Monday, December 31, 2007

Let the Healing Begin

Two weeks ago we took Sully for his two-month check-up. He is healthy and is growing very steadily. He now weighs 10 pounds, 13 ounces and is 23 inches long. Of course, with these early doctor visits come shots, but we take Sully to the health department for his vaccinations. He fared those very well, too, with a bit of crying, then an extended nap. Fortunately, he did not get a fever afterward, which can happen.

We brought Sullivan home from his doctor’s visit and Jeff and I watched the children, baby Sullivan and Jude, our preschooler who learns a bit too much every day. Our hearts were full. We turned to one another. “Let’s have another child,” we said, “Another addition to this family.” Then we laughed, deep, full-body laughter that filled the house. For, you see, we had already decided that two children was the perfect number for us. No more pregnancies for me, no more babies for us. As it is, unless things pick up in the finance department, we may have to just pick a favorite child and let him go to college. Let’s see how school goes. Maybe we won’t have to worry about college.

So, as brave men before him have done, Jeff opted to get a vasectomy. In fact, he was quite mature about the whole thing. Mature, that is, until we had a consultation at the doctor’s office and were given a video to watch that outlined the whole procedure. Then we both snickered and mocked the video, laughing until the doctor rejoined us in the room. We had the maturity level of junior high school boys in a sex ed class.

A few days later (last Friday), I drove Jeff to his appointment. An hour later, the deed was done. Jeff described the experience as “painless” (yes, really) and spent the weekend lying about with a strategically placed bag of frozen peas, per the doctor’s orders. By Monday, he was doing very well, though he had a ten-pound weight restriction, which meant he couldn’t pick up Jude. (Defying the weight restriction didn’t even cross his mind after the doctor’s vivid descriptions of what could happen if he did.) Here it is, one week later and it is as though nothing ever happened. I thought it was a bit in bad taste for him to unzip his pants at his mother’s Christmas party and offer to show everyone the (tiny) scar, but it did make a very lovely centerpiece.

Just so he didn’t feel left out, Jude managed to cut the tip of his forefinger on a chair. He didn’t cry, but came to me and said “Mom, I cut myself,” as he left a trail of blood. I cleaned and bandaged it and it wasn’t until the band-aid came off that Jude decided that it hurt. Fortunately, that, too, passed and he has recovered.

And as for me? I am sleep-deprived and experiencing a bit of holiday hangover. In other words, I am just fine. All is well.

Song of the day: Lou Reed's "Perfect Day." No particular reason: Just a great song, one of my favorites.

Movie of the day: Spiderman 3. I am now in my third viewing since Christmas and, though I will never admit it to Jude, I actually enjoy it.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Weekend Update

There is a scene in the movie, Ordinary People, between Donald Sutherland’s character and Mary Tyler Moore’s character where he says to her something along the lines of “You can’t see things except for the way they affect you.” Her response is “no, I can’t and neither can anyone else.” It is one of my favorite exchanges in the movie and such a true sentiment. If that weren’t true, I likely wouldn’t even have a blog. I write about what interests me, not really considering whether anyone else would be interested in reading it. I suppose that there are worse reasons for writing.

Speaking of writing, I recently discovered the very first draft (thirty pages only) of the novel that I continue to write and discovered that it is actually older than my oldest child. My novel turned four in October. Four years. In that time, I managed to have two children and get a new job, but haven’t been able to finish this novel. Still, I haven’t given up. The trouble I have now is that ideas are coming faster than I can write them. That rarely happens and I certainly am not complaining. Just need to set aside more time to write.

Friday evening I went to bed as usual around 8:30, as Jeff and I are sleep-sharing (like time-sharing, only we don’t travel and one of us is always with the infant). I awoke from a sound sleep just before 1:00 a.m. (Jeff generally comes to wake me up at 1:30 or 2:00) and went to check on them. Jeff was holding Sully and he looked up at me and said “He’s warm.” We took his temperature and it was 102 degrees. Jeff packed Sully’s diaper bag and took him to the hospital while I waited at the house with Jude. Just after Jeff left, Jude awoke and I went into his room to comfort him. It was agony waiting for Jeff to call, but it just wasn’t practical for us both to go to the hospital. Finally, he called. There was nothing to worry about. Sully still had a good appetite and wasn’t dehydrated or listless. They arrived home shortly afterward and I held onto him as he slept. I just let him sleep there the rest of the night, as I did not want to set him down. There isn’t any other feeling in the world like holding a sleeping baby, feeling the complete trust that the baby has, just watching him sleep. No one ever told me that I would have that feeling. No one ever told me that I would wake up in the middle of the night, concerned because the baby is not crying, would stand over him just to make sure that he is still breathing. Sully continued to have a fever until Sunday afternoon and seems just fine now.

Sunday morning Jeff had to work so as he got ready, I heard a fire truck siren. I told Jude so we could go to the window and watch the truck drive by, but the truck did not drive pass. We looked through the other living room window and right across the street from us were two fire trucks and three police cars. A car apparently slid off the road and hit a tree. As I fed Sullivan, Jude and I observed the firefighters and policemen at work, removing the windshield from the car. As we watched they also removed the top of the car. I felt a bit like a ghoul, watching someone else’s auto accident, especially when it became evident that it was a fatality. Fortunately, Jude is too young to fully understand what was happening and there wasn’t anything that we saw that would lead him to think that the person in the car had died. He was fascinated with the firemen and their hoses, then the tow truck that came to move the car, so he paid no mind to the ambulance. Of course for our neighborhood, this was just something that happened on a Sunday morning, something to be immediately forgotten as we continued on with our days, but I couldn’t help but think that it was a life-altering event for someone sitting at home waiting for him or her to return.
Song of the day: “Asleep” from The Smiths because it is a perfect song for a cold, miserable winter day and because it is the prettiest song I know about death. Runner up song of the day: “Tonight is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel” from The Barenaked Ladies.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Is That Raccoon Eating E.T.'s Head?

One of the great joys of being a parent as any parent can attest is watching your child discover something for the first time. Of course, when your child is a preschooler, such discovery is inevitably accompanied by several questions, many of which are the “why” variety. At first, watching your child’s brain working, formulating questions feels you with great pride, thinking, “My child is so smart, so inquisitive.” After several hours of “why” questions, however, I dare even the most patient, caring parent to not feel a little insane.

I received an email from my friend, Josh, in response to a blog in which I wrote about Jude discovering Spiderman and Josh mentioned that made him think about his own childhood. Although I smiled and nodded at this, I realized that, with two boys, there is not a strong likelihood that I would have that same feeling as my sons discovered something I enjoyed in my childhood. After all, my childhood obsession (yep, obsession) was with Strawberry Shortcake. Not the Strawberry of today, with her blue jeans and puppy, but the Strawberry of my childhood, the one with the red-and-white dress and white-and -green striped tights. Many nights I spent reading books with a flashlight under my Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag and days were spent playing with Strawberry Shortcake and her kitty, Custard, as well as her whole collection of lightly-scented friends (and I think that we should, as adults, all hope to have lightly-scented friends).

Jude did recently discover something that I loved as a child: the movie “E.T.” I was eight years old and it was the first movie I saw at the theater twice: once with my mom and once with my dad. I am enjoying watching Jude fall in love with E.T., so much so that I try to be very patient with the questions: “What is E.T. doing?” “He’s getting dressed to go trick-or-treat?” “Why is he going trick-or-treating?” “Because it is Halloween.” “Why is it Halloween?” (There really isn’t a good answer to that last question, but it is similar to the exchange we had this morning: “Put your hood up. It’s cold outside.” “Why is it cold outside?” “Because it is winter.” “Why is it winter?” “Because it is just that time of year.” “Oh, it’s that time of year.”) Of course in the midst of the movie-related questions, Jeff glanced at the TV screen and asked, “Is that raccoon eating E.T.’s head?” (It was not.)

It was nine degrees when we headed out this morning. Nine. I have been back to work for a little over a week and life is pretty hectic, as we are constantly running. But Jude is a good assistant and Sully is an easygoing kid, as long as he is well fed and gets his sleep (though not nearly enough of that sleep comes at night). Today, Sullivan is eight weeks old.

Songs of the day: “Chestnut Mare” by the Byrds, as I am nostalgic today and this song makes me think of an old friend and “A Girl Like You” by Pete Yorn because it makes me happy.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Newest News I Knew

“I still love you,” he said to me as I took a seat next to him.
“I love you, too,” thrilled that my feelings were not unrequited.
“I still love you,” he repeated. “Even though you’re married.”
I laughed then. “I love you, too, Jude.”
Jeff and I have tried to explain the concept of marriage to Jude – to no avail. He decided that he wanted to marry Mommy and though Mommy was very flattered, Daddy had to explain the many reasons that just wasn’t possible. His three-year-old brain processed that information and then he decided “I’ll just marry Daddy then.”
Life with a three-year-old is many things, but it is never boring.

I am back to work today, which explains the new blog as I actually have time to sit down to write one. That, and I am trying to distract myself, as six weeks spent bonding with Sully have been great and I already miss his little face. I already have his picture plastered all over my office, joining my other family photos and as I look at his face, I can vividly recall his warm breath, the way his tiny hands curl into gentle fists and the way he passes out post-bottle, milk almost always evident above his lip and on his chin. He curls his body up onto mine and sleeps – or, actually, he had until today. Today is a very difficult day. I asked Jude to keep an eye on him during the day, as Jude loves to feel helpful. His reply: “I won’t let anyone take him, Mom.”

I overdosed on movie-watching while I was home, taking full advantage of the immense library we have amassed over the past couple of decades. (Yes, decades. I’ve been collecting movies since I was 13 or 14 and Jeff must have started his collection around that time as well). I discovered that, as heart-wrenching as Kramer vs. Kramer is, Ordinary People is even more so. (Seriously. I don’t know how any mom can watch that movie and not be devastated.) I rediscovered favorite films like Chasing Amy and Almost Famous. I watched some truly awful films from Netflix. I would rank Tears of Kali among the very worst films I have ever seen. I contemplated the sheer fortune wrapped up in video and hope that the boys will appreciate their inheritance. Jude has moved on from Firehouse Dog and has discovered the action of Spiderman and Spiderman 2. I have now seen those two movies many, many times. (Go ahead. Quiz me.) Even though I am growing a bit weary of them, it is still cute to hear Jude say “Green Goblin,” which comes out more like “Green Gwobwin” and he has taken to pretending to shoot webs all over the house.

We had a good Thanksgiving, fairly uneventful, shuffling from Jeff’s parents to mine. We filled up on turkey at my mother-in-law’s and my father’s, then off to mom’s for the unconventional dinner of steak, shrimp and crab legs. I was in food heaven – so much divine ambrosia and I didn’t have to cook at all.

Random thought of the day: it would really, really hurt to be stoned to death.

Song of the day: “Mother” from Pink Floyd.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

The Times They Are A Changin'

It has been many moons since my last post. Life has been flying by at light speed; my tiny newborn is already a five-week-old. We've settled into a routine these last five weeks. Sully eats and sleeps when he needs to and the rest of us adjust our schedules to accomodate him. Eventually, we will all by on the same schedule. Eventually.

Today I went to lunch at our favorite Japanese restaurant, then went to Barnes and Noble to buy a gift for my niece. It was a low-key way to spend a Friday afternoon -- so low-key that Sullivan spent the day asleep as we ventured out. I nearly wept huge crocodile tears of happiness just to be out of the house.

The past few weeks I've spent nearly all of my time inside, recovering from my c-section, confusing my days and nights, bonding with the tiny person I've been caring for. After a couple weeks, I grew accustomed to my new schedule -- indeed, to my new life and the outside world seems strange, as though all sorts of events have taken place and I am privy to none of them. The world outside of my house just feels strange. Life has gone on without me. I am nearing the end of my restrictions and will be able to drive again and will soon have to head back to work -- something I am not quite ready for. I've enjoyed seeing the same little face all day long and will miss him terribly when it is time to send him to daycare. But, I am comforted at least by the thought that he will be with Jude during the day. Jude is already protective of his tiny sibling and has shown himself to be a loving brother.

I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving, to finally separating my butt from the couch and to introduce Sully to the extended family. This year in particular I am thankful and I don't want to ever forget it.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Minding My Queue

I haven't had the opportunity in the last few weeks to update my Netflix queue, so movies that I added over a year ago have finally worked their way to the top of the list. Unfortunately, this is not always good. Right after I brought Sully home, Psycho was waiting for me in the mailbox. Despite the line "A boy's best friend is his mother," it is not the best mother/son bonding movie I could have watched (though a good Halloween movie). Even worse was the day that Sophie's Choice arrived. That is not a movie I would recommend for any mom, but particularly not for a new mom with two small children. I would also not recommend Kramer vs. Kramer, which broke my heart in half before I ever had children.
So, Friday, October 26th has come and gone and instead of a newborn, I now have a 18-day-old infant. Every day I mean to post a new blog, but there just doesn't seem to be time. Between diaper changes and feedings, adjusting to new sleep schedules and mothering a three-year-old, I barely even have time to spend with Jeff. However, as sleep deprived as we all are, when we do spend time together, it is fun time, happy time. We've all managed to maintain our senses of humor. Jude is a big part of that, a funny, happy guy. When Jude decided to use my breast pump on his stomach, it was impossible not to laugh. When he comes running through the door saying "Sullivan, look what I can do!" it is impossible not to smile.

No one tells you, though, about the darker side of mothering. The total, disorienting lack of sleep. The unflattering nicknames you assign to your tiny spawn. (Though Sullivan started out as "Pumpkin" and "Sweetie," now, more often than not, I call him "Farty Bootie." That name really explains itself. Jude, who even as a baby would never stay still, was called "Fidget the Midget.") No one told me that after hours spent watching The Wiggles, I would start to have inappropriate dreams about them. And no one mentioned how it would break my heart to see my older child cling to his father because I have a baby constantly attached to me. This morning, though, Jude climbed onto the couch next to us (as we watched The Wiggles, the hot, hot, naughty Wiggles) and asked me to rub his back and as I did, I cried because for a few moments he was my little boy again.

As promised, here is a photo or two of the baby:



Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Yet More In The World Of Baby

In the movies, labor is always signified by a woman's rupture of membranes and her calm declaration "My water just broke." Then, the boyfriend/husband/sperm donor acts like a complete jackass, running around trying to get her to the hospital as though the baby is about to fall out onto the floor. If you only watched movies or tv, it would be easy to assume that every labor situation is the same. But, if you are pregnant (or with someone or know someone who is pregnant) and attend prenatal classes or read any books, you quickly learn that labor is different for everyone, but hardly ever will a woman's water break and she will immediately have a baby. Much emphasis is placed on the fact that much of labor may even be spent at home, timing contractions and such until it is a suitable time to go to the hospital.

Last Thursday, October 11, I was sitting on the couch, waiting for dinner when I felt an odd sensation, as though I may have peed a little (yes, gross I know). Then, I stood up and knew for certain that my water had broken. I calmly told Jeff "I think my water just broke." He was amazing, calm, getting Jude's dinner wrapped up and grabbing my hospital bag so we could get to the hospital. I wasn't having any contractions so I wasn't quite sure what I should do, but going to the hospital seemed like a good plan, especially since I was leaving a trail of amniotic fluid (again, gross, I know). Apparently when a pregnant woman's water breaks, the baby is usually (not always, but usually) in a birth-ready position, head down, acting pretty much like a cork in a bottle, stopping the gush of water. However, in my case, the baby had not dropped into position.

I was admitted into the hospital and the doctor was called. The nurses assumed that I would just be allowed to rest and the baby would be born in the morning. The on-call doctor came in and examined me and declared "You're having a baby tonight." So, Jeff called our parents and I was taken to the operating room. Having a c-section is definitely no picnic; I had forgotten the joy of getting a spinal block, which, as you may guess from the name, involves the insertion of needles directly into the spine. It is very effective for numbing, however. We arrived at the hospital around 7:00 and at 10:21, little Sullivan David was born. He was in a breech position and as soon as the doctor made the incision, his feet popped out. She touched his feet to guide him out and he pulled his feet back inside.

Sullivan is a healthy little cutie. He weighed 7 pounds, 11 ounces (four ounces more than Jude did) and was 20 1/2 inches long. He has blue eyes and dark, dark hair (again, just as Jude did). Baby and Mom are both doing well. Pictures will be posted soon.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

If Baby Fell

When I awoke Tuesday morning at 4:00 am, I knew I was destined to not get any more sleep for the evening. As a pregnancy "veteran", I was certain I knew what was going on, so when I woke up and felt immense pressure on my thighs, I thought "this must be it. The baby has dropped." Granted, Jude never did drop, but I was still certain that this feeling, although new, was something I understood. All day I felt the same pressure, literally as though the baby were resting on the top of my legs, which understandably meant that it was difficult to walk. I stepped up my efforts to get things ready for the baby, certain that this latest development meant that I would never make it to my c-section date (which is only 22 days away). I was tired and irritable, certain that those were signs, too, that my hormones were supercharged, ready for the big day. I still felt baby's movement, but much differently than I was used to, another sign to me that it was getting ready to happen.

I went to sleep that night and slept hard, something that hadn't happened in months (literally). When I awoke in the morning, the first thing I noticed was that the pressure was gone and the familiar kicks were back, near and to my bladder. So that just proves, I guess, that I know absolutely nothing about being pregnant and that labor is likely not imminent. I am also not as in touch with my own body as I thought. I've had contractions (ones I can actually feel) that are so sporadic that at least I know they aren't labor pains. It is comforting to be certain about something at least.

Work irritation of the week: Tuesday, in addition to the pressure I felt, I got really nauseated and disappeared into the rest room. As I was getting sick, I heard the door open and someone called out "hello?" to which I replied "Hello," though in a much more irritated tone of voice. I finished, then headed back to my desk where one boss (not my main boss, but a secondary one) was standing, waiting for me. Apparently he sent someone who had stopped by into the bathroom to check on me. "I'm sorry; I got sick," I said, to which he replied "Well, I couldn't find you and I have something for you to do." This "something" was stuffing checks into envelopes. He had the checks and the envelopes, but apparently couldn't perform the very difficult end step of placing the checks into the envelopes without my assistance. Ah, the compassion. I rather wished I had gotten sick on his shoes instead of wasting it in the bathroom.

Arbitrary addition to my blog: Song of the day. Today's song of the day is "We Both Go Down Together" by The Decembrists. I love it. I am trying to determine how I could come from weatlth and beauty and be untouched by work or duty, but, so far, no luck.

Monday, October 1, 2007

It's All About Looks

Generally, I pay more attention to the dialogue and acting in a film than to the “look” of the picture, but three movies that I saw recently stood out to me because they looked so different from one another.

Pan’s Labyrinth is very dark in both the realistic and fantastical portions of the story. The fantasy sections are really amazing and well done, and the darkness definitely suits the movie’s tone. It is a somber film and the fantasy sections are not light-hearted diversions. Overall, not a feel-good movie, but worth a look just to see, well, the look of it.

A Scanner Darkly is very different in appearance not only from Pan’s Labyrinth, but also from any other film you’re likely to see. Filmed in “rotoscope animation” it has a very unique and disconcerting look that suits the film’s subject matter – that of drug addiction. Even though it is a bit funnier than I thought it would be, I found the movie to be a bit confusing as well, but maybe that is the point. Regardless, it is a decent, if not great, film.

Shortbus could not be more different in style. It is shot almost documentary-style. What sets apart Shortbus is the sex. Much of the movie is composed of stark and real sex scenes. That is not to say that the sex is particularly erotic. Even though there are a couple of “titillating” scenes, in general the sex just serves to move the story forward -- unlike in some movies. Yes, Caligulia, I’m talking about you. (Sidenote: A special three-disc DVD set of Caligulia is due to be released soon and Jeff has hinted this might make a good Christmas gift for me. I have taken some time on my day off to consult an attorney to determine whether this would constitute an “act of cruelty.”) This is my favorite of the three, but mostly because I dug the characters (well, most of them anyway).

Work irritation of the week: The past couple of weeks have included holidays, so I have only been working three-day weeks. Of course, I don’t get paid for holidays. I am told over and over that there is so much I need to do before I take maternity leave, yet today (Monday), I was told to work a half-day (even though this will be a three-day week as well). I simply told the bosses that there is too much to do for me to do that (and I really can’t afford it – not with a baby coming). So, I worked a full day. Still, I got to exercise my eye-rolling abilities with the contradictory “you have so much to do – take the day off” messages that I keep getting.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Poetry

Being pregnant makes you crazy. No, seriously. It is true. It is okay, though, a socially acceptable crazy, as is evidenced by the following poem. I write whenever inspiration strikes and I set out to write a funny poem about the placenta, likening it to Mrs. Baylock, the creepy nanny for Satan’s kid Damien from The Omen. However, I ended up with something quite different in the end. I like it, though. Not totally heinous, unlike some other things I have written lately.

Caretaker,
a Mrs. Baylock,
nanny
to baby's Damien,
protecting at all costs

baby's first friend,
constant companion,
placenta
thin, compliant
non-judgmental
keeping baby company
womb mates
together
safe, warm

silent placenta witnesses
baby's growth,
passes along nutrients,
then steps back
as industrious baby
turns shredded wheat
and chicken sandwiches
into fingers, toes,
a spleen

baby grows
enough to emerge,
fleeing the amniotic cocoon,
then goes on
without placenta

the first of many friends
to be forgotten,
outgrown,
left behind

placenta,
purpose served
slides away into
oblivion


See, I told you. Crazy.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Newer News

According to today's doctor's visit, everything looks good. The baby is stubbornly breech, resting as high in my uterus as possible without aid of sophisticated climbing gear. What can I say? I provide good accomodations: warm environment, plenty of food, a variety of activities designed to lull the baby to sleep. I am a gracious landlord, providing safe shelter and forgiving 3:00 a.m. karate kicks to the bladder. But, the tiny tenant and I both know that it can't -- and won't -- last. Therefore, I am afraid that the baby will be getting his eviction notice in four weeks and four days. I've even set up accomodations outside the womb to help him feel at home.

My bags are packed. I am ready to go. Seriously. I have already packed my bag for the hospital, though I haven't picked out clothes for the baby to wear at the hospital or to come home in. But by the end of the week, that will be done as well.

As Halloween approaches, I have become even more conscious of the scary movies and shows that I don't want Jude to see. Still, last week, he awoke one morning and said "Mom, I had a bad dream last night." My heart fell. What was scaring him in his sleep? After a bit of probing, he said "My boogers kept coming out and I couldn't stop them." Sounds like a nightmare to me. He has a cold right now, so it is a perfectly reasonably bad dream. Also, the cutest description of a bad dream ever.

Our evening ritual with Jude has been altered slightly. One night, Jude said "Get out of my room" after evening hugs and kisses. I figured he was just tired and let it go, though I did tell him it wasn't nice to say that and it hurt Mommy and Daddy's feelings. The following night, his eyes closed as we tucked him in and, as we turned to the door, I heard his little voice say "Get out of my room, please." So, we're making progress.

So, think of me however briefly four weeks and four days from now. Until then, here's hoping that your boogers stay put.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Twas the Night Before Last

I struggle to fall asleep amidst the lemon-scented crumbs, but sleep evades me and is not likely. The bed is wrong; no matter how much adjusting I do, it is not a suitable substitute for my own bed. My mind wanders back to a few hours earlier when the crumbs were made by my three-year-old, propped up in the bed next to me, his tiny fingers holding a lemon cupcake, crumbs scattering on the bed. When he is finished with the cupcake (a brief craving that I had that resulted in my baking far too many cupcakes for one small family to consume), he grabs a toy from the nightstand, a tiny elephant in a boat and proceeds to run the wheels of the elephant’s vehicle up and down my arm and occasionally over my sheet-covered leg. The elephant pauses once in a while at my face to inquire “What are you doing, Mama?” I smile and patiently answer the elephant’s question, marveling that I became “Mama” to countless pirates, Ninja Turtles and other assorted “guys” when I became Mama to this smiling, happy little person. The elephant seems satisfied with my answer because he proceeds to head back down my arm and after a moment of hesitation, gently heads for my stomach. “Remember: not on Mama’s tummy,” I remind him. He nods his agreement. “Let me see,” he asks again and I acquiesce, lifting my nightgown so that he can see the fetal monitors placed against my stomach. “Monitors,” he says as I smooth the awkward hospital gown back over my swollen stomach. “Just to make sure that Mommy is okay,” I tell him gently, knowing that he is already uncomfortable in the hospital room. It is not a kid-friendly place. There are no oversize characters peering down from the walls or cheery, bright colors. Still, the moment he stepped through the doors, the room brightened considerably. “Are we going home?” he asks once more as the elephant resumes his boat rampage up and down my arms. “You and Daddy are going home,” I tell him. “Mommy needs to stay here for the night.” Not the Monday evening I had envisioned surely.

When I awoke on Monday morning, it was like so many other Mondays, manic, as Jude and I both tried to squeeze every bit of sleep out of the morning. I carted him off to daycare, where he was immediately surrounded by his friends, in awe of his obnoxious (but cute), singing Spongebob Squarepants. I barely got a “Have a good day” from him as I walked out, but he was occupied and happy so I scooted off to work. I turned on my computer first thing, as I do every morning, then headed to the kitchen for ice (I absolutely cannot tolerate beverages that are less than ice cold). As I walked along the outer edge of the gym floor, I slipped in a wet spot and landed directly on my stomach. I fell hard and couldn’t get up. The worker cleaning the floors (who, incidentally speaks no English so we have to communicate via the rudimentary Spanish I have retained from college) literally lifted me off of the floor and helped me get to the kitchen. I couldn’t really walk on my ankle, but I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t feel any baby movement. I have grown accustomed to the kicks and rolls that signify the ever-growing presence of the person curled up inside of me. I called the doctor’s office and was informed that I needed to come in right away. So, barely 45 minutes after arriving at work, I headed out to the doctor’s office. One ultrasound later where I could see his movements and his little face and hear his heartbeat and I was crying with relief. The doctor strapped me up to a fetal monitor to chart his heartbeat and after just a few minutes, she informed me that she was sending me to the hospital for further monitoring “just to be safe.” So I headed off to the hospital for the four-hour monitoring. This turned into all all-night ordeal. Why?

The Mystery of the Phantom Contractions:

The nurse who kept checking on me asked me if I was having contractions. I told her I was not. I was as comfortable as I could be, lying in a hospital bed strapped to a monitor. She then showed me spikes on the monitor that indicated that I was in fact having contractions. So, much as the Scooby-Doo-like heading suggests, I investigated these mysterious contractions. Well, actually I stared at the monitor to see when they were happening. They were so few and far between (only 4 to 7 in an hour) that I turned my attention back to the television. Obviously if they weren’t strong enough to turn me away from a compelling episode of “Montel Williams” (okay, I really missed my DVD player and didn’t have any other distractions, since I didn’t know I would be spending all day and night at the hospital), then they obviously weren’t going to be strong enough to push a person out of my body. Still, having contractions meant that I had to spend the night for even more monitoring.

Long story short (I know – too late): I was released in the morning and everything seems to be okay with me and, more importantly, with little Sullivan and his sweet little face (I know – I saw the ultrasound. It is a sweet face.) If there were only some way I could avoid walking at all for the next five weeks, then maybe I would be less nervous that I will actually make it to the end of October.

Maybe.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Common

Two new features to the blog. First, since I frequently make mention of my dorkness and dorky ways, I have decided to embrace this part of me and incorporate an occasional “why I am a dork” feature into my blog. Over Labor Day weekend, I was at my mom and step-dad’s and my feet were a bit sore and dry, so I decided to prop them up on the couch. Then, I noticed my mom’s basket of lotions in the spare bedroom, so I grabbed some lotion and rubbed my feet to alleviate the soreness. Well, the lotion worked and I felt better. The next day, I had my feet propped up on the dashboard in Jeff’s car when I noticed brown streaks on my feet and lower legs. Turns out that the lotion was self-tanning lotion and I still have streaky brown feet.

Due to the internet, I know for certain I am not the only dork on the planet and there is comfort in that feeling. There is comfort in finding common ground with other people, no matter how tenuous the ground may be, which leads me to the second new feature: work irritation of the week. This week’s irritation stems from the fact that I don’t have much in common with anyone at work. Since I spend so much time working, this is irritatingly important to me, trying to find things I have in common with people around me. When I worked with many women, it was easier to find large things, like marriage and children. Being pregnant, I always appreciate being able to exchange thoughts and experiences on gestation. I learned just this week that the wife of one of my coworkers is pregnant and due in early December. Again, I realize that we aren’t the best of friends, but since I have to haul my pregnant form into my office every day, it seems that at least once it would have come up between us. He does on occasion ask how I am feeling, which might have segued into the comment “My wife is pregnant,” but now I realize that those queries are designed to gauge whether I am about to give birth while on work premises. So, that’s frustrating.

I find myself drawn to different message boards on the internet, where I could interact with others with similar interests – in my case, usually movies. However, more often than not I read posts by others but don’t often feel moved to post my own thoughts. I am unsure why. But sometimes when I read that someone likes pizza, I think that I should comment that I like pizza as well. It is rare to find two people in the vast sea of people, both liking pizza, finding common ground.

Sometimes there is just comfort in discovering sameness among people you already know. For example, my sister and I just discovered that we share the same blood type (B-). Blood type becomes important when you’re pregnant because of the RH factor. Since we are both negatives, we also discovered that our husbands are both AB+. Since Jami and I are step-sisters, we don’t share a genetic link, so it was interesting to learn we both had the same blood type. It was a simple example of a small connection. We bonded over the pains of pregnancy and the frustration of potty training (even though her two oldest children were potty-trained years ago). And despite having been married for six years, Jeff and I are still discovering shared likes and dislikes. We just alike enough -- and different enough -- to keep things interesting.

So, if you have a blood type or if you like pizza, please feel free to share your thoughts.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

It Must Be Love

So, courtesy of Netflix and the local library I had two movies to watch this week: Raging Bull and Stranger Than Fiction. I thought that between them, there might be something to like, but, it turns out, I loved one of them. Yes, finally, a movie to love again.
Though it is widely considered one of the best films ever made, I had never seen Raging Bull, but was really curious and finally decided to watch it. I settled it to let the magic unfold for me -- and it never really did. It is a really good movie and I would recommend it, though I honestly fail to see what all of the hype was about. Jake LaMotta wasn't really a gem of a guy so it is hard to feel any sympathy for him. Still, I would consider Raging Bull to be a good movie.
Then, Jeff and I watched Stranger Than Fiction. This is, of course, the Will Ferrell movie from last year about the man who hears his life being narrated. Will Ferrell was really sweet, Emma Thompson was, as usual, brilliant and the script was funny and sad all at once. As I watched, I knew I was falling in love and, sure enough, when the end credits rolled, I thought "I really loved that."
After we watch a movie together, Jeff and I always discuss it. Sometimes these discussions are really, really brief, especially when the source material is really heinous. This time, Jeff was smiling when he asked me my thoughts on the movie and when I finished he said "I could tell you loved it. It seemed like a Kimbers kind of movie." He is pretty good at predicting how I will react to any given movie. I feel like I am such a fickle movie critic and I spread my movie love all over, not loyal to any particular genre. I can never really predict where movie love will strike, but I am just happy when it does.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

In Other News

Something I love right now: Jude sings a song that begins as Jingle Bells, then morphs into Old McDonald Had a Farm about halfway through. It is a beautiful song.

This morning, I got a phone call from someone wanting to leave a message for my boss. The message: tell him that his daughter had a baby girl this morning. This struck me as strange. I realize that we aren’t best girlfriends or anything, but I would have thought that sometime in the last almost-eight months, it would have come up in conversation that his only daughter was pregnant. His response? “Does my wife know?”

The strangest part of carrying around a baby in the breech position (other than the pleasure of never, ever feeling the baby kick me in the ribs, which I understand is quite painful) is knowing exactly when said baby will come into this world. With Jude, I only knew a few weeks ahead of time, but it was comforting to know that when July 30 came, the baby would be born. No waiting. No overanalyzing every new bodily sensation, wondering if it was a sign of labor. This time should prove to be no different. Assuming that I don’t go into labor beforehand (necessitating an emergency c-section), this baby will be born on October 26. Considering that it is nearly September, that isn’t very long from now. I really should start getting ready.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Let's All Go To The Movies

It has been some time since I wrote about movies. In the meantime, I have seen many, many movies: some good, some bad, some that I immediately forgot as soon as the DVD credits rolled. Nothing that I loved, though. Nothing that spoke to me in that way that makes me want to see the movie again.

Movie Recommendation: The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I must admit that I really like Humphrey Bogart, the sensitive guy beneath the tough-guy persona (Casablanca is one of those movies that I love). I didn’t love Treasure, but liked it quite a bit, and Bogart isn’t even the best part of the movie. That honor would go to Walter Huston (father of director John Huston) who was great in the part of an ancient gold prospector. Though the movies stylistically have little in common, I was reminded of Shallow Grave because of the themes of greed and mistrust that occurs after a financial windfall. Though it has been some time since I have seen Shallow Grave, I would recommend it also. It is the movie that Danny Boyle made before Trainspotting (another movie that I love). Ewan McGregor is great (and all Scottish and hot) and Christopher Eccleston (now appearing on Hereos as that invisible dude, Claude) plays McGregor’s roommate and he is really good as well. I don’t play favorites when it comes to genres and don’t automatically think that classic equals good so I would wholeheartedly endorse both Treasure and Shallow as movies to see.

Other movies that are pretty good: The Fountain. My opinion of The Fountain, though, has been tainted by all of the press that the movie received. It was conceived by Darren Aronofsky as this mammoth science fiction film with an enormous budget and Brad Pitt in the lead. The budget was slashed, the script was rewritten and rewritten and rewritten and Brad Pitt became Hugh Jackman. I kept picturing the movie as it could have been, rather than as it was. Still, it contains some really breathtaking images and is a pretty good love story. I thought Requiem for a Dream (also by Aronofsky) was really good, though I thoroughly disliked Pi and just couldn’t get into it.

The Prestige was also good. I admit that I will watch anything that Christian Bale does. He is just one of those actors who consistently chooses interesting projects and I enjoyed him as a magician engaged in a dangerous game of escalating illusions in The Prestige, just as much as his turn as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, Batman in Batman Begins and that anorexic insomniac machinist in The Machinist. (All movies I would recommend, though if you want the full impact of the shallowness of the yuppie 80s culture and the grisliness of a soulless killer, watch the movie American Psycho, then read the book. Some of the images are bound to linger with you.)

Half Nelson was pretty good, elevated by the performance of Ryan Gosling. He will watch anything with Ryan Gosling in it, really, which explains how I came to watch The Notebook (actually good, if predictable, though not a great movie). I would recommend seeing Gosling in The Believer. The movie is good and Gosling is very good as a Jewish neo Nazi. Edward Norton was in the similar-but-very-different American History X and gave an outstanding performance, which led me to have high hopes about his future work. The Illusionist (another magician movie that came out at the same time as The Prestige) really under whelmed me, though.

Another movie disappointment: Dreamgirls. Usually, I enjoy movie musicals (not always, but usually). This was an exception. I didn’t find anything to get excited about.

So, I am on a quest to find another movie that I will fall in love with. It has been some time since I have experienced that, though in the meantime, I have had a good time viewing.

Friday, August 24, 2007

TV or Not TV

During the summer, it is not hard to stay away from the programming offered by network television. As I stated in previous blogs, I am not a fan of reality television (I have enough reality of my own, thank you). This summer I have managed to find two shows worth watching (or, at least worth taping until I find time to watch them) and both are courtesy of the USA Network. The first, Burn Notice, interested me because of Jeffrey Donovan. He was previously in Touching Evil (also on USA), which was watched by no one but me, so it was soon canceled. It is not the typical spy show ­and it costars Bruce Campbell, so my geek side was definitely interested. Good stuff. Entertaining. The second show I missed in its entirety the first season, but saw commercials during Burn Notice, so I had to check it out: Psych. Hilarious. Easily my favorite new show (new, that is, to me). Often I am late to the game in catching shows, usually becoming a fan right before said show is ripped from the schedule or canceled outright. It happens every year, so I really shouldn’t be surprised, but inevitably I am disappointed. This stung most of all with Boomtown and with Arrested Development, both of which you can check out however on:

TV on DVD

Boomtown was on television late at night (10:00, which is past my bedtime.) Nevertheless, I stayed up to watch it because I was riveted. It was smart and interesting, a crime show that respected its audience, that didn’t assume that the audience was comprised of morons, unlike many shows. And I loved its style: the multiple points of views, its interesting and complex characters – none more so than the absolutely fantastic Neal McDonough, who portrayed district attorney David McNorris. It was a show about perspective as much as it was about crime. I loved it and, like Fredo did to his brother, Michael, its cancellation (after one season, no less) broke my heart. But, unlike Michael, I couldn’t kill to alleviate my broken heart, so I moved on – to Arrested Development. This is a show that is perfect for DVD since it is something that has to be watched from the beginning. It is bizarre and clever (always a good combination) and I was fortunate to discover it on television from its first episode. Though the whole cast was excellently strange, I admit a particular fondness for Michael Cera. I just flat-out loved that kid.

Since I am done with Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Angel, I had to move on and my new series on DVD is Freaks and Geeks. I loved it when it was on television and I still love it on DVD. I am only a few episodes in, but, unfortunately, the entire show was only 18 episodes long, so I fear it won’t take me long to see them all again. The same is true with My So-Called Life, a show I managed to watch when it originally aired, even though it conflicted with NBC’s must-see line up of Friends, etc.

I admit that since I am often late in appreciating certain shows, I discover them first on DVD, even though they may currently be playing on television. This is true of Rescue Me (a great show) and the aforementioned Buffy and Angel.

The new fall schedule is approaching quickly and though there isn’t anything in the offering that sets my heart apatter, I know that I will inevitably fall for one or two new shows that will then quickly disappear from the schedule, canceled or in the twilight status of hiatus. Until then, I will have to make due with whatever I can order from Netflix or find from my local Best Buy.

If you have any suggestions of shows I should check out, please let me know. I am anxious to find my next great (television) love.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

I Swear

In the movie Witchboard (don’t judge me – I got my own tv and cable when I was 11), part of the deep and enriching plot was the possession of the main character by an evil spirit from the titular ouija board. A sign to those nearest to her of her possession was that she began to swear when previously she would never have uttered such filth. Some days I wonder whether that same spirit possess me. I curse quite a bit and probably have for many years, but I have never been as conscious of it as I am right now.

I wasn’t always cursed with such salty language. I never used those words until I became a teenager and then, it was in moderation. It wasn’t until I became an adult did the words slowly creep into my regular vocabulary and became an occasional fixture in conversation. I have elevated creative cursing into an art form, particularly when driving in my car and happening upon the unfortunate souls who haven’t quite mastered the etiquette of safe road driving. Since becoming pregnant, I fear that my cursing has only become worse in its frequency.

Self-analysis is unavoidable when there is an impressionable three-year-old who wants to parrot one’s every sentence. So, I have made an effort to cut down on the salt in my language, replacing some of my favorites with “darn it.” Even that I try to use judiciously, as cute though it may be, there is just something so wrong-sounding about a three-year-old using that phrase. Case in point: my family reunion. Jeff and I were trying to explain to Jude that by the time the next reunion came around, Sullivan would be there with us. Of course, Jude’s response was “darn it.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

My alone-in-my-car cursing reached a peak over the last couple of days over the results of my latest blood test. I called the doctor’s office to check the results and was informed that I do indeed have gestational diabetes. Preparations were made for me to take classes at the local hospital where I will deliver so I could learn to manage said diabetes and I made plans to go to the pharmacy for a glucose meter. I was really upset, not wanting to hear any more bad news that may affect this baby. Then, just this morning, I received an extremely apologetic call from the doctor’s office, informing me that I do not have gestational diabetes. Apparently, the results for a three hour test need to be read differently than the one hour test, so I was given the wrong results. A talk with the doctor assured me that I am not diabetic. Instant relief, but also a fair amount of invectives for the worry I went through (all after the phone was hung up – I am not one to curse at other people where they can actually hear me). So, doctor’s office, if you are reading this, you really had me worried, darn it.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Testing, Testing: One, Two, Three . . . Four?

I am afraid that the only thing more boring than listening to someone else's health problems in great detail is having someone explain his or her dreams to you. So, in the interest of being less boring, I will skip over the dream I had last night (vivid and interesting as it may be to me) and explain quickly the three-hour glucose tolerance test that I underwent on Thursday. (Trust me: I'll be quick.) First, the fun 12 hour fast. Then, upon arriving at the lab, blood was drawn just to make sure that the test could be performed. Next, a half-hour wait for the results from that test. That part of the test I passed, so I could move on to the next part: drinking ten ounces of a very sugary solution (called "glucola," which is actually a cute little name for a vile little drink). I never drank Jolt Cola, but imagine that is what it tastes like. After consuming the solution, I headed back to the waiting room to . . . well, wait. Movement is discouraged, as it can affect the outcome of the test, so I sat and sat and sat, trying to get comfortable, but never quite achieving comfort. At least I brought something with me to read. Blood was then drawn one hour after drinking, then two hours, then three hours. I got over being hungry after a few hours. I had to have all of the blood draws from my left arm, though, as my right is always quite stubborn and won't show a clear vein.

After the test (four blood draws in three and a half hours), I didn't feel as bad as I thought I would. I drove home and made lunch. As I ate lunch, I started shaking and felt dizzy, so I decided to lie down for a few minutes before heading into work. Hours later, Jeff came home and woke me up. I hadn't realized I was so tired. I should get the results of said test this coming week when I have my doctor's appointment.

Now, about this dream last night . . .

Sunday, August 12, 2007

I Don't Have Syphillis

I have been working on blogs on a couple of different topics, but my mind keeps going back to these thoughts that I just have to write down. They are, of course, pregnancy related thoughts, but once I get them out of my mind, I can go back to concentrating on the tv and movie blogs that I really want to write.

This week I got another bit of bad news. It seems that the bad news (though it has all been minor) just keeps piling up this pregnancy. Another bad test result. I haven't had this many bad test results since eighth grade algebra. This time, my glucose tolerance test came back a bit high. So, I have to have a retest this week and am not looking forward to it. The test consists of fasting, then drinking a nasty-tasting very sweet drink. Then, blood is drawn after one hour, again after two hours and then again after three hours. It is going to be a long morning. The nurse warned me that the test will likely make me sick and light-headed since it has to be done after fasting and blood is drawn three times. My bigger concern is, of course, the results of the test. A high result this time could mean gestational diabetes. So, after starting off with a miscarriage that wasn't a miscarriage and a thyroid that just won't function on its own, now I am worried that I am not producing enough insulin. I know I won't be truly at ease until after the baby is born and I can see whether he is healthy. As October inches closer, I get more nervous about his health. As I talked to the nurse about my test results, she did throw in "Well, you don't have syphillis," so I guess that is another positive.

So that is what I have to look forward to this week. I try to focus on the positive: good weight gain, very active moments (even in the middle of the night) and overall feeling pretty good right now (except of course for the tiredness, which never really goes away).

Friday I talked to Theresa, an old coworker who has a son two weeks older than Jude. We got to experience pregnancy together and she is now due again in three weeks. The first time, she had a troublesome pregnancy that resulted in her having to have total bedrest. I had no problems with Jude, except for the fact that he was breech. This time, Theresa is experiencing no problems and I keep having "funny" test results, so I guess you never can predict.

Yesterday I stood next to my cousin Ashley, my youngest cousin who found out that she is twelve weeks pregnant. She looked at me was lamenting that she doesn't even look pregnant and I just laughed. Soon enough Ashley. Soon enough.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Happy Anniversary . . . To Me

You know the kind of families where there are aunts and uncles and cousins that get together every year for a family reunion? That is my family. So, August 11 will be dedicated to catching up on a year's worth of talking with relatives that I rarely get to see. (Actually I'll spend most of the day talking to my mom and step-dad since they don't get to see Jude very often, then talking to my younger cousin, Jen, about her second c-section, but I will make an effort to talk to other people as well.) August 11 will be my wedding anniversary, so Jeff and I celebrated a week early this year.

Jude went to Jeff's mom's house for the day and Jeff and I went to an early matinee of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (a good movie that felt too rushed -- too much from the book to try to pack into the movie). Then, on the way back from the movie, Jeff had to listen in painful detail to my explanations of what was missing from the movie since I just read the book a couple of months ago.

A bit later in the day, Jeff and I soaked up some Japanese culture. Generally, our immersion into Japanese culture is limited to Jeff's love of of Akira Kurasawa films and my fascination with Japanese horror films (more on that in my next blog). Last night, it meant going to our favorite teppan steakhouse for dinner. It has been our favorite eatery since we were dating and tends to be the place we go to for special occasions. Since we have been cutting costs while trying to save for baby #2, I thought for certain we would be going elsewhere for dinner and have to admit that I was a bit disappointed, especially since Jeff recommended that we go to a Chinese buffet (not bad food, but not even close to the tastiness of "our place"). However, as Jeff drove toward the restaurant, I smiled. I know that means we won't be eating out any time soon, but it was worth the splurge to celebrate the last six years. Six years. We were married nearly three years when Jude was born, but it is harder to remember those years -- for both of us. So, I celebrate us, but mostly, I celebrate Jeff: to the man who has put up with me for the last six years, but never once made me feel that we was just putting up with me. I love you.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

It's Not Right . . . But It's Fair

Wednesday night was my first foray into county fairdom in quite some time. Years ago when Jeff was trying to woo me, we headed to the fair one sultry summer evening for elephant ears and carnies. A good time was had by all.
Jude had never been to the fair, so we decided to empty our savings account and treat him to an evening there. Of course the very pregnant lady wanted to try every greasy, fried incarnation of "food" (settling on chicken that wasn't at all greasy, then half an elephant ear) while the men (Jeff and Jude) decided to ride the carousel. For a moment, I thought I would be able to take Jude on his first little rides, then remembered that I am eleven months pregnant and not able to whip around on carnival rides. I enjoyed being a bystander near the dizzy whirlwind of horses and children, big and small.
Walking around in the 90-degree heat, Jude's eyes were immediately drawn to a tractor pull. We stopped our gypsy wandering and settled down onto bleachers to watch tractors. Actually, I ended up watching Jude watching tractors until the heat became too unbearable and had to pull myself away from the excitement. Watching whatever fascinates Jude fascinates me.
Earlier this week, I had to throw away my cute comfy sandals that I have had for several years because they simply fell apart. I had to shop for shoes -- which I hate -- and ended up settling on not-quite-as-cute black sandals. After walking around for a couple hours in the new sandals, I cursed the stupid new footwear. My feet were swollen and I had nasty blisters on the tops and sides of my feet. Ah, pregnancy. Still, next time we go, I'll be able to sit beside Jude on the carousel horses and feel the wind through my hair.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Where A Kid Can Be A Kid



I don't much like reality tv. Really I don't need to spend time watching people make fools of themselves for their fifteen minutes. I get enough of that in my own reality. Unfortunately, most of the foolishness is my own. I am about as technologically behind as a human can be without actually living in a hut with no electricity. Just two weeks ago, I got my very first cell phone. I realize that even first graders now have cell phones, but I never had one. It wasn't something I was likely to ever get for myself, but my dad got a new phone, so he passed his old phone along to me. He helped me set up an account and I actually got a phone number and everything. A few days later, I grabbed the phone and Jude and planned to call my mom so she would have the number. Jude and I started dusting off DVDs and shelves in the basement and I forgot about calling mom. Then, I threw Jude's laundry into the dryer and noticed an odd thumping noise. Yep. I had washed my new cell phone. Apparently that isn't good for electronics. So, my new/old cell phone was destined for the trash heap.

Yes, I am a dork. Last Friday, I spent my lunch time in my car, as I usually do, with the windows down and sun roof open, reading a book and enjoying the sunshine. Mid-afternoon, a couple hours after lunch, we had a much-needed, very strong rainstorm. Heavy, heavy rains. I am sure you can see where I am going with this. Yes, at the end of the day, I went out to my car and found it flooded. Literally. When I opened the door, water came out. I wish I was exaggerating. The seats and floors were soaked and I got to drive home that way. It was a refreshing ride.

On Saturday, my inner dork truly had a chance to shine. We had Jude's birthday party at our local Chuck E. Cheese. Pizza plus games plus a giant rodent equals one good time for all. I had been afraid that the adults would be bored, but that didn't seem to be the case at all. Jude's grandparents chased him around, took pictures and generally hogged some of the games. Needless to say, Jude loved it and had a great time. And I was very happy that he was able to have such a fun time, and I was struck again by how much Jude is loved -- and not just by Jeff and me.

I fully expected Jude to be suffering a Chuck E. Cheese hangover on Sunday, but that was not the case. I was greeted early Sunday morning by "I want to play Play Doh. Let's go." He rolled off of his bed and out of his door as soon as I came into his room. But, he stopped in the hallway and said "Please." The whole weekend made me smile and made me realize that even though I get a lot of things wrong, there are still a few things that I can manage to do right.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Beds, Beds, Beds

(Warning: the following blog does not contain any references to sex)

Last Sunday, we spent the afternoon in a furniture store, testing new beds. Ah, but there are some incredible beds, sleigh beds and beds with elaborate headboards and footboards. Beautiful arrangements of sheets and pillows that I can never quite arrange at home were all to be tested for their comfort levels. But, it was much smaller bed that we were after and we ended up testing a variety of toddler beds. Yes, Jude is approaching 3 years old and has still been sleeping in a crib. I know several parents of two-year-olds (and not-quite two-year-olds) who have already purchased toddler beds for their children, but, like potty training, I really think the level of readiness is different for each child. Jude tried only once to get out of his crib and he landed on the rug in his room, unhurt but afraid. Since then, he hasn’t even tried. His preferred method of getting our attention in the mornings is to bang the crib against the wall so that the resulting thud-thud-thud resonates through the entire house. As I have mentioned, he is also small for his age (cute, sure, but small), so there was never an issue of his outgrowing his bed physically. Still, he is almost three. It is time. So, we headed off to the store, allowing him to try out each of the beds to see what he would like while we tried to make our own determinations. We were down to two choices: a white toddler bed that sat a bit too far off the ground for my comfort and a set of bunk beds, black with a metal frame. In the end, we went with the bunk beds, planning ahead. Jude could easily get in and out of the bed and enjoyed playing on the bed, which we could only hope meant that he would sleep well on the bed also. We ordered the bed and it arrived Friday morning. While I was very sad to miss work Friday morning and not get to enjoy my boss’s morning criticisms, I was happy to supervise the arrival of the “big boy” bed. Jude was already at daycare, so I was anxious to see his face when he gets home. We (meaning Jeff, who has all of the muscles in our family) had to rearrange his bedroom in order to accommodate the new bed(s). He took to the bed immediately, playing on it and ultimately sleeping better than I could have dared to hope. The last two mornings, I have been awakened not by a thud, but by a small child calling out “I am waking up. I am waking up.” That makes me wake up with a smile on my face.
Our own room is completely taken over by our queen-size bed. A king-size bed simply wouldn’t fit into the tiny room. Between the bed and two dressers, nothing else will fit into the bedroom. Fortunately, the bed has drawers beneath it so there isn’t need for a nightstand. Otherwise we might never get to open and close the bedroom door. As I mentioned, the rooms are small. The bed always seemed quite spacious, despite the number of pillows and blankets I like to have and the addition of the cat, who sleeps on my feet every night. Recently, there was a new introduction to the bed: a body pillow. I had read about the body pillow while pregnant with Jude but never acquired one. But I am so glad that I finally gave it. Sleeping while quite pregnant can be uncomfortable, but the pillow provides comfort. I worried about placing it in the bed, a barrier in the middle of the bed, dividing husband and wife, but I needn’t have worried; there is more than enough room for all of us. Sleeping would be almost perfect if it weren’t for the 3:00 a.m. wake-up call I get from Sully each night, kicking and moving around. I like to think he is just trying to prepare me for the 3:00 a.m. feedings that will be coming soon enough.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Let's Write About Writing About Sex

(Caution: the following blog contains the word “sex” and has some sexual references. Readers’ discretion is advised. If you are easily offended, then you really must ask yourself what you’re doing reading this blog at all.)

To begin at the beginning . . . No, it is too much. Let me sum up.

Lately, I have been thinking about my job and thinking about money. The former analysis comes pretty much every time my boss makes me cry (most recently yesterday). Then I think about money and remember why I don’t just quit my job. I also realize that no one is going to hire a woman who is 6 months pregnant. We have one child to support and another child on the way. I have a parental need to provide. Jeff works for a grand organization, a huge ice cream company that was purchased by an even larger ice cream company that has decided to save money by cutting down his hours. A brilliant corporate strategy, especially considering that Jeff’s boss, who makes more money, must then take up the slack. Of course when said boss is on vacation, Jeff is expected to work insanely long days, as he is doing this week, but, then, will go back to his 32 hour work week. Ridiculous. Since we are relying on his insurance to get us through the birthin’ of this baby, he is stuck where he is for now.

I have wanted to be a writer since I was 8 years old. I have never really seriously considered any other career possibilities, which could be why I am working away as an assistant to a very prickly man. I always imagined that I would go to college and have wonderful adventures and write every day and get published. I pictured On the Road-type writings, without the need for Dramamine. Well, suffice to say, life happened, long stretches where no writing occurred and other stretches where I would only write poetry. I have always been a voracious reader and love well-written books where I can just fall into the language, the sound of words, and the images. It has always been a matter of frustration to me that I read enough to think that I am a good writer (at the very least, an adequate writer), but aspire to be a great one. I don’t know if one can make that leap from “good” to “great.”

Still, I have never really let go of the writing dream, the fantasy of one day seeing myself as a “real” writer. Lately, I have been thinking, too, about erotica, trying to determine whether this writing qualifies as “real” writing. I think that if it could provide a paycheck, then, yes it qualifies. Well-written sexual tomes exist amongst the piles of putrid, barely-written piles of garbage that are also floating around. (Yes, on this subject alone I was willing to dig in and do much-needed research. I am grateful to Jeff for the grand sacrifices he made in allowing me to complete this research.) General I have one of two thoughts when I am doing research: If the material is well written, I think ‘I would like to try that.’ If the material is not, I think ‘I could write something better than this.’

My research has also shown that there is a market for such writing. There are erotica publishers who pay for erotic writing. So, I have been wrestling with the idea of trying my hand at writing about sex. Yes, I have written short stories and several poems about sex, but that isn’t the same as churning out an entire novel complete with characters and a plot. I have been working on a novel that contains some sex, but overall, I am attempting to write a funny book, not necessarily a sexy one (though the ending was always intended to be sexy). But I have never written anything where sex was the primary focus. I have decided that it is time to try. I have been kicking around some ideas and have even thought about trying to “sex up” my current novel with sexy sex instead of funny and fun sex. I’ll keep you updated on my progress. I think I need to do a bit more research before committing to a project, so I must be going. Professionalism comes at a price, but I am willing to do what I must.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Summery Thoughts

Nothing is more fragile than graham. This never shows up on Mohr’s scale, but it is true. Anyone who has attempted to make summer smores knows that graham crackers are delicate, falling into graham cracker dust at the slightest hint of pressure. Yet, for me, they are a summer tradition, like swimming or barbecues, so I persist, holding on to the graham even as it perilously crumbles, falling to my feet. And, though I savor the sweetness, every bite is tinged with a bit of sadness in knowing that too soon, summer will be over.
Behind every happy moment is that feeling of sadness. At the end of this month, my baby will be 3 years old. A happy occasion, yet I can’t help but feel sad, knowing that he is growing up, that every day is another step toward independence. Now he is firmly entrenched in potty training and is taking to it better than I could have hoped for. After a week of showing little to no interest, I was getting a bit discouraged, but didn’t want to push him. He turned to me one day and said “Mama, I have to go potty.” Then, we went into the bathroom and he did. As he was washing his hands, he turned to me and beamed that smile that still melts me into a puddle on the floor (though I try not to let him know it, lest he use it against me too much) and said “I use the potty like a big boy. Now I get Bob the Builder stickers.” True enough. Bob the Builder stickers are indeed incentive for using the potty and he uses each sticker earned to decorate his little Winnie-the-Pooh potty. And I am so proud of him for handling yet another big step toward independence, but it still brings tears to my eyes sometimes when he refers to himself as a “big boy” because time is getting away from me somehow, accelerating so that the last three years seem like a blur. Of course, he is already making a list of things he wants to do when he is older. He will start a sentence with “when I get bigger” and follow it up with something he is going to do when he is able. So far, the list consists of playing a soccer game, playing tennis and buying a ladder so that he can climb up on top of people’s house, especially Mickey Donald’s “house” (every time he passes the golden arches, he reminds me that he wants to climb Mickey Donald’s house).
My brother was appalled to realize that Jude was born when Jeff and I were 30, as to him this is an ancient age to be having a child. (Thirty is, of course, the same age that he is now. Idiot.) His theory is that it is ideal to have a baby early (18 or 19) so that you can raise the child then get on with your life. This theory comes across as being really naïve and as being stated by someone who has no intention of ever having children. He has made that intention clear. Maybe the day will come when I will be relieved that my child has reached adulthood, but right now, relief is not the emotion that comes to mind. I’m looking forward to the years ahead and that is not because I have painted them rose-colored. Already, I get mad and upset sometimes at my two-year-old’s antics and have been known to ask him “What were you thinking?” when he throws spaghetti onto the floor and colors Daddy’s snow blower with sidewalk chalk, so I know that there are days when I will be pulling my hair out, wondering what his twelve-year-old mind was thinking and when he and his brother get into trouble together, I know that this frustration will double. Those moments are stressful and frustrating, but they are just a part of parenting. I can’t possibly find the words to describe how I feel when Jude takes the blankets off his bed and asks to be covered with them as he is standing up. He then resembles one of the Pac-Man ghosts as he walks around the house saying “Mama, I’m a monster bad guy.” There is something about his tiny voice, his sweet innocence and the giggle that emerges from beneath the blankets that does something to my heart that I hadn’t ever imagined possible. Although I have always been a softie center wrapped in a cynical shell, the softie in me emerges more and more often and I find myself tearing up just watching him, still amazed by him. Maybe that isn’t normal, isn’t natural, but I prefer that to the alternative, letting another set of moments rush by without appreciating them.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

A Passion For Fashion?

I admire women who have a “look”, the fully put-together ensembles with accessories, clothes that fit together. I admire these women and have been known to say “I like that” about certain outfits, but I am not one of these women. I dress fairly conservatively for work, not too differently than for other occasions, but I always attempt to present well, to not look like I dressed while half-asleep (though usually that is true). I have new dresses, comfortable but not tent-like, perfect for fitting my pregnant form and last Friday decided to wear a black dress and sandals (foot wear is a separate issue – I still hate shoes and will only wear comfortable shoes). The dress was cute, black with flowers and I dressed carefully, doing my usual cocoa-butter morning routine as I dressed Jude and fed him breakfast.
When I got to work, I turned on my computer and happened to look down at said new dress. Already I was missing a button – the third from the top – and I noticed tiny white streaks that, upon closer inspection, I discovered to be deodorant. Really, I am quite hopeless.
I have determined that I don’t need someone to dress me. I feel comfortable in my own clothes and wouldn’t want to drastically change my lack-of-look, but I do need someone to follow me around and keep me from spilling condiments on the front of new, white shirts.
I don’t read fashion magazines as a general rule, though I did recently peruse a copy of Harper’s Bazaar that was mailed to one of the students at my school. Amidst the high fashion (which I admit I will never understand) was an interesting article about women throughout history who bucked convention and just wore whatever the heck they wanted, from interesting hats to oversized accessories. I don’t really have a hat collection, though there are interesting hats that I see on occasion that I think perhaps I could pull off, should I have any hat-wearing needs. I have decided, though, that if I ever find a shoe-shaped hat like the one in the movie Brazil, I will have to buy it and wear it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, that looks like a spot of toothpaste on my favorite green shirt. I need to go change.

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Sky Rockets in Flight

So, I have discovered that my two-year-old does not like fireworks. Lessons like these are always learned the hard way, aren't they? Yesterday we had a family day at my dad's house and my brother-in-law, Joshua, was lighting off fireworks in the backyard. Jude cried, saying "I don't like that. It's too loud." Then, he begged us to take him home. Instead we took him into the house and soothed him with some "Forensic Files" (okay, my dad was watching that and Jude wanted to sit on my lap and watch with Papa) and sweet cherries. Our 4th of July plans have had to be altered, but that's just the way with kids -- things change. We adapt.

You're Not The Boss Of Me

Sometimes the days at work stretch out before me endlessly and I cannot wait for a vacation (sometime next month or the beginning of August). Most of this restlessness is due to the ebb and flow of my job. I work at a religious institution/high school and during busy times (registration, graduation, parents’ weekend), there is so much activity that there is barely time to breathe (though I do work respiration into my schedule, as it seems important), let alone get bored. Then, there are other times, weeks at a time where there are regular activities (weekly announcements, weekly letters, phone calls to make and return) that only seem to occupy a few hours of my whole day. Then, I have too much time to reflect on things I could be doing at home, messes that need to be cleaned, child who needs to be taken care of.
Adding to the confusion of my days is the inescapable fact that my boss is . . . difficult. There really isn’t any other way to describe it. Not a funny kind of difficult like Michael Scott or David Brent, but annoyingly difficult. I have had a few different jobs and very different bosses, so maybe I don’t really know when a boss is being bossy and when he/she is just being difficult. I have found him difficult since the beginning of my tenure here, but after getting pregnant, have found him to be impossible at times. For example, I told him as soon as I knew that I was pregnant, approximately when I would need maternity leave, etc. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then, suddenly he had to go out of town for a conference a couple weeks ago. He called from an airport in Detroit and wanted me to let him know exactly when I would be taking leave. Of course I don’t know – I can only make a guess, but he decided that he wanted to go over the entire fall/winter schedule with me over the phone, even though we see each other every work day and had plenty of opportunity to actually do that face to face. But, whatever. Whenever he is out of town, he always tells me to call his wife to let her know that he has made it safely. Now, he has a cell phone with him, but he always chooses to have me call his wife. Likewise, she will call and ask to leave a message for her husband to call her, even if he is sitting in his office. She says she doesn't want to bother him.
Then, last week I was making copies in our tiny conference area between my office and his. I managed to drop my copies behind the copier as he was talking to me. So, I had to move the copier, but still couldn’t reach the copies without also moving his refrigerator. In order to move the refrigerator, I had to move the conference table – all while my boss was still standing there talking to me. Of course once I got behind the copier to retrieve the papers, I got stuck back there, the copier wedged against the refrigerator. As I attempted to push my very obviously pregnant self out, he walked closer to me, handed me a pile of papers and said “These need to go in my tax file.” Then, even though he had watched me through this whole ordeal, he proceeded to ask “Did you drop something back there?” “No,” I replied. “Just felt like moving really heavy furniture by myself.” The phone then started ringing and he looked at me. I just looked back and he actually answered the call himself. It took some time for me to work my way out and replace all the furniture.
Granted, I am not a model employee. Many days I am not entirely sure what I am doing. I am sarcastic and occasionally insubordinate. I know this and am not proud of it. I am not a consummate professional, but I do come into work every day, get work done and work well with my coworkers. What drives me crazy more than anything is having two or three hours of downtime in the afternoon, then 15 minutes before the end of the day, my boss will appear at my desk with a project that has to be done right away. Twice I told him verbally that I had a doctor’s appointment this past Tuesday and I also did a memo so he would have something in writing. Sure enough, at 2:15, fifteen minutes before I need to leave for my appointment, he came to my desk. “This needs to be done right away,” he said. “You do know that I am leaving at 2:30,” I reminded him. So, we began working on the project (trying to figure out grade point averages for several students’ past four years – in short, not a fifteen minute project.) At 2:30, I told him again I needed to leave. He replied “We’re almost done.” That was it. I cried. Frustration + hormones = crying fit in front of my boss. It was not the first time that I cried in front of him either. Still, it was very embarrassing. A coworker who works in the building behind mine recommends just affecting an I-don’t-care attitude and not taking him too seriously. Of course, she was offered the job to work directly under my boss when the former employee quit, but she declined that job, even though it was more money. That should have told me something.
Just a frustrating situation and I really need to vent about it. The next two weeks will be awful and stressful because of impending graduation (yes, graduation is really this late into summer), but after that, things will calm down. At least I hope so.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Boy, Oh Boy

I have settled into the idea of being a mother to two boys. Yes, this latest ultrasound has revealed the boyness of Baby X. So, now he has a name, just as Jude had a name from the moment we were able to see his first image on the ultrasound monitor. We’ve named him Sullivan. At this news, his grandparents have informed us that they all plan to call him Sully. This is okay with us. Jude often points to my belly now and says “Sullivan is in there” and the baby himself frequently makes his presence known – especially after meals. Even with a name, I can’t quite imagine what he will look like, who he will most resemble, but I am excited to meet him in a few months. I hope he likes us.

Preparing for a second child is nothing like preparing for the first. When I was pregnant with Jude, we moved everything out of the “library” into the basement and the library became a nursery. We (meaning Jeff and my step-dad) painted the room and we arranged dressers and the crib, put clothes away in drawers and left some outfits hanging from teeny hangers in the closet. I mentioned to Jeff that it was like having a college roommate who forwards all of his stuff to the room, then we have to wait around for a few months to meet him. Our house is small, cozy and comfortable, but small. Always underfoot are blocks and trucks and tiny dinosaurs (which Jude plays with, growling “I’m a monster bad guy”). Visitors might assume that we didn’t have a cat (as she is always hiding in the basement, sleeping), but no one would ever assume that we didn’t have a child. Usually the end table between the couch and recliner has books on it from the previous night’s reading (right now Dora The Explorer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar) and remnants of Cheerios. In short, it is not really our dorm room anymore. Not only has the other roommate moved it, but he has also taken over. So, I wonder where will Sullivan fit? When he gets stuff, where will it go? There is no question that we have made room in our hearts for another little guy. Now we just have to find floor space. And dresser space. And closet space. But, there is time. I am not too worried. Now, I need to sneak away. I hear a monster bad guy who could use some tickling before dinner time.

Monday, June 18, 2007

What Are You Watching, Mama?

This morning while Jude and I ate our breakfast, we watched an episode of Angel (Season 4, Episode 2). “Are we watching Angel, Mama?” Jude asks, even though he has seen several episodes. I tell him “Yes, we are.” He nods his head. “I like Angel.” I wrestled with the decision of whether to let him enter the Buffy/Angel universe. In the end, I decided that it was a good chance for life lessons. Whenever we watch, I make sure to shield Jude from overt violence, though even when he sees people shoving one another on screen, he looks at me and says “We never do that.” I tell him that he is right, that we never do that. He also likes being able to differentiate between “good guys” and “bad guys.” Another good lesson to teach: you can’t always tell good guys from bad guys based on appearance. Sure, there are several large, ugly heavily made-up demon “bad guys,” but Lorne (a personal favorite) is a demon good guy. Important lesson to learn. More important: sometimes people can’t be broken down into easy good/bad categories, but that lesson can wait until he is a bit older. And while lessons are important, there is a side of me that is just in it for the on-the-couch cuddling that we sometimes do in the early morning hours, since later in the day it is impossible to get him to stand still long enough for even a quick hug.
Jude is showing more of an interest in movies. We have developed a weekly ritual where we go to the library and rent movies. He tends to like Bob the Builder and Thomas the Train the best, though I think it is the ritual and the freedom of choice he likes even more than the shows themselves. More often then not, when he decides he wants to watch a movie he will request Shrek. Sometimes I try to steer him toward Shrek 2, but he is not fooled. He knows that he likes and will hold up the Shrek box and say “No, Mama, I want to watch this one.”
Last non-Shrek-movie watched was a Cary Grant film, Suspicion. As I am a fan of Cary Grant and Alfred Hitchcock, I thought it was a pretty good film. Jude doesn’t seem to care for Grant as much as I do.
Movie before last, though was a documentary entitled Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns. A fun, interesting insight into They Might Be Giants. I dig them and their quirkiness, so it was good to learn more about them. Though I am not a rabid fan, I do have a few of their albums and really like the way they can combine upbeat tunes with really sad, thought-provoking lyrics. Or the way some of the songs are just very silly and fun.
Most of all, though, Jude, I am watching you, my baby who is no longer my baby, my heart so full when I look at you, especially when you don’t notice me watching.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Get Lost

For the past few months, I have been wildly preoccupied with something that had nothing to do with the tiny life growing inside me. Even at my busiest, I have to have some sort of creative outlet in order to maintain my sanity. For me, this has always been writing. I can’t sing or dance or paint a picture that looks like anything, but I like to write. I decided to condense my archives of written materials, dating back to high school onto a single flash disk, which I did, late last year. I would carry it back and forth to work to review old poetry or work on my current novel. It was convenient and portable and I managed to lose it. Completely gone, with no back up, no other copy of some of the work, including my novel. I lost it months ago and I have been pretty upset. It isn’t as though it would be valuable to anyone else, but to me, it was a chance to see a bit of my past, reflected in my interests, in my writing (though that sounds so pretentious). Jeff scoured the house for it, knowing that Jude likes to get into my purse and the cat will bat any small items around with her paws, but no luck. I searched my car and my office. I had to concede that it was gone and I would just have to start over. But I didn’t feel like I had the energy to start over, so day after day passed without my writing anything, including my blog because I just didn’t feel up to it. I knew it was my own fault for putting all of the items in one place. That was a lesson I should have learned a few years ago when my purse was stolen and I had such a terrible time getting a new driver’s license since I carried around every piece of identification that I had. So, whoever took off with my purse was likely able to steal my identity if he or she wanted, though I granted them the gift of poor credit. So, take that, would-be identity thieves. Then, a year later I went and got married and changed my name after discovering that too many people could spell and pronounce my maiden name.
I got used to the idea of never seeing my novel again. This, after several months of wondering whether I would ever be able to finish it, as the first half has been written and rewritten several times. Jude too cheers me up with his never-ending chatter and amusing observations. I never knew that two-year-olds could be so astute. Much of the most amusing thoughts come while I am driving. I have learned it is possible to focus on the road and listen to him at the same time. Last week, we were having a conversation about a road on the way to his daycare being blocked. As he loves trucks, he was hoping to see the big construction trucks, while I was hoping to avoid a detour. The road wasn’t blocked and we laughed about it. Once we got to daycare, I got him out of his seat as always and set him down next to the car while I gathered his accoutrement. He reached down into the car and extracted a precious gem from beneath my car seat. Yep, there it was. My flash disk. I had even cleaned out my car, poking beneath seats (though, granted, my bending is not what it used to be). I was so happy. He lifted it up “What’s this, Mama? This yours?” Yes, Jude, that’s mine, I thought, kissing the top of his sweet little head. Immediately, I set about copying the whole disk onto another disk that won’t leave the house. Not taking any chances this time. Thank you, Jude.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

As Yet Untitled

Miss me? I'm not sure if I have missed my blog or not lately. So much on my mind, yet I haven't really felt like writing about it. Now and then I will think of tiny things I want to mention, but the big stuff tends to stay inside.

I have two modes (and maybe everyone else does, too) when I have too much going on: either I pull away completely from everyone (as I seem to be doing at the moment) or I erupt and pieces of my thoughts explode all over anyone in sight. I tended to do this more when I was younger. I've tried journal writing, but find that often I just can't stomach reading what I had written. It doesn't help matters that, in addition to being introspective, I have become busy all the time. I know that is just a part of life and that it happens to everyone and there really is no slowing down, but I find it is so much easier to pull away from everyone that I knew, people that I don't see or talk to every day or every week -- or even every year, and let those friendships just fall to the side, as that is what seems to happen in life. Constant contact is no longer possible, so the alternative seems to be no contact at all. Such is life, I guess. And maybe the falling away of external friendships, of people who have moved away and moved on causes us to draw closer still to those people that we see every day -- spouses, children. Maybe that is the way that life is supposed to go. I don't know exactly; I have never been 33 before.

I'm still tired. Maybe that too is just a condition of adult life, the feeling that I can't quite get enough sleep but I function nonetheless because there is no alternative. I love my toddler -- I do, but from day one (and that is not an exaggeration), he has not been a sleeper. He will fight bed time and nap time with every ounce of energy he possesses and I wish I could impart to him the grown-up wisdom that "sleep is good." Sleep is valuable and restorative, but that wisdom is lost on his two-year-old psyche. It is a rainy day, a Saturday, perfect for sleeping in, but I was awaken before 5:30 am. Mostly I don't mind because I am used to the routine, but I haven't been sleeping well lately and it is throwing my game completely off. I can't shake the tired feeling. Part of that has been the joy that occurred over two weeks ago now. Jude and I were getting ready for the day on a Friday morning and I was eating breakfast. I bit down and broke a tooth (which is what I get for trying to eat breakfast, I guess). A trip to my dentist confirmed that I had a break and would need a crown. Not a big deal, I thought. Something easy to take care of. Of course, nothing is easy when you're pregnant, and there was a great deal of discussion between my dentist and my OB before any work could be done. What began as a "simple" procedure took a turn for the complex when I was informed that I would need a root canal. How wonderful! It literally took hours and I was sent home numb wondering exactly what was so terrible about a root canal. Then, of course, the numbness wore off and I stopped wondering. Pregnancy means no pain medication, though I could take Tylenol. No offense to Tylenol, but that has been a bit like cleaning up a nuclear spill with paper towels. After the root canal, I was allowed the glory of suffering the after-effects for a whole week before going back for a temporary crown. Much of that dentist visit consisted of undoing everything that had been done for the root canal. And, I had the joy of having the local anesthetic wear off halfway through the procedure -- while having my tooth drilled. I must say, that stung a bit. Nothing that a few more needles to the gum didn't seem to solve at all. It has been a week since I was fitted with the temporary crown and I still can't use the whole left side of my mouth. Maybe that is normal. Maybe not. All I know is that I am happily into my second trimester, a time of looking good, of feeling good, and I can't enjoy it at all. The tooth hurts pretty much all the time. I do know that I am not at all apprehensive about undergoing another c-section. I figure having my stomach muscles cut open will be nothing compared to the last couple of weeks.

Baby-wise, we will find out the gender on Tuesday. As I mentioned, I want to know. I think all pregnant women tend to worry about their babies, but I have somehow elevated worry to an art form. Jude turned out healthy and happy, a perfect little person (even if he does have a toddler's personality!) and I don't want to tempt fate, don't want to worry that such perfection can't happen twice. But then, I try to push such thoughts from my mind. Summer is here: my favorite time, though, because of strange pregnancy hormones, I can't sit in the sun for more than a few moments without getting a sunburn. It is strange and ridiculous, as most of what occurs during pregnancy is. The sun is shining (or at least it will be tomorrow).

Sunday, May 6, 2007

100% Baby-Centric Post

Well, I made it: I am officially through my first trimester. I guess it goes by much more quickly when you spend the first few weeks unsure that you're even pregnant. I am already 14 weeks along. I was warned that I would "show" much earlier than this time. That is a gentle way of saying "Hey, don't get too comfortable in your regular clothes, fatty." I had to haul out my maternity clothes a couple of weeks ago. Other than a waistline that grows by the minute, the only lingering negative aspect of pregnancy is tiredness, which I cannot seem to shake. But, according to the doctor, all my bloodwork is good, my thyroid is under control and everything is right on schedule so I needn't worry. More bloodwork in two weeks and then an ultrasound two weeks after that, so we'll be able to determine the sex of Baby X. It bothers me not to know. I haven't had a clear sense at all of boy or girl, but people around me have been making their preferences known, which, I have to admit, annoys me just a bit because I have no control over the baby's gender. It is silly and irrational of me, but I feel like I am going to let someone down if I don't have a boy (for those who want a boy) or a girl (for those who want a girl). Mostly I am happy that I don't have to decide because I absolutely could not. But, I really want to know, want to be able to use the names we have chosen, rather than "the baby" all the time. Early pregnancy is a strange time, too, because I can feel movement, but I know no one else will be able to feel the kicking for several weeks. When I was pregnant with Jude, he was situated in such a way that Jeff was only able to feel his kicks once or twice. He was right-side-up (and never turned) and mostly facing inward. I have a feeling he would never have chosen to be born. He seemed quite comfy right where he was. I have already decided to have another caesarian; at least that way I know exactly what to expect.