 arriving in the mail soon.
~ There's a little Snuggle Puppy twirling around in my belly.
~ Scott made me French Toast last night for dinner.
~ We had a nice, mellow Thanksgiving.
~ Alice Hoffman books.
There's plenty of other stuff, like being generally healthy and having a loving, supportive family and a sweet home and good friends, too. But you wouldn't want me to get too Pollyanna-ish, would you?!?
Seriously.
So I'm no Pollyanna (clearly) but I generally am patient with strangers. I get a little kick out of friendly cashiers and waiters, and when speaking to people like telephone surveyors or insurance representatives, I like to overcompensate for all the folks that treat them crappily. But the last few days, I've been a total beyatch.
It might be because I'm sick for like, the third time in the last two months. Or because heartburn plagues me, and even made me throw up the other night, and I can no longer eat the spicy foods I enjoy and I have to slow down and chewwww my food. Or because the cat was vomiting last night, and managed to sandwich in a ridiculously stinky crap in between the vomitting and howling. (I think Max is somehow fetally communicating to her so she can train us for his impending arrival.) Or because dragging around an extra 20 pounds or so is a little tiring, or because I keep getting dizzy spells even when I'm sitting down.
But yesterday I finally spoke with the woman at Mercy who is in charge of Childbirth Ed classes-- I'd sent my registration in months ago and had never heard back from her about registering for classes. So I called her, and despite the fact that someone from Mercy received my registration because they called me to verify info on it, she never received it. Then when I tried to call her this morning on the direct # she gave me, the woman who answered could not seem to put me through to the lady's voice mail. I just kept ringing back to the telephonally impaired woman, who kept blissfully answering "hello?" as my low blood pressure began to rise. I finally managed to leave a message and stomped upstairs to spread my joy to Scott. "Those jerks at Mercy are a bunch of Schmorons," I declared, merging our favorite words to describe annoying strangers-- Schmohawk, derived from the fabulous "Curb your Enthusiasm," and "morons," which is Scott's favorite word to use when he gets the occasional burst of road rage. Combined with another word that starts with an "f."
Then I went to the grocery store because I'm sick and I need peanut butter. As I gazed at the shopping cart blocking me from unloading my heavy basket onto the counter, my blood began to boil. I began thinking some very nasty thoughts about the sweet-faced elderly woman ahead of me, purchasing perky wreaths. Except it wasn't even her cart. Whoops.
Normally this stuff wouldn't bother me. I generally save my aggression for those closest to me. And I guess I did this time, too, because Scott wasn't all too impressed with my outburst.
So. I wanted to make a little gratitude list to try and counterbalance my unfounded rage with some cheery shit:
~ I got some sprouted grain english muffins at the grocery store today.(it really all comes back to food, doesn't it?)
~ The cat no longer seems to smell bad and is curled up next to me.
~ I have not yet experienced hemorrhoids or constipation.
~ There should be a disc of CSI, Season 8 arriving in the mail soon.
~ There's a little Snuggle Puppy twirling around in my belly.
~ Scott made me French Toast last night for dinner.
~ We had a nice, mellow Thanksgiving.
~ Alice Hoffman books.
There's plenty of other stuff, like being generally healthy and having a loving, supportive family and a sweet home and good friends, too. But you wouldn't want me to get too Pollyanna-ish, would you?!?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Off the Wagon
So I've been totally off the wagon with these blog entries. I admit it. I haven't been too busy or anything-- in fact, that's probably the problem. Do you really want to read about me puttering around the house, reading, writing, working, and cleaning? : )
I'm unreasonably excited about Thanksgiving. I've never been a huge Thanksgiving person~ it's been nearly two decades since I've eaten meat. But I do enjoy food, and gratitude is a good thing to practice. But I'm going to blame it on the estrogen this year.
It's a funny feeling to know we're going to have a little one around for next years' holidays. I think it means we're like, officially grown up or something. We'll probably even get a Christmas tree next year.
In the meantime, I've been thinking a lot about past Thanksgivings:
The one where we found out my uncle and his wife were expecting my fabulous little cousin, Juli.
The one where my brother and I danced to Fleetwood Mac in my grandparents' living room. I think this may have also been the one where we started calling my grandpa's wife "Yamma." And continued the yam word play, coming up with such delightful wordbites as "yampon."
The one the year after my brother died when we shared our meal with our two good friends whose husbands had also recently died.
The one after my grandparents moved to Sequim and I tape recorded the whole evening for a school project. That was the night my yamma busted out with the term "crotch crickets."
Well, those are some of the highlights. I've gotta go-- my honey's on the way home, and the tofu tacos don't be making themselves.
I'm unreasonably excited about Thanksgiving. I've never been a huge Thanksgiving person~ it's been nearly two decades since I've eaten meat. But I do enjoy food, and gratitude is a good thing to practice. But I'm going to blame it on the estrogen this year.
It's a funny feeling to know we're going to have a little one around for next years' holidays. I think it means we're like, officially grown up or something. We'll probably even get a Christmas tree next year.
In the meantime, I've been thinking a lot about past Thanksgivings:
The one where we found out my uncle and his wife were expecting my fabulous little cousin, Juli.
The one where my brother and I danced to Fleetwood Mac in my grandparents' living room. I think this may have also been the one where we started calling my grandpa's wife "Yamma." And continued the yam word play, coming up with such delightful wordbites as "yampon."
The one the year after my brother died when we shared our meal with our two good friends whose husbands had also recently died.
The one after my grandparents moved to Sequim and I tape recorded the whole evening for a school project. That was the night my yamma busted out with the term "crotch crickets."
Well, those are some of the highlights. I've gotta go-- my honey's on the way home, and the tofu tacos don't be making themselves.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Scick
Still sick. Or as we say here, "scick." But just took a quick break from my scickbed (comprised currently of me, the kitty, and Grey's Anatomy DVDs) to make some carrot raisin bread. I am quite the little baker while knocked up...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Past Lives
I'm thinking a lot about how many lives we live in this one, sometimes. There's the process of going through all my letters and stuff from when I lived in Seattle 14 years ago. This morning a friend asked me and another friend to describe ourselves in high school. My initial response was "what year?" I was sort of a changling back then, trying on different costumes, music, and habits to see which ones fit. And there's the more recent past-- I had coffee last week with two of my volunteers from when I ran TIP. Or the other day I ran into the friend whose ex-wife set Scott and I up over 6 years ago. Even driving by our old house, just a mile or so away, where we still lived a year ago at this time, feels somewhat foreign.
As uncertain as I sometimes feel about what I'm doing with my life and what the future will look like, all I really have to do is look back to remember how unexpected and wild a ride it is. I am not the type who will have just a few careers-- I've already racked up more than a few. I used to fight this-- thinking there should be some one thing that I do with my time here. And there are throughlines-- writing is the biggest one. And though my interests change and all the cells of our bodies replace themselves every seven years, in some ways, in am still the same person I was with the bad perm or the short purple hair or the Guns N' Roses t-shirt.
And I could've no more imagined this life here in Maine-- almost as far away as you can get from Alaska without leaving the U.S. With a lovely old house and friends whose faces I never could've imagined and the funny, clean-cut boy who plays golf even in the rain and cold. And there is something so comforting about this to me. That we get new chances, that things change even when life feels so static. So when I stress about the future, I have to remember that I don't have all the facts. Not even close. My little vista is so very limited. There will surely be bad hair cuts and embarrasing outfits in my future, and people I love who I can't yet envision, and heartbreaks I don't want to.
So, could you remind me of this next time I'm freaking out about what to do next with my life?
As uncertain as I sometimes feel about what I'm doing with my life and what the future will look like, all I really have to do is look back to remember how unexpected and wild a ride it is. I am not the type who will have just a few careers-- I've already racked up more than a few. I used to fight this-- thinking there should be some one thing that I do with my time here. And there are throughlines-- writing is the biggest one. And though my interests change and all the cells of our bodies replace themselves every seven years, in some ways, in am still the same person I was with the bad perm or the short purple hair or the Guns N' Roses t-shirt.
And I could've no more imagined this life here in Maine-- almost as far away as you can get from Alaska without leaving the U.S. With a lovely old house and friends whose faces I never could've imagined and the funny, clean-cut boy who plays golf even in the rain and cold. And there is something so comforting about this to me. That we get new chances, that things change even when life feels so static. So when I stress about the future, I have to remember that I don't have all the facts. Not even close. My little vista is so very limited. There will surely be bad hair cuts and embarrasing outfits in my future, and people I love who I can't yet envision, and heartbreaks I don't want to.
So, could you remind me of this next time I'm freaking out about what to do next with my life?
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Occasional Housewife
My blog-buddy Mer-Mer wrote a post on enjoying being a homebody, and I sure can relate. Work has been soooo sloooowwww lately and I am trying to just enjoy it~ these last months before my life changes so drastically to a pace that I can't really imagine. Not that it has to be a fast pace-- but I know it will be different.
I do love being home, working from home, and even not working from home. Especially this time of year, when the dark falls so quickly (one of my biggest pet peeves is that daylight savings time is a misnomer. No daylight is really saved-- it's just all shifted around!) and it's just so darned cozy to curl up with a book and a blanket.
Occasionally, I even vacuum and cook meals for us. Last Friday was such a day~ I spent much of it cleaning and cooking. It was one of those days where I thought "I could be a housewife!" But I think it's the fact that it's not being asked or required of me that makes it pallatable on certain, random days. The rest of the time, we totally need a wife.
I do love being home, working from home, and even not working from home. Especially this time of year, when the dark falls so quickly (one of my biggest pet peeves is that daylight savings time is a misnomer. No daylight is really saved-- it's just all shifted around!) and it's just so darned cozy to curl up with a book and a blanket.
Occasionally, I even vacuum and cook meals for us. Last Friday was such a day~ I spent much of it cleaning and cooking. It was one of those days where I thought "I could be a housewife!" But I think it's the fact that it's not being asked or required of me that makes it pallatable on certain, random days. The rest of the time, we totally need a wife.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Unpacking
I've been slowly going through the several boxes of belongings I packed up from my parents house in Alaska a year and a half ago. That was a hard trip-- I was already dealing with some depression, and I grieved hard for the house that I grew up in, that my dad grew up in, that my grandma designed. It's a beautiful house with wood floors (and walls in some areas) a slate entry way and fireplace, wide windows looking out at the row of mountains across the Gastineau Channel. My grandma tucked neat little nooks everywhere-- a laundry chute, a dumbwaiter for wood, "magic doors" where you press the walls and they click open to reveal closets. I spent about four days throwing away mounds of crap from my younger years, and packing up the stuff that I couldn't let go of or decide on.
My parents sent the boxes back to me last winter when they put the house on the market, and I've finally started sorting through things, with the deadline of el bambino as a prompt to get me motivated.
I've found funny things, like Cinderella cds and cassette tapes with the Bangles recorded off the radio. And things that break my heart, like the letter to me from my Godmother on the day my brother was born. Today I was going through a box that had cards I'd saved, and I came across several from my dad. When I first moved away from home to Seattle (to become a grunge star) my dad sent me a card every week. I was always touched by this, but today, with this little guy on the way, it made me cry-- knowing how much my parents love me, how selflessly, and how we will undoubtedly love this little guy the same way. How in some way I think a parent's love for a child must be somewhat unrequited-- I love my parents fiercely, but I imagine there is something different about caring for someone when they're helpless and new, about knowing you are fracturing off a piece of yourself who you hope will make the world a little better, that a child can't understand, perhaps until they become a parent themselves.
On a somewhat lighter note, my prenatal yoga teacher brought in a book on names last week. It's not about the origins of names for babies, but rather something about the energetic vibration of the letters in the name. I didn't read the entire description for Max, but it did say "intelligent and stubborn." Sounds about right. And then, "as likely to be found on the dean's list as on the FBI's most wanted list"!
Anybody have a good back-up name for us?!?
My parents sent the boxes back to me last winter when they put the house on the market, and I've finally started sorting through things, with the deadline of el bambino as a prompt to get me motivated.
I've found funny things, like Cinderella cds and cassette tapes with the Bangles recorded off the radio. And things that break my heart, like the letter to me from my Godmother on the day my brother was born. Today I was going through a box that had cards I'd saved, and I came across several from my dad. When I first moved away from home to Seattle (to become a grunge star) my dad sent me a card every week. I was always touched by this, but today, with this little guy on the way, it made me cry-- knowing how much my parents love me, how selflessly, and how we will undoubtedly love this little guy the same way. How in some way I think a parent's love for a child must be somewhat unrequited-- I love my parents fiercely, but I imagine there is something different about caring for someone when they're helpless and new, about knowing you are fracturing off a piece of yourself who you hope will make the world a little better, that a child can't understand, perhaps until they become a parent themselves.
On a somewhat lighter note, my prenatal yoga teacher brought in a book on names last week. It's not about the origins of names for babies, but rather something about the energetic vibration of the letters in the name. I didn't read the entire description for Max, but it did say "intelligent and stubborn." Sounds about right. And then, "as likely to be found on the dean's list as on the FBI's most wanted list"!
Anybody have a good back-up name for us?!?
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Shake your BOO-ty
Halloween is among my favorite holidays—you get to play dress up, morbidity abounds, and there’s lots of candy involved. What more could a gal ask for?
I decided to get my hair cut that day—partially because I was feeling frumpy and wanted a change, and partially because we had a theme costume party to go to. The theme was “Classic TV”. I really wanted to go as the Golden Girls, but it just didn’t work out. So I decided to go as Angela from My So-Called Life, whom I look nothing like. So I proceeded to get my hair cut into a little bob—the haircut I inevitably always return to after going longer or shorter. I liked it fine when I was at the hair salon, and I didn’t allow myself to look down at the tumbles of patiently grown dark hair falling all around me. But when I got home and looked in the mirror, I instantly decided the haircut somehow made me look fat. And not like Angela at all.
I didn’t realize until later that my fat haircut neurosis coincided with my crash after my glucose screening test that morning—I’d had to down an bottle of orange liquid (how Halloweeny!) with a ton of sugar in about 10 minutes that morning. I don’t consume a lot of sugar, and it showed. I took a short nap and tossed some temporary red dye stuff into my hair and tried to cheer up, but as I donned the oversized flannel shirt for my outfit, I again suffered a fat attack. “The first time someone asks if I’m Rosanne Barr, we’re going home, ‘kay?” I made Scott promise.
Fortunately, Scott was going to the party as Magnum, P.I., and the wig and mustache ensemble I found for him was called the “Eurasian Traveler,” which basically meant Borat. It was impossible to gaze at his dark curly ‘fro and bushy mustache without cracking a smile.
The party turned out to be a blast, and we both shook it up on the dance floor amongst such classic TV icons as Mr. T, Punky Brewster, Ms. Piggy and gentle painter Bob Ross. Our buds even spun some Michael Jackson vinyl and there was a surreal few minutes on the dance floor when all the boys seemed to have disappeared while the girls bounced around to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, which somehow made me feel old and young at the same time.
And the next morning, guess what? My hair didn’t make me look so fat after all.
I decided to get my hair cut that day—partially because I was feeling frumpy and wanted a change, and partially because we had a theme costume party to go to. The theme was “Classic TV”. I really wanted to go as the Golden Girls, but it just didn’t work out. So I decided to go as Angela from My So-Called Life, whom I look nothing like. So I proceeded to get my hair cut into a little bob—the haircut I inevitably always return to after going longer or shorter. I liked it fine when I was at the hair salon, and I didn’t allow myself to look down at the tumbles of patiently grown dark hair falling all around me. But when I got home and looked in the mirror, I instantly decided the haircut somehow made me look fat. And not like Angela at all.
I didn’t realize until later that my fat haircut neurosis coincided with my crash after my glucose screening test that morning—I’d had to down an bottle of orange liquid (how Halloweeny!) with a ton of sugar in about 10 minutes that morning. I don’t consume a lot of sugar, and it showed. I took a short nap and tossed some temporary red dye stuff into my hair and tried to cheer up, but as I donned the oversized flannel shirt for my outfit, I again suffered a fat attack. “The first time someone asks if I’m Rosanne Barr, we’re going home, ‘kay?” I made Scott promise.
Fortunately, Scott was going to the party as Magnum, P.I., and the wig and mustache ensemble I found for him was called the “Eurasian Traveler,” which basically meant Borat. It was impossible to gaze at his dark curly ‘fro and bushy mustache without cracking a smile.
The party turned out to be a blast, and we both shook it up on the dance floor amongst such classic TV icons as Mr. T, Punky Brewster, Ms. Piggy and gentle painter Bob Ross. Our buds even spun some Michael Jackson vinyl and there was a surreal few minutes on the dance floor when all the boys seemed to have disappeared while the girls bounced around to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, which somehow made me feel old and young at the same time.
And the next morning, guess what? My hair didn’t make me look so fat after all.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Crybaby
My friend Mer-Mer ever-so-gently prompted me to take this challenge of daily blog writing through the month of November. So here I am, it's my bedtime but thought I'd try to squeeze out a little something (that sounded naughty) before I hit the hay.
I am such a sap these days. Oprah and her gang talking about the election today totally made me cry. And a few weekends ago at the reception after Scott's cousin's wedding, I bawled through all the toasts and even the dances. Especially when the groom danced with his mom-- suddenly I could imagine little Maxers all grown up and getting married (to a guy or a gal-- doesn't much matter to me!).
It's nice in a way, being so connected to all the bittersweetness in the world in such a heightened way-- but it sure is hard on the mascara.
Okay, I wrote something. Night-night.
I am such a sap these days. Oprah and her gang talking about the election today totally made me cry. And a few weekends ago at the reception after Scott's cousin's wedding, I bawled through all the toasts and even the dances. Especially when the groom danced with his mom-- suddenly I could imagine little Maxers all grown up and getting married (to a guy or a gal-- doesn't much matter to me!).
It's nice in a way, being so connected to all the bittersweetness in the world in such a heightened way-- but it sure is hard on the mascara.
Okay, I wrote something. Night-night.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Electile Dysfunction
I know, I know, it's been forevah.
And there's been no real electile dysfunction yet. at least from my little smidge of the world. I was just feeling naughty.
I did wake up with electile anxiety, though. I have to say it's kind of a nice change from labor anxiety, or baby registry anxiety. I went to my gentle dance class though and gently danced, and that seemed to help. It also happens to be almost 60 degrees here-- let's here it for global warming!
Stood in line for about 40 minutes to vote. I had meant to do the whole early voting thing, but between procrastination and the sniggling suspicion that somehow my early vote wouldn't count as much as my on-time vote, here we are. Plus, there's something nice about standing in line with all the other folks, and I wouldn't have gotten a free Starbucks coffee (decaf, don't worry) if I'd voted early.
I have to say that I really had this strange, strong feeling that I should get two ballots-- one for me, and one for Max. Although he's not quite 18 yet. If he was, I suspect my sciatica-- not to mention labor-- would be much more-- intense.
Sadly, or rather-- embarrasingly, I recognized almost none of the names for our local council election stuff-- but I voted for the biggies and that feels more important right now. Did I mention I got a free Starbucks coffee? : )
Just got back from a walk to our little neighborhood library, during which I encountered our friend Rob who is kindly serving as a volunteer voter's protection attorney at our old polling place down the street. While stopping to chat, a few teenagers walked by, telling us to "vote Obama!" "We did!" Rob said. On this sunny, warm day with broken leaves scattered everywhere, I felt a strong surge of hope that things will be different-- for the better-- if this election turns out how I want it to.
And there's been no real electile dysfunction yet. at least from my little smidge of the world. I was just feeling naughty.
I did wake up with electile anxiety, though. I have to say it's kind of a nice change from labor anxiety, or baby registry anxiety. I went to my gentle dance class though and gently danced, and that seemed to help. It also happens to be almost 60 degrees here-- let's here it for global warming!
Stood in line for about 40 minutes to vote. I had meant to do the whole early voting thing, but between procrastination and the sniggling suspicion that somehow my early vote wouldn't count as much as my on-time vote, here we are. Plus, there's something nice about standing in line with all the other folks, and I wouldn't have gotten a free Starbucks coffee (decaf, don't worry) if I'd voted early.
I have to say that I really had this strange, strong feeling that I should get two ballots-- one for me, and one for Max. Although he's not quite 18 yet. If he was, I suspect my sciatica-- not to mention labor-- would be much more-- intense.
Sadly, or rather-- embarrasingly, I recognized almost none of the names for our local council election stuff-- but I voted for the biggies and that feels more important right now. Did I mention I got a free Starbucks coffee? : )
Just got back from a walk to our little neighborhood library, during which I encountered our friend Rob who is kindly serving as a volunteer voter's protection attorney at our old polling place down the street. While stopping to chat, a few teenagers walked by, telling us to "vote Obama!" "We did!" Rob said. On this sunny, warm day with broken leaves scattered everywhere, I felt a strong surge of hope that things will be different-- for the better-- if this election turns out how I want it to.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Mayor of Bipsy Town
So last night I had what I refer to as a "Bipsy." My sister-in-law calls it "throwing a nutty." Either way, it was no fun, for me or Scott. It started with me expressing my dissatisfaction about something completely unrelated to what was really going on-- the fact that I was having a freak attack.
When I finally got to the heart of the matter, things went like this:
Me: I need you to tell me it's okay that my work is really slow so I'm not making much money and that I'm fat and veiny.
Long pause.
Me: Please say something rapidly.
Scott handled it all like a pro. The pause was because he believed that I was setting a trap for him (which of course I've never, ever done before!) and that whatever he said would not be right. Particularly because the word "fat" was part of my freak out.
When he finally spoke he said: It's okay with me. But it needs to be okay with you.
Where did I find this guy? Seriously. I've been going to Alanon meetings for over six years and can't come up with stuff like that. He was right on the mark. I'd like to say my freakout ended there, but it did not, and I continued to express my anxiety about everything from needing to register for baby stuff to what we were going to be for Halloween.
For a long time, I knew I was prone to depression, but I'm just realizing the role that anxiety plays in my life. I can whirl myself into a tizzy over just about anything (as proven by the fact that our Halloween costumes makes my short list of things to freak over). Add pregnancy hormones and all the unknowns of impending motherhood to the mix = Bipsy. Even my cat was starting to get nervous. (Although I believe she also has a predisposition to anxiety. Along with the fact that she likes to eat zucchini bread and pizza crusts, I am starting to believe that we somehow share genetic material.)
Eventually after much deep breathing and crazy ranting, I calmed down and fell asleep. I woke up this morning realizing I need to be more proactive about doing the things that keep me grounded-- exercise, journaling, prayer and the dreaded meditation. I really want to enjoy these last few months of calm before el bambino comes on the scene.
My prenatal yoga class started back up again the other day. Besides getting all stretchy, I always seem to learn some fun and often disturbing thing about pregnancy/birthin'. Last time it was the "Ring of Fire." This time the teacher mentioned that pregnant women acquire fat on their backs and sides (I like to call this back bacon-- I'm not sure why, but I like it.). I was relieved to hear that because I'd recently noticed this exact phenomenon occuring on my very back and sides-- so it was nice to hear it was a normal part of pregnancy. What I wasn't so wild about hearing was: "It Never Goes Away." What?!? I thought this prenatal yoga stuff was supposed to be relaxing...
I know I complain a lot in here about the not-so-fun parts of this journey, because I need to because it's scary and amazing and science fiction-y. But I also have nice little moments of excitement to meet this little dude who is so avidly thrashing around in my stomach. It's fun to think about who he might look like, who he might be. Like he will probably like to laugh and be fairly proficient with the English language and chances are he will have a sturdy nose. But who knows, really. It's part of the adventure of all of this-- the same reason I get so anxious. But right now, just for this moment-- I think it might all be really, really amazing.
I'm going to stop there, before I freak myself out again.
When I finally got to the heart of the matter, things went like this:
Me: I need you to tell me it's okay that my work is really slow so I'm not making much money and that I'm fat and veiny.
Long pause.
Me: Please say something rapidly.
Scott handled it all like a pro. The pause was because he believed that I was setting a trap for him (which of course I've never, ever done before!) and that whatever he said would not be right. Particularly because the word "fat" was part of my freak out.
When he finally spoke he said: It's okay with me. But it needs to be okay with you.
Where did I find this guy? Seriously. I've been going to Alanon meetings for over six years and can't come up with stuff like that. He was right on the mark. I'd like to say my freakout ended there, but it did not, and I continued to express my anxiety about everything from needing to register for baby stuff to what we were going to be for Halloween.
For a long time, I knew I was prone to depression, but I'm just realizing the role that anxiety plays in my life. I can whirl myself into a tizzy over just about anything (as proven by the fact that our Halloween costumes makes my short list of things to freak over). Add pregnancy hormones and all the unknowns of impending motherhood to the mix = Bipsy. Even my cat was starting to get nervous. (Although I believe she also has a predisposition to anxiety. Along with the fact that she likes to eat zucchini bread and pizza crusts, I am starting to believe that we somehow share genetic material.)
Eventually after much deep breathing and crazy ranting, I calmed down and fell asleep. I woke up this morning realizing I need to be more proactive about doing the things that keep me grounded-- exercise, journaling, prayer and the dreaded meditation. I really want to enjoy these last few months of calm before el bambino comes on the scene.
My prenatal yoga class started back up again the other day. Besides getting all stretchy, I always seem to learn some fun and often disturbing thing about pregnancy/birthin'. Last time it was the "Ring of Fire." This time the teacher mentioned that pregnant women acquire fat on their backs and sides (I like to call this back bacon-- I'm not sure why, but I like it.). I was relieved to hear that because I'd recently noticed this exact phenomenon occuring on my very back and sides-- so it was nice to hear it was a normal part of pregnancy. What I wasn't so wild about hearing was: "It Never Goes Away." What?!? I thought this prenatal yoga stuff was supposed to be relaxing...
I know I complain a lot in here about the not-so-fun parts of this journey, because I need to because it's scary and amazing and science fiction-y. But I also have nice little moments of excitement to meet this little dude who is so avidly thrashing around in my stomach. It's fun to think about who he might look like, who he might be. Like he will probably like to laugh and be fairly proficient with the English language and chances are he will have a sturdy nose. But who knows, really. It's part of the adventure of all of this-- the same reason I get so anxious. But right now, just for this moment-- I think it might all be really, really amazing.
I'm going to stop there, before I freak myself out again.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Snuggled in
I've got a bit of a cold the past few days, so like a wuss (I mean, because I believe in assertive self-care) I'm all snuggled in bed with the cat and some dvds. It's that perfect kind of sick where I feel quite fine so long as I stay snuggled in, but if I try and do too much I am quickly aware that my energy level is non-existent.
We went to our first "Connections" group at the midwives last week. You get the choice to either continue going to your appointments with the midwives, or to be part of a group of people due around the same time as you, where you get some childbirth ed pieces and still get time with the midwives as well. So we tried it out and for the most part liked it.
They are trying their best to ease us into this whole birth thing-- they showed us a video of the very end of a water birth. Of course when the facilitator said something about how the birthing mom's mother was holding a mirror up to her daughter's perineum so she could see-- the giggling started. And Scott and I couldn't look at each other when the facilitator told us that if any fecal matter ended up in the tub, the midwives would just scoop it out.
I am torn between believing that this whole pregnancy and birth thing is totally natural-- and being completely horrified with the process. Why can't we just lay eggs instead? I would totally be down with tending to a few eggs. I'm good at snuggling in and staying warm and sedentary! Or maybe Scott could help out for awhile like the March of the Penguins daddies. Wouldn't that be cute?
Anyways, the video wasn't too traumatic-- they're saving that for later I'm sure. We were assured that we'd be seeing videos of placentas and whatever else comes out of there later on.
The little one is kicking up a storm. We can actually see his movements now-- he's quite the thrasher. And he seems to like Mexican food and spicy stuff and, well, as Scott pointed out... all the same stuff I like. Hmmm....
We went to our first "Connections" group at the midwives last week. You get the choice to either continue going to your appointments with the midwives, or to be part of a group of people due around the same time as you, where you get some childbirth ed pieces and still get time with the midwives as well. So we tried it out and for the most part liked it.
They are trying their best to ease us into this whole birth thing-- they showed us a video of the very end of a water birth. Of course when the facilitator said something about how the birthing mom's mother was holding a mirror up to her daughter's perineum so she could see-- the giggling started. And Scott and I couldn't look at each other when the facilitator told us that if any fecal matter ended up in the tub, the midwives would just scoop it out.
I am torn between believing that this whole pregnancy and birth thing is totally natural-- and being completely horrified with the process. Why can't we just lay eggs instead? I would totally be down with tending to a few eggs. I'm good at snuggling in and staying warm and sedentary! Or maybe Scott could help out for awhile like the March of the Penguins daddies. Wouldn't that be cute?
Anyways, the video wasn't too traumatic-- they're saving that for later I'm sure. We were assured that we'd be seeing videos of placentas and whatever else comes out of there later on.
The little one is kicking up a storm. We can actually see his movements now-- he's quite the thrasher. And he seems to like Mexican food and spicy stuff and, well, as Scott pointed out... all the same stuff I like. Hmmm....
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Nestin'
To make up for my neglect here, I'm doubling up and posting twice in one day... can you tell I'm an all or nothing kind of gal?
So I've been nesting. Cleaning, cooking-- I've got sugar-free spelt banana bread cooking in the oven and beans simmering for bean burgers on the stovetop. I think there is only one room in the house that I'd be really embarrased to have anyone in should we have an incident that brings unexpected company. I have never felt so much like an animal as I have lately-- knowing that these domestic urges are the product of hormones beyond my control. I can almost see myself flitting out to the yard to collect leaves and branches, carrying them back to the house in my teeth, where I proceed to fashion them into an actual giant nest. It could happen.
Also I was driving today and that Five for Fighting song, 100 years came on and I burst into tears. What am I becoming?!? I think what got me about the song, besides just the unpredictability of hormone surges, is that for the last 34 & 1/3 years it's pretty much been all about me. Not that I'm a completely selfish person, but, well, kinda. Now there's going to be someone else to think about, someone completely dependant on us to steward him through the beginning of his life. As happy and exciting as this whole thing is, there's a bittersweetness about giving up my previous life for this new one. I'm like this about all life changes-- I tend to be very sentimental and have a difficult time anticipating major life shifts. Then, once the shift happens, I'm always okay, and in fact usually better. But the anticipation is a struggle for me. It's a good thing I married an optimist-- as my dad once said "Scott has such a sunny disposition. And you occasionally do, too."
Rant for the week: Sciatica. It sucks. My back hurts and my leg is numb most of the time. Although as a friend pointed out, perhaps the numbness will continue, and perhaps head a bit north, and serve as a natural epidural.
Rave: Dexter, season two. I enjoyed season one, but I think I was still mourning the end of Six Feet Under and couldn't detach David's character from Dexter. But season two rocked. Not as gory as season one, either. Likey.
So I've been nesting. Cleaning, cooking-- I've got sugar-free spelt banana bread cooking in the oven and beans simmering for bean burgers on the stovetop. I think there is only one room in the house that I'd be really embarrased to have anyone in should we have an incident that brings unexpected company. I have never felt so much like an animal as I have lately-- knowing that these domestic urges are the product of hormones beyond my control. I can almost see myself flitting out to the yard to collect leaves and branches, carrying them back to the house in my teeth, where I proceed to fashion them into an actual giant nest. It could happen.
Also I was driving today and that Five for Fighting song, 100 years came on and I burst into tears. What am I becoming?!? I think what got me about the song, besides just the unpredictability of hormone surges, is that for the last 34 & 1/3 years it's pretty much been all about me. Not that I'm a completely selfish person, but, well, kinda. Now there's going to be someone else to think about, someone completely dependant on us to steward him through the beginning of his life. As happy and exciting as this whole thing is, there's a bittersweetness about giving up my previous life for this new one. I'm like this about all life changes-- I tend to be very sentimental and have a difficult time anticipating major life shifts. Then, once the shift happens, I'm always okay, and in fact usually better. But the anticipation is a struggle for me. It's a good thing I married an optimist-- as my dad once said "Scott has such a sunny disposition. And you occasionally do, too."
Rant for the week: Sciatica. It sucks. My back hurts and my leg is numb most of the time. Although as a friend pointed out, perhaps the numbness will continue, and perhaps head a bit north, and serve as a natural epidural.
Rave: Dexter, season two. I enjoyed season one, but I think I was still mourning the end of Six Feet Under and couldn't detach David's character from Dexter. But season two rocked. Not as gory as season one, either. Likey.
Into the Mystic...
Scott and I went away for our "babymoon" this weekend. It was a quick trip but just what the psychiatrist ordered. We headed down to Mystic, Connecticut-- we wanted to go somewhere not too far but not too close, where there'd be a handful of things to do, and Mystic fit the bill nicely.
Fortunately, Scott and I travel really well together. Our idea of a good vacation day is some good food cooked by other people, then a few hours of exploring, followed by a few to several hours of napping/reading. Then back out for dinner. It was very low key-- we visited the aquarium, which was fun-- I did notice we were nearly the only people there without kids (kids on the outside, that is). The highlight for me was the sea lions. The lady sea lions made these crazy belch-sounding noises and I just laughed and laughed and laughed.
I also noticed the new, intense way that we were watching other peoples' kids. The toddlers in the Mexican restaurant that once would've been an amusing distraction were still cute, but also kind of like watching a science experiment. We both seemed to especially notice the little boy kiddos, since that's the variety we're getting this time around. I guess we are becoming parents. Pretty weird stuff.
We also went to see Bill Maher's "Religulous" which was quite amusing, though the end seemed a bit on the dark side.
Mostly we just laughed a lot and enjoyed the change of scenery and the relaxing weekend. Scott's been working really hard lately in his new position at work, so I was really glad we could sneak away.
Unfortunately last night the cat kept us up with a lot of barfing and death howling. I guess it's good practice, right? Although as Scott said, hopefully our little guy won't be vomitting up stinky cat food in the middle of the night...
Fortunately, Scott and I travel really well together. Our idea of a good vacation day is some good food cooked by other people, then a few hours of exploring, followed by a few to several hours of napping/reading. Then back out for dinner. It was very low key-- we visited the aquarium, which was fun-- I did notice we were nearly the only people there without kids (kids on the outside, that is). The highlight for me was the sea lions. The lady sea lions made these crazy belch-sounding noises and I just laughed and laughed and laughed.
I also noticed the new, intense way that we were watching other peoples' kids. The toddlers in the Mexican restaurant that once would've been an amusing distraction were still cute, but also kind of like watching a science experiment. We both seemed to especially notice the little boy kiddos, since that's the variety we're getting this time around. I guess we are becoming parents. Pretty weird stuff.
We also went to see Bill Maher's "Religulous" which was quite amusing, though the end seemed a bit on the dark side.
Mostly we just laughed a lot and enjoyed the change of scenery and the relaxing weekend. Scott's been working really hard lately in his new position at work, so I was really glad we could sneak away.
Unfortunately last night the cat kept us up with a lot of barfing and death howling. I guess it's good practice, right? Although as Scott said, hopefully our little guy won't be vomitting up stinky cat food in the middle of the night...
Friday, October 3, 2008
I've again been delinquent in here... things are just kind of flowing along, without much event, so I haven't posted in awhile.
I was a little disturbed this week at my prenatal yoga class when the instructor started talking about the "ring of fire" stage of labor. And something about getting part of her vajeyjey clipped. The woman next to me--also a first-time mom-to-be--and I just looked at each other like "what the ef?" The instructor, sensing our panic, tried to sooth us by saying it was "more like an Indian rug burn." Then why do they call it the Ring of Fire? It sounds like something out of the Hobbit-- "And you must now pass through the Ring of Fire." I thought prenatal yoga class was supposed to help with stress reduction?!?
Watched the debate last night-- I have to say I was hoping it would be a little more ridiculous. Although does anyone in America really think it's a good idea to have another person in the White House who can't pronounce nuclear? You betcha', bless your little heart. And where did that accent come from? I'm from Alaska, and I'm pretty sure I don't sound like that...
Anyways. Going for sushi (don't worry, I don't eat fish of the raw or cooked variety) and improv tonight-- should be fun.
I was a little disturbed this week at my prenatal yoga class when the instructor started talking about the "ring of fire" stage of labor. And something about getting part of her vajeyjey clipped. The woman next to me--also a first-time mom-to-be--and I just looked at each other like "what the ef?" The instructor, sensing our panic, tried to sooth us by saying it was "more like an Indian rug burn." Then why do they call it the Ring of Fire? It sounds like something out of the Hobbit-- "And you must now pass through the Ring of Fire." I thought prenatal yoga class was supposed to help with stress reduction?!?
Watched the debate last night-- I have to say I was hoping it would be a little more ridiculous. Although does anyone in America really think it's a good idea to have another person in the White House who can't pronounce nuclear? You betcha', bless your little heart. And where did that accent come from? I'm from Alaska, and I'm pretty sure I don't sound like that...
Anyways. Going for sushi (don't worry, I don't eat fish of the raw or cooked variety) and improv tonight-- should be fun.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Oldie McWrinklesworth
So we had a good appointment this week at the midwives. Got to hear the little guy's heartbeat again, and all was well. Except the midwife we met with kept referring to my age. And putting me in the category of "older moms." Now I realize I'm well settled into my thirties. I accept that some days. So far my thirties have been far better than my twenties. And I do realize that as far as childbearing years, I'm getting up there a bit. But come on! I'm no Sarah Palin, am I? (It's been weeks since I've mentioned her in here... phew that feels good!) The experience was a bit unsettling. Also unsettling was the discovery of a small but persistent dark patch of hair blooming from my stomach. "It'll go away, Grandma Moses" promised the midwife. "And you're measuring right on schedule-- 21 weeks, Roberta McCain!" she added.
I began to think something was up the next day when I checked the mail and discovered an exciting offer for Scott-- from AARP! We think with all his golfing and golfing magazines that he must've slipped onto some sort of retirees master list somewhere. I have to say it made me feel a little better though.
In other dramatic news, I've been sleeping like crazy. After the midwife deemed Zyrtec safe to use, I've been taking it for my nighttime allergies (which may or may not be related to my cat sleeping on my head), I've been sleeping better-- but I think I clocked almost 12 hours last night. And then, due to the dreary day and my avoidance of writing more articles for work or performing mundane but much needed housekeeping tasks, I succumbed to a nap as well. So I am officially a cat now. I only wish there was a way I could bank all this extra sleep and use it later this winter and spring, when I will need it so, so much more.
I began to think something was up the next day when I checked the mail and discovered an exciting offer for Scott-- from AARP! We think with all his golfing and golfing magazines that he must've slipped onto some sort of retirees master list somewhere. I have to say it made me feel a little better though.
In other dramatic news, I've been sleeping like crazy. After the midwife deemed Zyrtec safe to use, I've been taking it for my nighttime allergies (which may or may not be related to my cat sleeping on my head), I've been sleeping better-- but I think I clocked almost 12 hours last night. And then, due to the dreary day and my avoidance of writing more articles for work or performing mundane but much needed housekeeping tasks, I succumbed to a nap as well. So I am officially a cat now. I only wish there was a way I could bank all this extra sleep and use it later this winter and spring, when I will need it so, so much more.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Who's a Big Girl?
So Max, aka the bebe, must be undergoing a serious growth spurt. Suddenly I've got some serious poochage going on. And I'm freaking starving all the time-- even more than usual!
The other night, I yelled to the other room "I need OJ, cake, and pretzels!" Now, I was only half serious. Scott and I have this thing we do where, particularly if we're both tucked cozily into a bed, couch, or recliner, one of us nudges the other and names a particular food we want the other to go fetch. For example, Scott's favorite nudge is the KFC nudge. "Ehhh! KFC!" he'll grunt, gently pushing at my arm as if the momentum would spring me up, into my car, and down the street to gather up some fried chickeny goodness. We never actually get the food that the other requests-- I think the whole game is actually more about trying to agitate the resting party than a serious urge for sustenance.
So I was only partially joking when I shouted "OJ, cake and pretzels." And of course, I can't have cake unless it's wheat free and lactose free (which they have at the Pepper Club where we celebrated our anniversary-- a delicious cardamom cake), and can only have wheat-free pretzels from Whole Foods that cost like $30 for a snack size bag. But the combination ran through my pregnancy addled mind and was out of my mouth.
And my sweet, sweet husband actually got up and went to the grocery store for what turned out to just be OJ and grapes. This is even more notable because it was after 7p.m. and since we live a very geriatric lifestyle, that says a lot.
But the moment he was out the door I realized I also needed Rice Krispy Treats. Now, I didn't used to eat sugar (besides the bit that goes in my decaf vanilla soy latte... which is starting to sound really good right now...) but in the early days of my pregnancy, almost nothing sounded good, so I decided to loosen up and experiment with allowing myself a little honey or sugar now and again. I called Scott on his cell phone-- I could actually still hear him in the driveway-- but he didn't pick up so instead I went downstairs to make some Rice Krispy Treats-- a wheat and dairy free treat!
When Scott got home to see the glistening marshmallow goodies fresh from the pot, he laughed and laughed at me and my hormone-driven cooking spree... but he took a break from his hilarity to eat some.
So all is well around here, despite a rising grocery bill. Other than having a cold the past few days, my energy level has been good and I'm definitely enjoying this 2nd trimester. And we watched a news spot on the new birthin' center at Mercy last night-- pretty swanky. If not for the whole having to give birth thing, I'd be hanging out there all the time...
The other night, I yelled to the other room "I need OJ, cake, and pretzels!" Now, I was only half serious. Scott and I have this thing we do where, particularly if we're both tucked cozily into a bed, couch, or recliner, one of us nudges the other and names a particular food we want the other to go fetch. For example, Scott's favorite nudge is the KFC nudge. "Ehhh! KFC!" he'll grunt, gently pushing at my arm as if the momentum would spring me up, into my car, and down the street to gather up some fried chickeny goodness. We never actually get the food that the other requests-- I think the whole game is actually more about trying to agitate the resting party than a serious urge for sustenance.
So I was only partially joking when I shouted "OJ, cake and pretzels." And of course, I can't have cake unless it's wheat free and lactose free (which they have at the Pepper Club where we celebrated our anniversary-- a delicious cardamom cake), and can only have wheat-free pretzels from Whole Foods that cost like $30 for a snack size bag. But the combination ran through my pregnancy addled mind and was out of my mouth.
And my sweet, sweet husband actually got up and went to the grocery store for what turned out to just be OJ and grapes. This is even more notable because it was after 7p.m. and since we live a very geriatric lifestyle, that says a lot.
But the moment he was out the door I realized I also needed Rice Krispy Treats. Now, I didn't used to eat sugar (besides the bit that goes in my decaf vanilla soy latte... which is starting to sound really good right now...) but in the early days of my pregnancy, almost nothing sounded good, so I decided to loosen up and experiment with allowing myself a little honey or sugar now and again. I called Scott on his cell phone-- I could actually still hear him in the driveway-- but he didn't pick up so instead I went downstairs to make some Rice Krispy Treats-- a wheat and dairy free treat!
When Scott got home to see the glistening marshmallow goodies fresh from the pot, he laughed and laughed at me and my hormone-driven cooking spree... but he took a break from his hilarity to eat some.
So all is well around here, despite a rising grocery bill. Other than having a cold the past few days, my energy level has been good and I'm definitely enjoying this 2nd trimester. And we watched a news spot on the new birthin' center at Mercy last night-- pretty swanky. If not for the whole having to give birth thing, I'd be hanging out there all the time...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Names
Now that we know we’re having a boy child, the question of the day is “have you thought about names?” This question led me to ponder the stereotypical life cycle questions posed to and by stereotypical, middle-class hetero Americans. Not that I mind these types of questions—on the contrary, I ask them frequently myself. Most of them actually have the potential to be quite profound—if the inquisitor truly wants to hear the answers. Just for fun, I’m also going to interject the questions/comments I actually want to ask instead…starting with, say, an elementary school aged child…
“How’s school going?”
Do you ever wet your pants in gym class?
“How does it feel to be ten years old?”
Isn’t it time you stop picking your nose?
“Are you enjoying high school?”
Are you one of the cool kids, or not-so-much?
“Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?”
You’re totally doing it, aren’t you!?
“How’s college?”
If you don’t stop doing it all the time, you’re going to flunk out!
“What kind of career are you thinking about?”
No one’s going to hire you if you don’t stop picking your nose.
“So when are you going to get married?”
Am I going to be invited? Do I have to buy you something? Are you doing it a lot?
“How’s married life?”
Are you still doing it?
“Are you going to have kids?”
Did you know you have to do it to have kids?
"When are you due?”
You guys do still do it!
“How are you feeling?”
Are you still able to do it?
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
Either way, I really hope it doesn’t look like your husband.
“Have you thought about names?”
Please don’t name your child that.
“Are you going to have more kids?”
Are you going to keep doing it?
“Where are your kids thinking about going to college?”
Don’t you think it’s time they stopped picking their nose?
“Have you thought about retirement?”
You’re getting up there, aren’t you? Are you still doing it?
“How was your colonoscopy?”
Did the doctor wink at you? Was there poo? Did you like it?
“So do you have any grandkids yet?”
That means your kids are doing it!
“Have you thought about downsizing?”
You’re really getting up there. You should start giving away stuff. Could I have some of it?
“How was your surgery?”
Am I in your will? Could I be?
“So do you have any great-grandkids yet?”
What’s it like to be so old? Do you know who I am? Are you still doing it?
Hello?
Helloooo?!? Uhoh…
I’d now like to apologize for the disturbing keyhole into my psyche. If you didn’t know already, I’m a twelve-year-old boy trapped inside a 34-year-old pregnant lady.
We have thought about names. We’ve been calling our little fetus Max for a few months, although we’re not sure if that will be his post-gestation name or not. My in utero name was Fergie, which I recently found out was a salute to Ferguson Jenkins, an African American baseball player. I tried calling Max, Fergie Jr. for a few days, but it didn’t really stick.
Names are hard. Scott and I both like the idea of using family names, but we can’t agree on any. And there’s a part of me that really likes the idea of giving our little one a fresh name of his own, with nothing to live up (or down) to.
If you haven’t already had enough dialogue in this entry, here’s a sample of our name discussions:
Me: How about Sawyer?”
Scott: Maybe if it didn’t reflect your crush on the dude from Lost.
Me: I’m totally over that. What about Finn?
Scott: Too Irish.
Me: But you’re like, 90% Irish!
Scott: How about Benson?
Me: Like Robert Guillome?
Scott: Kale?
Me: I sort of like that.
Me: Could we name him Casey?
Scott: Too sporty.
Me: But you’re super sporty spice!
Scott: I still sort of like Max. But I don’t really like Maxwell. Or Maximillian.
Me: Same here.
Scott: How about Mad Max?
Me: Beyond Thunderdome, baby.
Me: How about Kale?
Scott: No, that’s a vegetable.
Me: But you just suggested it!
Me: How about Erico, after our kitty Erica?
Scott: Why would it be Erico and not Eric?
Me: Oh, yeah. Good point.
Scott: How about Kale?
Me: Sigh...
So, no names yet. We might just pick a few and wait to see what the baby looks like. Should we put BloodyMcgooerson on our short list?
“How’s school going?”
Do you ever wet your pants in gym class?
“How does it feel to be ten years old?”
Isn’t it time you stop picking your nose?
“Are you enjoying high school?”
Are you one of the cool kids, or not-so-much?
“Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?”
You’re totally doing it, aren’t you!?
“How’s college?”
If you don’t stop doing it all the time, you’re going to flunk out!
“What kind of career are you thinking about?”
No one’s going to hire you if you don’t stop picking your nose.
“So when are you going to get married?”
Am I going to be invited? Do I have to buy you something? Are you doing it a lot?
“How’s married life?”
Are you still doing it?
“Are you going to have kids?”
Did you know you have to do it to have kids?
"When are you due?”
You guys do still do it!
“How are you feeling?”
Are you still able to do it?
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
Either way, I really hope it doesn’t look like your husband.
“Have you thought about names?”
Please don’t name your child that.
“Are you going to have more kids?”
Are you going to keep doing it?
“Where are your kids thinking about going to college?”
Don’t you think it’s time they stopped picking their nose?
“Have you thought about retirement?”
You’re getting up there, aren’t you? Are you still doing it?
“How was your colonoscopy?”
Did the doctor wink at you? Was there poo? Did you like it?
“So do you have any grandkids yet?”
That means your kids are doing it!
“Have you thought about downsizing?”
You’re really getting up there. You should start giving away stuff. Could I have some of it?
“How was your surgery?”
Am I in your will? Could I be?
“So do you have any great-grandkids yet?”
What’s it like to be so old? Do you know who I am? Are you still doing it?
Hello?
Helloooo?!? Uhoh…
I’d now like to apologize for the disturbing keyhole into my psyche. If you didn’t know already, I’m a twelve-year-old boy trapped inside a 34-year-old pregnant lady.
We have thought about names. We’ve been calling our little fetus Max for a few months, although we’re not sure if that will be his post-gestation name or not. My in utero name was Fergie, which I recently found out was a salute to Ferguson Jenkins, an African American baseball player. I tried calling Max, Fergie Jr. for a few days, but it didn’t really stick.
Names are hard. Scott and I both like the idea of using family names, but we can’t agree on any. And there’s a part of me that really likes the idea of giving our little one a fresh name of his own, with nothing to live up (or down) to.
If you haven’t already had enough dialogue in this entry, here’s a sample of our name discussions:
Me: How about Sawyer?”
Scott: Maybe if it didn’t reflect your crush on the dude from Lost.
Me: I’m totally over that. What about Finn?
Scott: Too Irish.
Me: But you’re like, 90% Irish!
Scott: How about Benson?
Me: Like Robert Guillome?
Scott: Kale?
Me: I sort of like that.
Me: Could we name him Casey?
Scott: Too sporty.
Me: But you’re super sporty spice!
Scott: I still sort of like Max. But I don’t really like Maxwell. Or Maximillian.
Me: Same here.
Scott: How about Mad Max?
Me: Beyond Thunderdome, baby.
Me: How about Kale?
Scott: No, that’s a vegetable.
Me: But you just suggested it!
Me: How about Erico, after our kitty Erica?
Scott: Why would it be Erico and not Eric?
Me: Oh, yeah. Good point.
Scott: How about Kale?
Me: Sigh...
So, no names yet. We might just pick a few and wait to see what the baby looks like. Should we put BloodyMcgooerson on our short list?
In Between
When I go almost a week without writing in here, not only do my fans get outraged (sorry Mom) but I end up with a million random streams of things I want to write about. So it's possible that I'll get a tad tangential here.
I feel really in-between today. The weather this week has vascillated between tank top weather and sweater days. Leaves are starting to fall but the other day in the cemetery, the maintenance crew was all shirtless. I'm smack dab at the 20 week mark of my pregnancy, and I'm right in-between having an obvious baby bumb and just looking a bit portly.
The "master list" that I started last week--cataloguing all the small and large things that we need to get done seems to keep getting longer. I am circling around the sad realization that that's life-- there will always be a lengthy list of things to get done. In fact, in about 5 months, there will be all sorts of new things that have to get done in between all the usual mundane life tasks. This realization comes as very disturbing news to my somewhat secret fantasy that eventually, someday soon, I'll get everything done that needs to be done and I can live out the rest of my days watching television and reading. I am inherently a lazy soul, and while I have come to some sort of peace around that (which is not easy living in a culture that prides itself on long, hard hours of work, and descending from parents who both have very strong work ethics), I still struggle with all the stuff that needs to get done.
I realized the other day that the answer is not to make my life less busy-- I actually have done a nice job at setting up a life where I have the extra time and space that I need-- it's about making better use of the time I do have. In my frenzy of vomiting, moaning, and sipping juice this summer, I stopped my practice of daily journalling. This morning writing allows me to remove the top layer of crud in my brain so I can function at a higher level. I also stopped my halting attempts at meditation. So I'm working on reinstating these habits so that when I do have hectic days, I can breathe a little in between.
So on a totally other note it's Scott and my fourth anniversary today. Four years ago today we stood encircled by our favorite people and made some promises to each other. It rained just long enough to halt our plans of wedding outside, but just after we finished our ceremony, this amazing golden light brushed down on us. It's all kind of a blur-- one of my favorite parts was when we passed our rings around for our guests to bless, though I don't really remember what anyone said-- but it's a lovely blur.
Off to celebrate.
I feel really in-between today. The weather this week has vascillated between tank top weather and sweater days. Leaves are starting to fall but the other day in the cemetery, the maintenance crew was all shirtless. I'm smack dab at the 20 week mark of my pregnancy, and I'm right in-between having an obvious baby bumb and just looking a bit portly.
The "master list" that I started last week--cataloguing all the small and large things that we need to get done seems to keep getting longer. I am circling around the sad realization that that's life-- there will always be a lengthy list of things to get done. In fact, in about 5 months, there will be all sorts of new things that have to get done in between all the usual mundane life tasks. This realization comes as very disturbing news to my somewhat secret fantasy that eventually, someday soon, I'll get everything done that needs to be done and I can live out the rest of my days watching television and reading. I am inherently a lazy soul, and while I have come to some sort of peace around that (which is not easy living in a culture that prides itself on long, hard hours of work, and descending from parents who both have very strong work ethics), I still struggle with all the stuff that needs to get done.
I realized the other day that the answer is not to make my life less busy-- I actually have done a nice job at setting up a life where I have the extra time and space that I need-- it's about making better use of the time I do have. In my frenzy of vomiting, moaning, and sipping juice this summer, I stopped my practice of daily journalling. This morning writing allows me to remove the top layer of crud in my brain so I can function at a higher level. I also stopped my halting attempts at meditation. So I'm working on reinstating these habits so that when I do have hectic days, I can breathe a little in between.
So on a totally other note it's Scott and my fourth anniversary today. Four years ago today we stood encircled by our favorite people and made some promises to each other. It rained just long enough to halt our plans of wedding outside, but just after we finished our ceremony, this amazing golden light brushed down on us. It's all kind of a blur-- one of my favorite parts was when we passed our rings around for our guests to bless, though I don't really remember what anyone said-- but it's a lovely blur.
Off to celebrate.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Dude, there's a dude in my belly! I'm still trying to get used to that. As Megan pointed out, I am practically a hermaphrodite for the time being. Pretty crazy.
Of course, this means we have to navigate the hot button (so to speak) of circumcision. I feel that it's a little barbaric-- most of the old reasons for circumcising males have proven unnecessary. One of the common arguments for it is cosmetic. I agree that they look weird to many Americans-- but it's definitely a cultural thang. It's kind of like if, right after birth, newborn elbow skins were removed and replaced with paisley blue corduroy. (Which might be kind of cool... I really like corduroy!) It would seem crazy to outsiders, but it would be the norm once established. Naked elbows would be unsightly, causing small children to cry and parents to shield their children's eyes in horror.
So those are my thoughts. But I'm leaving this one up to Scott. I figure I have to pick my battles, after all.
Of course, this means we have to navigate the hot button (so to speak) of circumcision. I feel that it's a little barbaric-- most of the old reasons for circumcising males have proven unnecessary. One of the common arguments for it is cosmetic. I agree that they look weird to many Americans-- but it's definitely a cultural thang. It's kind of like if, right after birth, newborn elbow skins were removed and replaced with paisley blue corduroy. (Which might be kind of cool... I really like corduroy!) It would seem crazy to outsiders, but it would be the norm once established. Naked elbows would be unsightly, causing small children to cry and parents to shield their children's eyes in horror.
So those are my thoughts. But I'm leaving this one up to Scott. I figure I have to pick my battles, after all.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
P.S.
I just wanted to congratulate myself. It's been several days since I've written about either my cat or Sarah Palin on here. Go me!
Inny or Outy?
We had our "big reveal" ultrasound this morning-- our little one is healthy and wriggling around like nobody's business. And my instincts were right...it's a boy!
I have to admit that even though I've felt it was a boy almost from the beginning, that if I could choose which gender we were having, I'd have chosen a girl. I know it's not that cool to say that, that you're supposed to just want a healthy kiddo, and that is the most important thing. We were trying for awhile to have this baby, and we're both so happy about it. But yes, I had a little wash of disappointment at first. I don't get my little MiniMe this time.
Scott was soooo happy though. He's already dreaming about shaping our baby into a little golfer, and though I'm not really sure I can handle more golf in our lives, it makes me happy to see him so excited. And when I think of what he must've been like as a little boy, and that this little boy will have some of those traits, I melt a little.
And I'm so relieved that everything inside this little kid is exactly the way it's supposed to be-- I'm such a worrywart, I was sure that our baby would have Down Syndrome, a cleft palate, spina bifida (sp?) and that really gross awful thing where the baby's born with the intestines on the outside... but none of those appear to be problems. And things I hadn't even thought to worry about, like club feet or lobster hands, were also not issues. We both watched in awe as the technician showed us the chambers of the heart, looked down into the brain, and of course-- the weiner! (The also tech told us a funny story about another tech who works there. Every time people find out they're having a boy, she tells them it has the biggest penis she's ever seen--which never fails to puff up the father with pride.) Yea!
It is still the weirdest thing to believe that Scott and I made a little wiggle worm that shares both of our dna and currently lives inside of my stomach. I keep trying to comprehend it and I can't quite get there.
After the ultrasound I headed to my first prenatal yoga class, which was great. I've never been super flexible, but after being so sedentary the past few months when I was sick, it felt really good to stretch these ole muscles out and to just breathe. There were four other women in the class, and we're all having boy except one woman whose not far along enough to tell, so that was cool.
So all is well here with us, and we're feeling pretty grateful tonight. I keep practicing saying "son." It still feels kind of weird, like referring to Scott as my "husband" when we first got married. It takes time to sink into the word and get cozy in it. I should figure out a way to scan our ultrasound photos so I can post them here...
I have to admit that even though I've felt it was a boy almost from the beginning, that if I could choose which gender we were having, I'd have chosen a girl. I know it's not that cool to say that, that you're supposed to just want a healthy kiddo, and that is the most important thing. We were trying for awhile to have this baby, and we're both so happy about it. But yes, I had a little wash of disappointment at first. I don't get my little MiniMe this time.
Scott was soooo happy though. He's already dreaming about shaping our baby into a little golfer, and though I'm not really sure I can handle more golf in our lives, it makes me happy to see him so excited. And when I think of what he must've been like as a little boy, and that this little boy will have some of those traits, I melt a little.
And I'm so relieved that everything inside this little kid is exactly the way it's supposed to be-- I'm such a worrywart, I was sure that our baby would have Down Syndrome, a cleft palate, spina bifida (sp?) and that really gross awful thing where the baby's born with the intestines on the outside... but none of those appear to be problems. And things I hadn't even thought to worry about, like club feet or lobster hands, were also not issues. We both watched in awe as the technician showed us the chambers of the heart, looked down into the brain, and of course-- the weiner! (The also tech told us a funny story about another tech who works there. Every time people find out they're having a boy, she tells them it has the biggest penis she's ever seen--which never fails to puff up the father with pride.) Yea!
It is still the weirdest thing to believe that Scott and I made a little wiggle worm that shares both of our dna and currently lives inside of my stomach. I keep trying to comprehend it and I can't quite get there.
After the ultrasound I headed to my first prenatal yoga class, which was great. I've never been super flexible, but after being so sedentary the past few months when I was sick, it felt really good to stretch these ole muscles out and to just breathe. There were four other women in the class, and we're all having boy except one woman whose not far along enough to tell, so that was cool.
So all is well here with us, and we're feeling pretty grateful tonight. I keep practicing saying "son." It still feels kind of weird, like referring to Scott as my "husband" when we first got married. It takes time to sink into the word and get cozy in it. I should figure out a way to scan our ultrasound photos so I can post them here...
Monday, September 8, 2008
I'm feeling grateful today, and also a little agitated-- an interesting juxtaposition. Grateful because my work is picking up a bit, which nicely coincides with me feeling more energetic. Grateful that it was so slow during the time I felt the worst-- makes me feel like the universe is taking care of me. Good stuff.
Agitated? Not sure why. I'm taking advantage of blaming all my moods on hormones these days-- why not, right?
We had a good weekend. Scott unexpectedly came home early from golf Saturday morning, so we got to enjoy some precious weekend snuggle time. A visit to see our new niecey passed the early afternoon, and then it was clearly nap time (for us, not niecey).
Sunday, my dad sweetly made us brunch-- my parents actually make us brunch almost every Sunday that they're in town. Not just like scrambled eggs and dry toast, either, but fancy brunches. Eggs benedict is their speciality. My mom was out of town visiting the Aunties, but Dad still put together a delicious spread. Scott and my dad, who usually mystify my mom and I by talking about golf for hours on end, were gracious enough to occasionally turn the conversation to other topics. A good time was had by all.
I took a walk afterwards-- and was thrilled to see about seven turtles sunning on the turtle log at the cemetery. I may have written about this before on here, but I've kind of become obsessed with turtles this year. Before I knew I was pregnant, when the now orange-sized kiddo was the size of a poppy seed (they always compare the size to food-- yummy baby!), I found a tiny baby turtle not much bigger than my thumbnail. He was ever-so-slowly crossing one of the dirt roads and I worried he'd get stepped on or run over, so I scooped him up with a leaf and delivered him to the turtle pond where I assumed he'd find his parents who must be searching for him. Afterwards, I realized I probably should've either let him be or just moved him into the grass by the road-- what if his parents were in another pond, or in the grass he was inching towards? What if I unwittingly plopped him down by the pond of the rival turtle gang? Hopefully this doesn't say anything about my poor maternal judgement, but we shall see!
In other stunning news, I actually made us dinner tonight for the first time in months... I almost don' t dare say it, but I believe I may have finally landed in that second trimester, honeymoon phase of pregnancy...
Agitated? Not sure why. I'm taking advantage of blaming all my moods on hormones these days-- why not, right?
We had a good weekend. Scott unexpectedly came home early from golf Saturday morning, so we got to enjoy some precious weekend snuggle time. A visit to see our new niecey passed the early afternoon, and then it was clearly nap time (for us, not niecey).
Sunday, my dad sweetly made us brunch-- my parents actually make us brunch almost every Sunday that they're in town. Not just like scrambled eggs and dry toast, either, but fancy brunches. Eggs benedict is their speciality. My mom was out of town visiting the Aunties, but Dad still put together a delicious spread. Scott and my dad, who usually mystify my mom and I by talking about golf for hours on end, were gracious enough to occasionally turn the conversation to other topics. A good time was had by all.
I took a walk afterwards-- and was thrilled to see about seven turtles sunning on the turtle log at the cemetery. I may have written about this before on here, but I've kind of become obsessed with turtles this year. Before I knew I was pregnant, when the now orange-sized kiddo was the size of a poppy seed (they always compare the size to food-- yummy baby!), I found a tiny baby turtle not much bigger than my thumbnail. He was ever-so-slowly crossing one of the dirt roads and I worried he'd get stepped on or run over, so I scooped him up with a leaf and delivered him to the turtle pond where I assumed he'd find his parents who must be searching for him. Afterwards, I realized I probably should've either let him be or just moved him into the grass by the road-- what if his parents were in another pond, or in the grass he was inching towards? What if I unwittingly plopped him down by the pond of the rival turtle gang? Hopefully this doesn't say anything about my poor maternal judgement, but we shall see!
In other stunning news, I actually made us dinner tonight for the first time in months... I almost don' t dare say it, but I believe I may have finally landed in that second trimester, honeymoon phase of pregnancy...
Friday, September 5, 2008
Week in Review
I've been neglecting my lil' blog.
Here's what's new (or not so new):
Here's what's new (or not so new):
- I'm still obsessed with Sarah Palin. I'm not entirely sure why. I found her to be very well-spoken at the Republican National Convention which disturbed me greatly. I predict that if McCain doesn't win the primary, that Governor Palin will end up hosting some sort of righty talk show and win all sorts of commercial endorsements.
- I've felt really good this last week. Last night and today have not been great nausea-wise, but I'm still grateful for this past week. I left the house many times. Yea!
- Next week we get to find out the gender of our little one. I'm still thinking boy, Scott's still thinking girl. I can barely wait. I admire those who can endure the suspense and not find out until the birth. I am not one of them. 19 weeks seems plenty long to wait!
- Juice is my new favorite food. It's helped me through many weeks of ailing, and though I'm feeling better, I can't seem to put down the juice. Faves of the week: tomato juice, and Odwalla OJ (not together!). Apparently the lil' kiddo is a fan of vitamin C.
- At the recommendation of supportive friends, I'm beginning to scribe a list of all the things that need to be done in the next several months-- the things that thus far have just floated around in my head, jostling me into a sweaty panic at 2 a.m. in the morning. Things like enlisting someone to help rid our floors of stale cat vomit detritus, clean the garage before winter (we're procrastinators and must start early!), and start asking parenty people what their favorite books were on labor (!!%*$^!) and child rearin'.
- I'm still waiting for my pregnancy glow and cleavage to arrive. If I may return once more to my Sarah Palin obsession, did you see her pregnant daughter and her hockey lovin' groom to be on the stage at the RNC? Holy boob fairy. The funniest moment though, was when her youngest daughter licked her hand like a cat and ran it through her baby brother's hair. Priceless.
So that's what's been going on around here. Not terribly exciting, but it keeps me entertained!
Monday, September 1, 2008
So right after I posted my last little ditty, I read that Sarah Palin has now announced that her daughter Bristol is indeed 5 months pregnant now. I am entirely confused. My profusest apologies to the Palin family. ; )
Nevertheless, I will continue to shield my indoor cat from the public eye, and will not pressure her to marry the tomcat that impregnated her.
Here is a picture of her in which I have strategically placed a pillow to hide her blooming midsection.
I grew up in a pretty political family. Both of my grandfathers served in the Alaskan legislature, one for over two decades if I recall correctly. For some shameful reason, however, I have never been very political. I vote, and I care deeply about the very scary current state of the world. But I'm not one to watch debates or know the middle names of the candidates or how they stand on certain issues. Instead, I employ the admittedly dangerous technique of either liking or disliking the "general aura" of the political candidates.
But I have to admit I'm obsessed with Sarah Palin. Partly because she's the governor of my home state, who suddenly and unexpectedly has been chosen to run for the office of vice president alongside John McCain. But mostly I'm obsessed because there's a nasty rumor that's been circulating since her son was born last spring-- a rumor that says she's actually the grandmother of the child, and the real mother is her teenaged daughter, Bristol. I try not to gossip, I really do. But there's something explosive about this rumor, and there's some convincing "evidence" to support it. I first heard the rumor from my mom after the birth last spring-- at that point no one outside of Alaska gave a bear's bum about it. But the drama is starting to circulate on the internet, and I'm predicting a very public investigation in the weeks to come.
I won't go into the specifics here of the reasons people think this rumor may be true-- I'll leave you to google it yourselves. Some people say it's no one's business, and some say that if it's true, it was noble of her to protect her daughter. I agree with neither, but that might just be because she's a right winger and I think it takes enormous balls to try to pull off a soap opera stunt like this off while you're in public office... if it's true.
Either way, it should be an interesting story to follow.
By the way, I'm not really pregnant, I'm just pretending to be to protect my teenaged cat. You can see in the photograph above that I'm trying to conceal her baby bump.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Circuit (City) Overload
Since our digital camera broke, and since we'll probably wanting to take lots of pictures of our little one when he/she arrives, we've been talking about getting a new camera. Scott volunteered to do some research on different models, and we headed to Circuit City last night to check them out. As compatible as we are in many ways, the hubster and I do have some differences. He likes shiny new things, and I prefer to keep things a bit (cheaper) simpler. The camera he'd picked out was one that could be used either manually or automatically, and had fancy lenses and lots of buttons. I gravitated towards one that was about half the cost and basically was just the newer version of our old camera. Between the flourescent lights, the constant hovering sales people asking whether we needed help, the overwhelming choice of cameras with buttons and switches and fancy slidey things, and the extra dash of hormones rushing through my body, I started to get antsy.
We bantered a bit about the camera he wanted and the camera I wanted, and decided to leave and think things over. By the time we pulled into the Babies R Us parking lot to pick up a gift, I had transitioned into full throttle meltdown. Scott was a trooper, and waited while I worked my way out of my fit.
We made it through the rest of the trip with out additional tears, and proceeded to visit our new niece and get lots of snuggle time with her.
But I stayed bothered by our camera standoff-- I really felt the simpler one was better, but I felt bad that Scott really had his heart set on the other one. It's not an easy financial time for many people, and neither of us have excellent job security. I know we will be fine whatever happens, but finances are an area that can send me into a deep well of self-loathing, since I feel I should be more self-sufficient than I am at this stage in my life. I use this as a way to beat myself up, and tell myself I'm not good enough, and the camera issue brought this all swirling to the surface for me.
This morning I made myself go to my 12-step "eatin' meetin'"-- though food is not currently plaguing me, the spiritual aspects of the program and the comfort I get from sitting in a room full of people doing their best to be honest and improve their lives still applies. A woman spoke about her perfectionism, about wanting to look perfect and have a perfect house and a perfect life and something in me shifted, relaxed. This woman is someone I adore, and when I look at her I don't see her imperfections. I see a lovely, charming, funny woman who I kind of want to be when/if I grow up. I was reminded that I can choose to beat myself up for all the areas of my life where I fall short-- whether it's self-sufficiency or procrastination or messy rooms or a myriad of other things-- but all that seems to do is make me and the people around me miserable. And I was reminded that the way I see things is not necessarily the way they are-- it sounds so obvious but it's easier to say than to remember. It's like if I wander around without my contacts or glasses-- the world looks like a collection of big blurry blobs. But the world doesn't really look that way-- it just appears that way through my broken eyes.
So. I came home more spiritually fit and relieved of some heavy baggage. And, to top it off, Scott wanted to go back to Circuit City to look at the camera I had admired the night before. I volunteered to return to the lion's den with him, and we happily purchased that very camera. In appreciation of his act of compromise, I encouraged him to treat himself to a new video game. No tears were shed, we were both pleased, and I'm happy to report that the rest of the day has passed more peacefully.
Phew.
We bantered a bit about the camera he wanted and the camera I wanted, and decided to leave and think things over. By the time we pulled into the Babies R Us parking lot to pick up a gift, I had transitioned into full throttle meltdown. Scott was a trooper, and waited while I worked my way out of my fit.
We made it through the rest of the trip with out additional tears, and proceeded to visit our new niece and get lots of snuggle time with her.
But I stayed bothered by our camera standoff-- I really felt the simpler one was better, but I felt bad that Scott really had his heart set on the other one. It's not an easy financial time for many people, and neither of us have excellent job security. I know we will be fine whatever happens, but finances are an area that can send me into a deep well of self-loathing, since I feel I should be more self-sufficient than I am at this stage in my life. I use this as a way to beat myself up, and tell myself I'm not good enough, and the camera issue brought this all swirling to the surface for me.
This morning I made myself go to my 12-step "eatin' meetin'"-- though food is not currently plaguing me, the spiritual aspects of the program and the comfort I get from sitting in a room full of people doing their best to be honest and improve their lives still applies. A woman spoke about her perfectionism, about wanting to look perfect and have a perfect house and a perfect life and something in me shifted, relaxed. This woman is someone I adore, and when I look at her I don't see her imperfections. I see a lovely, charming, funny woman who I kind of want to be when/if I grow up. I was reminded that I can choose to beat myself up for all the areas of my life where I fall short-- whether it's self-sufficiency or procrastination or messy rooms or a myriad of other things-- but all that seems to do is make me and the people around me miserable. And I was reminded that the way I see things is not necessarily the way they are-- it sounds so obvious but it's easier to say than to remember. It's like if I wander around without my contacts or glasses-- the world looks like a collection of big blurry blobs. But the world doesn't really look that way-- it just appears that way through my broken eyes.
So. I came home more spiritually fit and relieved of some heavy baggage. And, to top it off, Scott wanted to go back to Circuit City to look at the camera I had admired the night before. I volunteered to return to the lion's den with him, and we happily purchased that very camera. In appreciation of his act of compromise, I encouraged him to treat himself to a new video game. No tears were shed, we were both pleased, and I'm happy to report that the rest of the day has passed more peacefully.
Phew.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Babies and Bellies!!!
We met our new niece, Sophia Grace, this morning. She is a perfect little peanut. And honestly, I really needed the reminder that after all the discomfort of pregnancy (and I'm not ready to even think too much about the later stages-- incontinence, hemorrhoids and... labor)-- you get a prize! A little baby. And it was quite comforting to see my sis-in-law looking more like she'd just returned from a beach vacation than from birthin' a baby...
Then this afternoon I got to see my friend Megan who just moved back to Maine and is almost eight months pregnant. Megan and I were brought together by The Fates when we both worked for the Portland Pirates almost ten years ago. We quickly bonded thanks to our evil senses of humor and enjoyed several months of mocking such characters as Doug, the Office Masturbator; the Pirates Biggest Fan, Switchboard, who licked his palms before eating any foods lying around the office; and Scratchy aka Yellow Mellow (don't even ask). We actually got separated more than once by the office personnel because we could always be found in a mischevious huddle when we should've been performing important hockey-related duties.
So it was a delight to discover that we were once again being tossed together-- this time as Belly Buddies. Meegles, I'm glad you're back in Maine!
All in all, a good day, though I got nary a scrap of work done. But there is always tomorrow for that-- after all, it's almost six which means it's time to crawl into my jammies and watch bad TV.
Then this afternoon I got to see my friend Megan who just moved back to Maine and is almost eight months pregnant. Megan and I were brought together by The Fates when we both worked for the Portland Pirates almost ten years ago. We quickly bonded thanks to our evil senses of humor and enjoyed several months of mocking such characters as Doug, the Office Masturbator; the Pirates Biggest Fan, Switchboard, who licked his palms before eating any foods lying around the office; and Scratchy aka Yellow Mellow (don't even ask). We actually got separated more than once by the office personnel because we could always be found in a mischevious huddle when we should've been performing important hockey-related duties.
So it was a delight to discover that we were once again being tossed together-- this time as Belly Buddies. Meegles, I'm glad you're back in Maine!
All in all, a good day, though I got nary a scrap of work done. But there is always tomorrow for that-- after all, it's almost six which means it's time to crawl into my jammies and watch bad TV.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Waiting
My sister-in-law is about to give birth-- or maybe already has by now. Scott's family has been busy producing "the cousins" this past year-- his little sis had her baby girl in January, his brother's wife is in the hospital as we speak, and then me in February. I can't wait to meet our newest niece or nephew... and I'm going a little crazy waiting for the phone to ring!
It's a strange thing-- for several years after my brother died, this kind of event would be tinged with bittersweetness. The joy of having a new member of the family mixed with the sadness of knowing I'd never be an auntie to my own brother's kids. But time has swirled away-- almost ten years-- and I am just plain happy to have the amazing niece and nephew that we already have, and twitchin' to meet the latest addition.
So our digital camera has, as my grandma Jeanne would say, crapped out. So pardon the lack of context, but I just feel like posting a photo of King Scott taken on his 30th birthday. If he looks a little solemn, it's probably because that happened to be the day we moved into our new house, not because he's old.
Off to wait by the phone...
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Uterus Rising
We had our third appointment with the midwives today. I am really happy with them-- they are very calm, positive, and affirming. I feel lucky-- even though we live in a relatively small town, we get to have our birth attended by midwives, but still have the safety of being in a birthing center within a hospital. And I hear the rooms at the new Mercy Hospital will have Jacuzzis in them-- which Scott has informed me he'll be soaking in during my labor. Haha.
And we got to hear the little heartbeat again, which is such a comfort. And my little ole' uterus is moving on up-- right where it's supposed to be. Our midwife was a little worried that I've lost a bit more weight-- she'd like to see me on nausea medication if this doesn't taper off in the next several days. This is the first time in my life that I've actually wanted to gain weight. Although I admit the eating disordered thinking part of me disagrees-- fortunately, that's not the part of me that's in charge these days.
Last night my parents treated me to dinner at the Lobster Shack at Two Lights-- I'm embarrased to say that I've lived here for over six years and that was my first visit there. I had a delightful, nutritious meal of french fries daintily dipped in tartar sauce, all enjoyed against the backdrop of the sweeping Atlantic-- likey!
This feels a little random but I was afraid if I didn't write something today, I wouldn't keep my momentum up... so here's to momentum.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Dude, where's my Glow?
The nausea is back. I really thought I'd slipped into the 2nd trimester honeymoon phase I keep hearing about, but not the past few days.
So I'm going to try and focus on what I'm grateful for:
So I'm going to try and focus on what I'm grateful for:
- I get to work from home. I don't have to crawl into an office from 9-5 feeling like this. Instead, I get to prop my little ole laptop up on a pillow and do my work from bed. With my kitty (when she's not off visiting Grandma and Grandpa) next to me. How cool is that?
- Gilmore Girls. I know it's been off the air for several years, but Blockbuster.com has kept the dvds coming the past few months. This chick flick series bursting with fast-rolling quips has soothed me on many rough days.
- My family. They would do anything for me and often do.
- My husband. He's been so patient and has taken on all the most disgusting of the household chores-- cat food, litter box, cat vomit clean-up, and doing the dishes. He's run to the grocery store to grab me random craving-related items and has been to all our baby appointments.
- My cat, Erica. I seem to write a lot about her on here. She's the creature I've spent the most time with the past few months. She is actually quite thrilled that I've taken to her lifestyle of lying in bed with short breaks for sustenance. She always knew I had what it took to be a cat.
- I'm sick because of something positive-- I could feel this way and be having chemo treatments or some other horrendous ailments. We get a baby at the end of all this!
There's plenty more, but what a good start. It also happens to be another beautiful Maine day. Guess I can wait a bit longer for that glow to arrive. (And if the Universe is listening, when I get my Glow, can you also bring some cleavage?!?)
Friday, August 22, 2008
Ripening
Fridays are usually the day that I go to the farm with Emily to pick up produce that wacky Gene (Pool) grew. I think I'm going to skip it today, but I am still thinking about ripening and growing. I finally watered the tomato plants I've been neglecting this morning, and I'm amazed by their resiliency. I haven't watered them often, or trimmed them back in the places that don't grow fruit, or spoken gently to them. And still most of them are green, and blooming small round fruits despite my neglect and the soggy summer. It gives me hope that whatever mistakes we'll make as parents will also be weathered with that same resiliency inherent to nature.
I tried to take a picture of my belly this morning, but I can't figure out the digital camera. In any case, it too is slowly blooming. Especially in the evenings, and especially if I've partaken in a large plate of Thai food. I still don't really believe there is a little creature in there-- it seems so science fiction to me. I believed it a little bit when we first heard the galloping heartbeat, and a lot more at our first ultrasound. In fact I forgot that we could see the baby, but it couldn't see us, and I'm pretty sure I tried to wave at it. But the rest of the time, it just doesn't seem quite real.
I find myself thinking a lot about the past lately. Partly because I've had a lot of time to think, and partly because having this baby will be one of the biggest "before and after" defining moments of my life. So I'm thinking about the "before". I find myself nostalgic for old friends and places, particularly Alaska. Although I don't want to live there, there is a part of me that belongs to the mountains and the slate grey water and the sleek pulse of whales. Even though I love being in Portland, and see us living here for a very long time, I still can't quite believe that our child won't know what it's like to grow up on a mountain at the edge of a forest, to gawk at bears strolling through the rock garden.
Or maybe it's just the hormones.
Fortunately for Scott, I have so far been spared the wild mood swings, but I am definitely softening. I cried during the Olympics last night when an American diver spoke about her last career dive (perhaps the strange thing is not that I cried during the Olympics, but that I actually watched the Olympics), and I had a complete meltdown the other night when I accidentally kicked the cat, and my cheeks are a bit wet now after writing about Alaska.
So everything shifts. People, hormones, tomatoes.
Enough deep thoughts-- I'm going to go watch some Gilmore Girls.
I tried to take a picture of my belly this morning, but I can't figure out the digital camera. In any case, it too is slowly blooming. Especially in the evenings, and especially if I've partaken in a large plate of Thai food. I still don't really believe there is a little creature in there-- it seems so science fiction to me. I believed it a little bit when we first heard the galloping heartbeat, and a lot more at our first ultrasound. In fact I forgot that we could see the baby, but it couldn't see us, and I'm pretty sure I tried to wave at it. But the rest of the time, it just doesn't seem quite real.
I find myself thinking a lot about the past lately. Partly because I've had a lot of time to think, and partly because having this baby will be one of the biggest "before and after" defining moments of my life. So I'm thinking about the "before". I find myself nostalgic for old friends and places, particularly Alaska. Although I don't want to live there, there is a part of me that belongs to the mountains and the slate grey water and the sleek pulse of whales. Even though I love being in Portland, and see us living here for a very long time, I still can't quite believe that our child won't know what it's like to grow up on a mountain at the edge of a forest, to gawk at bears strolling through the rock garden.
Or maybe it's just the hormones.
Fortunately for Scott, I have so far been spared the wild mood swings, but I am definitely softening. I cried during the Olympics last night when an American diver spoke about her last career dive (perhaps the strange thing is not that I cried during the Olympics, but that I actually watched the Olympics), and I had a complete meltdown the other night when I accidentally kicked the cat, and my cheeks are a bit wet now after writing about Alaska.
So everything shifts. People, hormones, tomatoes.
Enough deep thoughts-- I'm going to go watch some Gilmore Girls.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Back to Life
So it only seemed appropriate to mark my return to the living with a visit to my favorite cemetery.
Before I was stricken with two months of vomiting, dizziness, constant nausea and the inability to talk about, hear about or witness anything relating to body functions without gagging, I strolled the cemetery everyday, often for over an hour. I watched the tadpoles slowly sprout legs and lose their tails, and I judged how good the walk was by how many turtles I spotted in the pond.
Today was a little warm for my delicate self, but thanks to a rockin' breeze, I had a great walk. The former tadpoles are getting big and green, but I only saw one little lone turtle on the turtle log, stretching his little neck up towards the sun.
The high point of my walk: I love to read first names from the old tombstones. There are those that have gone by the wayside-- the Ediths, the Vernons, the Gertrudes (although the Gertrudes kind of sounds like a cool name for a band)-- the classics-- Elizabeth, Jonathan, Anne-- and the oldies that are now coming back into fashion, like Eva, Ava, and Ella. But today my friends, I found a new favorite. Veranus. I was dying (haha) to photograph the headstone to prove that there was once someone-- presumably a man?-- named Veranus, but in a stunning bout of good taste, I controlled my urges. But seriously... Veranus? I'll have to suggest that as a possible baby name to Scott...it's right up there with Wormus.
The low point: A gaggle of bratty pre-pubescent boys on bikes. Normally it wouldn't bother me but one of them was on some sort of motorized bike and they were purposely riding towards the ducks, yelling obscenities. If I'd had a cane with me, I'd have surely shaken it at them. Instead, I took a deep breath, kept walking, and sent off a quick prayer that we'd have a child with a gentle heart.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
New
So it's time for something new. It's been a hard few months-- I always thought I'd be one of those women who loved being pregnant. Not so much-- it's hard to love it when you're nauseous and hurling and for some strange reason the scent of the first floor makes your new bloodhound self run back up the stairs to the bathroom. When for once in your life, you actually don't want to eat, but know that there's a tiny creature living inside you who needs you to.
I've been really isolated, and this is one way of making sure I am at least expressing what's up somewhere, somehow. Besides to my husband and mom, that is.
Today was a good day. I walked a bit, and read a bit, and snuggled a bit. I read some blogs of people I went to high school with-- one of whom recently experienced a similarly difficult early pregnancy, and it soothed me to read her words. Someone I had a mutual friend with in high school, but never really knew, but who after reading her thoughts, I feel I know.
On a positive note-- I am starting to be able to make poo jokes again without gagging. I am grateful for this small return to myself. In fact, yesterday something really gross happened that is now amusing. I woke up early (to pee for the forty-third time) and noticed that my cat Erica, who sleeps on my pillow above my head, smelled kinda poo-ish. I assumed that she had some poo stuck in her long fluffy fur, and booted her out of the bedroom, hoping to return to my slumber. Unfortunately, the smell was still there and I looked down to discover there was poo in the bed. Right next to my head. (The mysterious poo belonged to the cat, not me or Scott.) Turns out Scott had accidentally spooked Erica when she was in the litter box, and apparently she had finished her doody duty in the bed. At least that's what I'm hoping, and that it's not some new phase of her development as a senior cat.
So. On that note, I'll sign off. But it feels good to be here, and good to start something new.
I've been really isolated, and this is one way of making sure I am at least expressing what's up somewhere, somehow. Besides to my husband and mom, that is.
Today was a good day. I walked a bit, and read a bit, and snuggled a bit. I read some blogs of people I went to high school with-- one of whom recently experienced a similarly difficult early pregnancy, and it soothed me to read her words. Someone I had a mutual friend with in high school, but never really knew, but who after reading her thoughts, I feel I know.
On a positive note-- I am starting to be able to make poo jokes again without gagging. I am grateful for this small return to myself. In fact, yesterday something really gross happened that is now amusing. I woke up early (to pee for the forty-third time) and noticed that my cat Erica, who sleeps on my pillow above my head, smelled kinda poo-ish. I assumed that she had some poo stuck in her long fluffy fur, and booted her out of the bedroom, hoping to return to my slumber. Unfortunately, the smell was still there and I looked down to discover there was poo in the bed. Right next to my head. (The mysterious poo belonged to the cat, not me or Scott.) Turns out Scott had accidentally spooked Erica when she was in the litter box, and apparently she had finished her doody duty in the bed. At least that's what I'm hoping, and that it's not some new phase of her development as a senior cat.
So. On that note, I'll sign off. But it feels good to be here, and good to start something new.
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