Six Months In

There has been little to report around here lately other than Jake finally cut his first tooth- which was... well, not my very FAVorite part of parenting and at the same time not the WORST part. He was just.. not that fun is all. Meaning he was not happy. Which in turn meant that he was fussy and therefore I was not happy. And when I say not happy, I do not mean depressed and eating chocolate and listening to sappy music- I just mean up a lot, and cry-y, and generally not in a very jovial mood. And so that is/was that.

In other six month news, he can almost sit up for more than two seconds at a time. He prefers standing and jumping to most other positions. So my arms tend to get a work out. He hates all foods green and likes pretty much anything that will constipate or stop him up. He will learn.

Speaking of which. He's not a big fan of eating... so I can foresee mealtime might be a struggle as time wears on. He would much rather stare at pretty much anything ( ie- a power cord? a pencil? a crumb on the floor? ) rather than eat and tends to get a lot of food everywhere since he likes to first stick his hands in his food, and then on his bib/eyes/hair/feet/nostril etc.

He is learning how to talk- sorta, and has "found his scream". Which means bath time and bed time can be pretty loud. But, for now I am in love with his noises. I am sure I will get over that, but for now it brings me joy.

He's fairly interested in holding his own bottle. He likes a good ride in the car or a toss in the air. He doesn't care for any activity that indicates crawling might independently occur. He prefers instead to sit on laps of big people and lunge at whatever he so chooses- meaning unless you have a fairly tight grip he could fall any which way but loose.

His favorite toy is his Globie- which I suspected he would and so purchased it at Wal-mart on a whim. He also likes soft, chewy, small cloth books that crinkle and beep and jingle and rattle.

What does this all mean? It means that I have become fascinated with his poo color and his puke and his butt rash. Which means that since I am so wrapped up in what HE'S doing, that I have little time left to care for much else. I do not say this begrudgingly- I say it lovingly with a teaspoon of matter-of-fact added in.

I have managed to get myself up at 4:45 in the morning several days a week for a walk on the tread mill. I went to Target the other day all by myself and I did squeeze in a pedicure. I have a ladies brunch and a girlfriend's baby shower on the horizon- so I do not feel super out of the loop.

I think I have just fallen so in love with my little guy that the world as I previously knew it has melted into the background a little bit. I think my husband feels the same- so the fact that we are spending our day off tomorrow shopping at Babies R Us for new bigger-boy car seats does not irritate me as much as it excites me.

We have come a long way these last six months. Happy six months little Jake!

Holiay Recharge

Between work and mothering and preparing for the Thanksgiving holiday, I have had little to no free time. Blogging has taken a severe back seat to pretty much... everything else. Part of the issue, I believe, is that I have not had time to think. Not enough time to watch crappy rom-coms and read poorly written British chick lit. No unwinding time on the treadmill or in the bath- or even a two hour solitary trip to Target. All of these things being, of course, my favorite ways to unwind. Which was why yesterday was such a treat.
I spent the better part of the week and the weekend anxiously preparing my litany of Thanksgiving dishes. I spent so much time cooking that our evening family time was relocated to the kitchen. My husband casually remarked, " I am really sick of hanging out in the kitchen." I hear you my dear, oh, I hear you.
That being said, I rather enjoyed perusing the internet last week for holiday fair that was not of my usual variety. I want to especially thank Martha Stewart and Paula Deen for sharing a nice variation of a Fall Salad, a crunch top old fashion apple pie, and chocolate pumpkin marbled cheesecake bars. That being said. The food I created was fine. No raves, no complaints. ( Perhaps next year I will try to drink less wine while baking?? - On second thought.. nah. )
The actualy holiday- between packing all of the said dishes, and the baby, and the baby's "stuff" and then relocating from one family to the other family 45 minutes away mid-day, left me... exhausted. Don't get me wrong, the holiday was delightful as it usually is... but for reasons afore-mentioned, it was not exactly what one would deem... relaxing. Which is what I am trying to tell you I have been craving these days. ( By the way- a revamping of the holiday schedule is on the docket for next year---).
So yesterday- with a refrigerator full of yummy leftovers, signaling a day off from the kitchen, and the hubby out doing his thing.... I relaxed. I swore to Billy as he was exiting the house that, " I am not doing jack today, just so you know."
And despite my declaration I found myself scooting my brand new Bissell around the house ( boy did we ever need a new vacuum... gross!! ), and I couldn't resist tackling the overgrown laundry pile, I did manage to squeeze in plenty of cuddle time with Jake and to rent Four Christmases with Reese Witherspoon and my favorite celeb to trash on, Vince Vaughn ( because I waited on him while waitressing years ago and he was a total asshole). But despite his smarmy grin I enjoyed all 96 minutes of the poorly rated box office bomb, as it epitomized what it is I have been craving... down time.
Today I feel emotionally recharged. Ready to tackle Old Navy with gusto and to reconsider my former promise of NO CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. Because last night when I glimpsed the shiny glory of all of the eager beaver neighbor's Christmas finery, I couldn't imagine Jake's first Christmas with a scroogey Mom sans sparkly white lights.
It's amazing what a little rest can do.

Oink Oink

As new parents of our three and a half month old, we have been really missing out on some quality time together as a couple. We anticipated our weekend visit to the babysitters, I mean Grandma's house, with enthusiasm. Despite the extra hour in the car due to stormy, potentially hydroplaning weather in our two-wheel drive car, we made it. Albeit exhausted and excitement slightly waning.
Generally, an eight o'clock PM arrival would signal a trip straight to the fridge for a nice tall cold one, while Grandma took over all baby duties. HOWEVER, I wasn't feeling it. Really, just wasn't in the mood. And after catching up with everyone for a little bit, admitted that my shortness of temperament suggested I needed to hit the sack. I figured I could get rested up and perhaps hit the town with the hubby tomorrow night.
When I woke up in the morning... I knew something wasn't right. The deep congested cough sounded like a dying cow, and my bones ached to their core. Of course, this didn't stop me from a trip to Walmart to pick up some essentials. Or a visit to Farm and Fleet, wherein I proceeded to peruse the baby clothes and toys while my husband scoured the rest of the store, checking out bullets and tire gauges and deer blinds and wrenches.
By the time we got back home, a mere hour and a half later, and as the much detested Swine Flu set in, sorry piggies, I mean H1N1, I needed to lay on the couch. As day turned into night, I realized our night on the town would need to be toned down bit. More like a night on the couch. With Tylenol and jammies. Sadly, I stared at my husband through fevery eyes as he tried to keep up his spirits by cracking open a few cold ones by himself with me laying there and Grandma holding the baby. Probably wasn't what he had in mind for a date night. To top it all off, seemed like the baby was getting his very own dose of the piggy flu, too.
Saturday was even worse, with nothing signifying it was anything but another lame day. Couch. TV. Feed the sick baby. Stuff the sick Mommy with Tylenol. Sleep.
Sunday we packed up, fevers and all and headed back home. Stuck in traffic. Not feeling good. Unable to sleep. Once we got in the door, we spend the better part of Sunday doing the same things as Saturday. Canned soup for dinner. Amazing Race. Early EARLY bed.
So the weekend we had so looked forward to was a bit of a bust.
However, today, I am feeling MUCH better. The baby is in sleep mode. Tomorrow we will be back to the grind like any other day.
The baby's first "sickness" was not what I anticipated. Easier than I thought it would be to manage. Not as scary as I worried about. I am thankful it is behind us and didn't get worse than it could have.
I feel bad I didn't get to spend time with my husband, which we are in dire need of. We have scheduled a babysitter ( thankssoveryverymuch Jen ) for next Sunday. Hopefully My One and Only will not also fall sick... leaving THAT a bust as well.
As for the Swine Flu... I find it a bit emabarassing... say like a case of lice or something. Dirty. Nasty. Piggy-like. When I texted my co-worker this morning she repsonded with an "oink oink". Maybe the name of it doesn't garner the kind of sympathy a more scary sounding illness gets, like say strep throat, or bronchitis.
Either way, all is getting back to normal and I again can look forward to a date with my man.

Calling Me Crazy

SOMEone stole the little white pumpkin. SOMEone threw rocks at my window. SOMEone threw mud balls at the bricks. Then I had a baby. And when SOMEone threw more rocks, eggs, and water balloons at my windows, I got mad.
Because there is a baby in the house and I am one protective Mama. And thoughts of the glass cracking and letting in all the hot air or cold air or the elements come into my house... my BABY'S house...and possibly inhibit his comfort? Well... now... I don't THINK so.
So we started calling the cops. Yep. 911. Well, not exactly. We called the local non-emergency line. And then they would transfer us to the police. We would and well, DO, wait patiently on the patio for them to show up. And because of our property taxes and the town we live in, they did. Show up, that is.
The first few times, we were... uncomfortable. I mean, it's highly UNlikely that any REAL harm will result from any INTENTIONAL crimes here. Junior High pranks at best. I know.
But try mixing a protective Mama, a TIRED Mama, and a wife who FINALLy got to sit down to a nice candlelight dinner of homemade burgers and a Caprese salad with her husband for the first time in months, and have a laser beam shining into her face shortly after hearing some kids say... "This one.. this one.. THIS is the one".
That is where THIS woman throws her fork down already. Because quite honestly? It was at THAT moment that I knew. I knew that for whatever reason we were the neighborhood "target", and I was DONE DONE DONE.
And while we had been reporting the last FEW transgressions, the officers seemed to care little to none, and we assumed our efforts were an effort in futility.
However, this police officer was very nice. I started off with my usual description, a white kid, a black kid, an asian kid and an hispanic kid. His response? Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. I knew right away that THIS Officer might be the first to "crack the case".
His phone call within the hour confirmed my confidence. After talking to one of the "followers", who sank like a rotted ship and narced them ALL out, he was able to identify and visit each home. Not so great if you are the parent of a Junior High aged child, I would guess.
When I thanked him for his efforts, he warned me to "not get too excited" as the parents played nice but only agreed to "work on it with their kids"... he sounded pessimistic.
I, however, am excited. I am excited because I feel validated that even though these are childhood pranks, they are becoming increasingly frequent, aggressive, and intrusive. They are preventing me from feeling safe and comfortable when I am home with the baby.
I am not excited that there are some families out there that had a pretty bad night. Or some kids today, for example the narc, that probably get beat up. My husband said late last night, after we both had spent some time contemplating the series of events, "You know, I have been thinking, this is the kind of thing that creates a fork in the road. These kids are going to be making a decision because of this. This is where they say ef it, or ask themselves why they are doing this kind of stuff ".
Truer words could not be said.

Appointments

I am not so sure how the pregnancy empathy stuff works for the husband, but my sweetie has been waking up in the middle of the night to pee right along with me. This means neither of us are getting a good night's sleep- and last night, when I woke myself up by snoring... ( NO idea how that works ), I went straight to the couch to maintain as much damage control as possible. Needless to say- it was a restless night and very little sleep was to be had. If it weren't for all the acetametaphin scares, I would have been deep into a Tylenol induced slumber- however- all the news shows have me concerned about my liver. I guess.
So today will therefore be tackled with bags under my eyes and quite honestly, I am getting to that tail end of pregnancy where I could really care less. Yesterday, in fact, I found myself wrestling over weather or not to wear sweat pants out in public and a pair of UN-matching flip-flops. If you know me at all, this is INSANE, as I even match my flip-flops with my jammies just to run outside to grab the mail. But I didn't... wear the sweat pants and unmatching flip-flops that is. I suffered through a pair of knee-hugging black capri's and an un-ironed t-shirt that slid up and showed my belly. A declaration of carelessness. It was very liberating until I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. Not so much fun then, as the tugging and pulling became distracting while I was trying to focus on the most important thing in my life right now, which is food shopping.
At any rate- today- ahhh... today. It is appointment city for me... starting off with a routine Dr. visit. Next will be the chiropractor for a leg massage- and yes it is fantastic ( last time the foreign masseuse took one look at my calves and asked, "Ahh! Too much high heels?" ). Lastly, and most importantly will be the salon- where I will sit for two hours straight while undergoing a cut and color that will leave me looking, or at least my hair, like I sorta care about myself. Which will be a good thing, since it's not evidence by my skin, clothes, nails, or basically ANYthing else.
In the meantime, I have begun poring over my Weight Watchers materials and cookbooks- in an effort to get myself geared up for the "diet" that will begin taking place just as soon as I can get my bearings. I can't wait to own my body again!

Our Last Date

Whew. After two long weeks of worry and concern and maybes we got some confirmation last Thursday suggesting that all was fine after all and thank you very much modern medicine. As a result, instead of being induced on Thursday afternoon, my husband and I came home from the specialist and crashed. As in stumbled into the condo and onto horizontal surfaces and slept all day. Obviously the scare and the drama of baby ills wore us out.
By Saturday morning, when we were done being thankful to the world and catching up on rest was no longer a necessity, we started to become slightly... I hate to admit it, bored. Since we had been under the impression that we might be in the hospital with a child this very day- all plans had been previously either not scheduled or canceled. We muddled through the day with some fishing and movie rentals, but ultimately, I could not help but think of the advice I have been so frequently given, "Enjoy your time now, while it lasts."
After about the 25th time I caught this thought running through my head, my mind began conjuring up ideas, and before I knew it, our "last date" was born. My husband, equally bored, thought this sounded alright as well, because there was really no way we could have another fishing/movie day...
So yesterday, in what I consider to be a day with the absolute most perfect weather available, off we went to the Graue Mill and dinner after at our favorite restaurant, Francesca's.
Because the Graue Mill is on our route to our specialist's office, we have been increasingly intrigued as to the park's offerings. Historic websites generally do not do justice, as was the case for this nifty little spot- complete with scenery, a museum, walking trails, and your overly informed and interested tour guides. But it was gorgeous and interesting and very pleasant.
Our dinner was excellent as well, as we knew it would be. Luckily, a Christmas gift card awaited us and therefore, the large bill at the end of our feast did nothing to squaush our spirit.
Upon arrival at home, I felt satisfied with our "last date", espeically considering that neither my husband nor I are much for "dates"- it was a nice day.

Cracked Up

The week? Highs and lows, my friends, highs and lows. Crown fell off- which led to an emergency dental visit. Twice got to work and had forgotten something at home and had to turn around and come back and get it (pregnant brain, anyone?). Got lost taking the behavior disordered students to the Museum of Science and Industry. Behavior disordered students tried to UN PLUG HUGE displays and dismantle large computer systems while AT the Museum of Science and Industry. Had to turn in my FMLA request ( and for those of you who DON'T know me- this is, to me, a commitment... and you can guess how well I managed THAT...). Had our friends over for pizza and while I was looking forward to their visit I had ulterior motives of confirming and negotiating our child care needs for next Fall... ( mission accomplished, and I will not brag, at this moment, about our extremely fortunate set-up- but let's just say the price is beyond reasonable). This amid a night class, a switch to 4:45 am work outs, a Dr. appointment, swimming class, groceries, dinner, and laundry- and the kids not even HERE yet!
OF course, me being me, and me being PREGNANT me to boot- this led to a melt down of sorts last night. While listening to my phone messages at the tail end of our evening ( and a good hour or so post normal bed time ) my husband gently hugged me in the most loving of fashions. His hand slipped dangerously close to my behind and while I normally would giggle and squirm I instead roared at him at the top of my lungs the obvious..., " DON'T DO MY CRACK!", poltergeist style. After my eyes rescinded back into my head I looked at him and we began to giggle hysterically.
Actually, we were laughing so hard we had to sit down on the couch so as not to fall over. WHILE laughing so hard, my body emitted a disgusting and embarrassing series of uncontrollable farts. And of course, while my husband began to laugh harder, I suddenly, to his shock, became irate. Next poltergiest moment enter here, ( Poor, poor husband) " WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?"... and then I exited stage left, ran to the bedroom and began to cry hysterically.
And while I knew this was in-SANE... I could not stop the eMOTion. Luckily for me the very patient husband was there to comfort me back to reality... Needless to say, the last 20 minutes of my week very much emulated the week in general.
I slept heavily and am already not sure that was really ME last night. However, considering my husband's walk on eggshells approach towards me upon waking confirmed that yes, it had to have been true.
Eight more weeks, people... EIGHT more weeks.

New Job?

On our way back to Chicago via I-80, my husband and I stopped in my hometown to visit my Mother for a Mother's Day hello. Part of the overnight pitstop included, on behalf of Billy's birthday as well as an observance of the day itself, dinner at my very favorite restaurant, The Cellar in Geneseo, Illinois.
The Cellar is a small town steakhouse, with a motto of "food worth traveling for"...While it's basement location and fake brick wall-papered walls might be reason to give pause to it's deeper offerings, the bottom line is the food is delicious. Basic, fresh, grilled, and delicious.
Some of my favorite memories are rooted in this restaurant. Daddy/daughter dates, birthday celebrations, sports banquets, and even the home of my very first waittressing gig, which led to a part-time career in the field and was the origins of a humiliating memory of dumping an entire pitcher of iced tea in the center of 8-top well-dressed round before I even served up the appetizers.
At any rate, I was very much looking forward to my meal.
As we approached the restaurant, we noticed immediately the two police cars parked out front. Within a matter of seconds, we also heard the shrill whir of the ambulace following up behind. As we were meeting my Grandma there, I noticed my parents dart quickly inside the restarant to make sure there were no issues with her, while Billy and I lingered back, not wanting to clog the entrance. Seems as if this split second decision was the difference between "helping" and/or not.
While the ambulance people unloaded and made their way inside, I was met with relief as I watched my Father through the window chatting up my Grandma, realizing at once that at least the victim was not... well, her.
While this fact settled in, I was interuppted by a lone, uniformed woman standing beside me on the sidewalk, holding onto a stretcher- contemplating how to lug the huge steel bed down the 8 steps to the lower level of the restaurant entrance. Without remembering that I am nearly 8 months pregnant, I heard myself mutter, "Did you want me to help you with that?"... thinking while speaking that of course the ambulace worker would recognize my very pregnat state, as well as my heels and quickly deny me.
She didn't. "SURE!" She exclaimed. I immediately did what any wife would do and said, "BILLY- Help her get this down there!". While he took over, the lone woman thrust a large canvas medical bag at me. I stood there patiently waiting for them to get the gurney down the stairs and was shocked when the woman abruptly yelled, "Get that DOWN there, it's the oxygen."
What the hell? I thought. The OXYGEN??? Why is this on ME? I sprinted down the stairs and in the foyer of the restuarant was trying to convey to the masses that I needed to know where the "emergency" was as I was, unlikely as it might seem, suddenly, the "lady with the oxygen". In stilted English I managed to convey my importance and was directed to a section of the dining room, where I came across two police officers as well as some other EMT's helping a non-breathing victim to the floor. Tables had been moved. Patrons were staring. A once bustling dining area was stunned into silence. Again, as I made my way over to the "situation" I again tried to convey the importance of what I held...
I demanded the officer look at me via several attempts of holding the canvas bag at his eye level and yelling, "This is the oxygen, THIS is the oxygen, THIS IS the oxyGEN." Eventually, he was able to hear me and held out his arms to take the life saving oxygen machine.
When I turned around to locate my family, instinct had me searching for our "table", which was thankfully, in a different room altogether and no where near any of this.
As I sat down, I felt tears of overwhelm fill the corners of my eyes as the waittress informed us that the woman was fine and was breathing but was merely choking. Whew.
As my dinner and my family and my celebration came back into focus, I wondered when I had started working for the ambulance services in town.

Iowa

After many, many, many e-mails, my husband and I finally made it out to Iowa to visit my Aunt and Uncle's dream home in the South Central portion of the state. After getting used to the slower, yet thinner, traffic, as well as the hourly stops my body necessitated, we arrived early Friday afternoon ready to get out of the car.
After a quick tour of the beautiful brand new custom home, complete with Frank Lloyd Wright inspired detail, windows overlooking a scenic pond and cloverfield, a deck larger than our entire condo, a walk in shower, two fireplaces, a kitchen complete with prep sink and double oven, and many other enviable details ( like an indoor putting green ), we headed to the great outdoors.
Billy's tour was taken on an ATV that rivaled our actual vehicle in terms of power. My tour, while just as thorough, was in a bigger and stronger, and much safer for a woman in my "condition", SUV. Eighty acres of land, filled with fields, orchards, ponds, forest, hills. Flora and fauna in abundance. Careful attention to native grasses, plants and trees in an effort to attract wildlife also native to the area, particularly deer, turkey and a plethura of birds, including, but not limited to, several varieties of hawks as well as hummingbirds.
After the tours, Billy was off to turkey hunt with my Uncle on the property, while I quickly and happily slid into social hour(s) with my Aunt. And while they came back empty handed, we cheerily engaged in a feast of homemade and right-from-the-pond caught fried catfish fingers.
The next two days followed similar patterns. The remoteness created a peace in me I had forgotten was possible. Sleep came easily and lingered for longer than I thought conceivable. Nature walks resulted in muskrat spottings, fawn glimpses, Tom scares ( I had no idea a male turkey could be so "BIG" looking in person, and therefore... slightly scary! ), and venison so varied I had no idea I was even eating it... delicious, by the way!
In the end, while we did not walk away with a turkey, or even a catfish for that matter, a whole new world was opened to us. Submergance deep in Iowa country. God's country is what some might say and I can see why. Re-established relationships with an Aunt and Uncle that were previously good, but more remnants of the past as opposed to realities of today. Refreshed minds and spirits. Bonded more tightly in our marriage by a shared weekend that brought both of us deep pleasure and a reassertion of our life's goals and priorities. And the lesson that a couple committed to a joint and focused goal can lead to a realized dream of this vastness- this amazing.
We had a great weekend. It was a great way to spend one of our last child-free weekends. We are looking forward to going back, but better yet, we have taken the experience with us and will use it as one of the foundations of our marriage.

Farter Starter

My body is turning against me. Really. It hates me.

Somewhere between my first bra and the braces coming off, I figured out that farting in public was way taboo. By the time I was a full fledged teenager I was most lady-like in gassy situations and seldom recall a situation where I was emabarrassed by any kind of flatulence. In my twenties I somehow basically lost the ability altogether. By my 30th birthday, I lit an additional candle on my cake to commemorate a decade of fart-free-living. More or less.

In the three years my husband and I have co-habitated, I have essentially been fart-free. He's not heard a peep nor has he sniffed a smell. I have managed to convince him AND myself that I no longer fart at all. Now, mind you, we all know that is impossible, but I have worked hard at learning to conceal what some might consider a deadly weapon.

Suffice it to say, since I have become pregnant, that has all changed. And against my will, of course. Because I don't think an hour has gone by where I have NOT farted. Actually, if I could figure out a way to harness all of the gaseous energy I am creating I could seriously make bank. Seriously.

And the worst part is not admitting that I have turned into a fart fest- but that I no longer have the social skills needed to handle these "touchy" situations in public.

Take for example the other day. A co-worker and I ran into each other in the stairwell. We talked for several minutes and then I felt it. I did my best to keep it "quiet" so as not to interrupt our conversation... but I knew within seconds that while you could not hear what I had done, that was certainly other "evidence". Luckily for me it's Spring in the high school, so she immediately confused my body's hatred for me as a Senior prank, "Eww, another stink bomb- I am outta here!". So, I managed to escape blame free on that one. However- the embarrassment has been haunting me.

Last night at dinner, I was chatting with my husband at the table. He said something funny and when I busted out in laughter I also busted out in sing-songy fart. I didn't know what to say- or DO. So I of course did what any 35 year old would do, I ran into the living room and hid from him.

And while I am most certainly "out of control", I don't want to create a "reputation" as a liar OR as a farter- so I am trying very hard to manage moments like these with grace and consideration.

I cannot believe I have almost three more months of this! Please someone, tell me that AFTER I deliver this baby that certain "things" will go back to SOME sort of normalcy? Either that I will have to get THIS :

tatooed as a tramp stamp on my back.

CHUGGA chugga CHUGGA chugga

So as of yesterday, I am officially NOT going on bed rest or having a C-section. ALSO, as of yesterday, I am officially scared shitless, four and a half ponds HEAVIER, and absorbing the fact that there are no drugs to take for my increasing restless legs.

At 28 weeks along, I have a 140 beat per minute and 2.some small number pound baby, and a perfectly normal cervix length. Um, gee thanks? I always thought my cervix was perfectly normal.

As we walked out of the Dr's. office, I felt a pang of excitement drenched in deer-in-headlights-fright. No turning back now. As I head into the last trimester, I keep hearing the words of my girlfriend who delivered her OWN son exactly one month ago, "Welcome to the worst three months of your life." Pause. "But it's worth it!". Really? I will try to remember that as I lay my very big fat ass on top of the shoebox sized air conditioning vent and pour ice water over my head and rub soothing ointment on my chaffed rubbed together thighs while laying in my hugungous maternity underwear and the Mr.'s tank top.

And while the maternity undergarments ARE huge- they are so ridiculously cozy- I don't know what was holding me back. Maybe it was the advice of yet another new friend/Mom. "Just prepare yourself upon opening the package for a Shallow Hal type of moment." And I did, and it was. The pained look that discreetly crossed my VSH's ( very supportive husband's ) eyes told me everything I needed to know. I am now a utility. A cargo ship- a box car- a shopping cart even.

I am relieved to hear that my life can and will be, for the foreseeable future, anyway- carrying on. The month of May is chock full with two night classes, two weekend getaways, and three showers. And what better month for a shower aside from May? It is the momnth of last hurrahs before I am imprisoned by the heat and my oversized belly and then of course by a child. I have every intention of making it good.

Baby Class Numero Uno

It is 6:27 PM. We are leaving in N-8 minutes. We are headed to the hospital for our "orientation". And while I am dreading it, I am also looking forward to it... in a way. I have seen it played out on TV so many times that I feel like I already know how it is all going to go. I have been warned by my experienced friends that the "commoners" who are taking the class with us will not have the first clue how to follow directions... so when the instructor says "save your questions until the end" they will snicker at all of us and raise their hand up half-way and talk while doing so so that the rest of us will be forced to undure the Question That Was Supposed to Be at The End.
I am tempted to bring along my book but figure that might be deemed rude... and wouldn't want to embarrass my husband.
I felt the same way when I headed off to traffic school for my first time. I knew the experience itself might be somewhat dreadful, however, curiousity has killed this cat many, many times, and I am always up for doing everything at least once... besides... I am "supposed" to be excited since it's about our baby, right?
Since the class runs until 9 PM- which is bordering on past our bed time, I am guessing we will be feeling a little ornery by the time it's all said and done. I predicted to my husband they would save the tour for last... otherwise we would all bolt. We will see how it goes.

PS- As predicted, the tour was saved for last.... however- our v. wonderful instructor believed firmly in the art of swiftness. Nary a question was answered until the v. v. end and she promised us an early exit, which she followed through on ( I REALLY wanted to get home to watch the season finale of the HILLs... Priorities people.. priorites!) Her knowledge was vast and her answers concise.
Also, was it any surprise when a lively looking gal asked me from across the room, "HEY! Aren't you the LORI that was my college roommate my Freshman year at SIU??? " Hmm. well, yes, now that I take a good look at you, yes I AM that Lori. After recovering from some initial shock and then MORE shock as she led me through some mental math calculation putting us at 16 years absence- I began to relax and enjoy her company. So who said this might be boring?
As I exited with my old roommates business card, my packet of hospital information, and more cord blood connections than I thought possible, I breathed in the warm night air and relaxed in the knowledge that we just might be able to handle this.

Coffee Pot Wars

Introducing: ON your left, the Stainless Steel Mr. Coffee 10 cup Carafe auto coffe pot. ON your right.... 1980's relic Black and Decker Space Saver- No frills with a 12 cup GLASS carafe....

I must admit, I have always appreciated, given the right time and place, a healthy dose of competition. Growing up in a children-filled neighborhood, games were aplenty and winning occurred every day, along with losing. It IS more fun to win, but I learned early on that the enjoyment of playing the game, regardless of said game's outcome, was the real prize.

As I grew up, it became evident to me that there are many people out there that possess a fierceness to win. And unless the "game" is taking place in some sort of sports arena, I do not want to win so bad I will poke your eyes out, therefore, these people scare me.

And you know who the fierce folks are! Heck, you know who YOU are. Your desire to have more KIDS than me, your desire to make more MONEY than me. Your desire to have a nicer car, find a better deal, get more attention, have a cleaner house, cook a better burger. Doesn't matter, you want to win and it's women like you that kept me a very safe distance from trying out for any and every competitive reality show out there. I have NO desire whatsoever to compete in that manner.

As I mentioned previously, however, I do like to see a game. And even more so.... a winner. Particularly when the results affect virtually no one. For example- two ants on a sidewalk trying to get to the leaf first? Game. How many times I can throw my undies from across the room into the dirty clothes basket before I miss? Game. How much water can I put into the bathtub without it spilling out? Game. But today's game is the kind of game that really geeks me out.

Our coffee pot has not produced a good cup of joe in months. We told a friend about our dilemma and he gave us his old ( very very old ) coffee pot to try. So this morning- as I blog away- there are TWO pots of coffee brewing.

It's Mr. Coffee in a stainless steel carafe VS. Black and Decker under the counter with a glass carafe. Who will the winner be? Not sure. According to my research- good coffee is predicated by extreme heat. Our Mr. Coffee has yet to demonstrate an ability to really "heat things up". I gave Black and Decker a cleaning con trial run last night and 'ole boy was HOT. However- he has no auto timer NOR does he sport auto shut-off. As I hear the duo brew drips pumping in the other room- my mouth salivates for the first taste. Results will be posted later on when the husband decides to rise and drink.

Things have not been this exciting around here in a long time. Let the games BEGIN!!

PS- Taste test was relatively uneventful. A winner was decided almost instantaneously by moi, however- the husband 100 % backed me up within mere seconds of his swigs. I must say-- shockingly- the 1980's Black and Decker Space Saver dripped out some DELICIOUS tasting brew- Now the new delimma? How will I remember to turn it OFF every time I use it?

Feminist?

It seems like just yesterday when I was standing in a group of about 2oo other women, holding hands and banners and walking the streets in protest. We were supposedly "taking back the night", a feminist effort put together to lessen the frequency of rape and crimes in the wee hours towards women on our college campus.
I remember feeling sort of awkward. I remember thinking this might be the beginning of many a protest. This might be the start of my feminist self. This might be the point in life when I channeled Gloria Steinem and began to speak from pulpits with passion. It really was none of those. Except awkward. The protest wasn't really my thing. I didn't really care for the "group" mentality. I didn't care for the loudness. I couldn't stand the stares. I figured it would be more up my alley to write a letter to the paper. Which I never did.
I never gave up on the idea I was a feminist, I just chose to not make it an issue, I suppose. And as I wheeled my cart out of the grocery store and into the lot, I wondered if I looked like a feminist. With my white jacket and purple purse and my pregnant belly, and cart full of foods. I wondered if I was still a feminist. In a flash I reviewed my self and thought of the one hundred percent conformity in my life to everything traditional with surprising ease.
I like it that my husband puts gas in my car for me. I like it that he doesn't have me get beer as the liquor store is "no place for a lady". I like having my nails done and shopping all day and wearing cute heels. I like complaining that I "had to change my name". I like it that my husband starts my car in the mornings so that I don't have to be exposed to the elements for too long. I like to begrudgingly clean the house and mumble to myself that I am the one always cleaning the house. It seems as far as feminism is concerned, I jumped ship the second my husband and I started divvying up the parts around here.
I suppose I could argue that if I WANTED to be the one that took on some traditionally male roles, I could. I could take out the trash and manage the recycling and trade that with the grocery shopping. But for what? So we were both miserable doing our chores? I could give up on my female looks and wear birks and tees and cut-off denim, but that sounds like hell, too. Nor am I remotely interested in participating in any more of those ridiculous protests.
The bottom line is that I am happy doing whatever it is I am doing. I don't really care how it looks or what the label is- as long as we have our well-oiled machine in working order around here.

Two Year Anniversary

I never thought I would be this girl. I wanted to be this girl- but I really had thrown in the towel that I would ever BE this girl.
When I approached my 30's, single as a single could be, I began to question what was going on with me. My SIL's told me without any hesitation that I had "commitment" problems. I couldn't have disagreed more, but those words sat with me. And grew. And nagged at me as I continued to cry my way through lease signings- refuse to schedule any type of vacation- and shirk any form of lengthy project- such as a Master's program.
Eventually I came to see their angle and began to absorb that there was some truth to their words.
The funny thing is that all along the way- my goals had remained the same, and I was resolute about that. I want to be married to the perfect guy for me, own a house, and have his babies. I want to belong to church, I want to stop spending my weekends at the bar, and I want my family to come back into sharp focus.
Since that time, things have changed so much. I credit my SIL's for forcing me to see the truth, I credit my Mom for being patient, and I credit myself for finally facing what I didn't want to see.
This weekend, as I sat in my condo, celebrating our two year wedding anniversary, five months pregnant, my calendar filled with family gatherings, church a regular part of my life, and bars a place I haven't seen in months- maybe years, I am finally happy. Really happy.
My husband and I decided to not DO gifts but instead got massages and went pheasant hunting together. It was one of the nicest weekends of my life. And despite some major skepticism by what were my friends at the time, I couldn't have made a better decision in choosing him to become my lawfully wedded husband. I am just thankful my SIL's got their hands on me before I passed him up.

Clean House

Lately- with my husband in physical therapy three nights a week, and me fighting off a cold, dinner creations have been... whimsical. I have never been one for the European style of grocery shopping, not even as an urbanite, and instead prefer to mentally catalogue a series of meals and basics and load up my cart for a once a week haul. But this week has been different. Last weekend, when said haul usually occurs, I was not feeling up for it. And as I perused my freezer I pulled a variety of meats out and figured that with some creativity I could make my way through the week.
And make my way I did! Shockingly, what I discovered, is that I have a ton of food stuffs that have been cast off from a previous recipe, never made, or quite frankly, just forgotten. As I persued the wide array of seasoning packets, hidden behind the forty-odd tins of tuna fish, I recalled an article written by a local "chef", if you will ( actually- a housewife with self-proclaimed cooking skills ).... she mentioned that January was clean house month at her house.
She described making her way throught the nooks and crannies of her pantry- pulling, tossing, baking and cooking all those morsels with expirations dates approaching or cans of what-nots whose partners vanished in a flash of cooking lightbulb moments or Betty Crocker inspired frivolity.
The trick for me was to not let my husband recognize the sudden adding and subtracting of ingredients in what we have deemed a "previously refined dish". So there are almonds in the brownies. So there is pineapple in the jell-o. Wait. There is JELL-O? I put sprinkles in the cupcakes and excuse me but yes- that is what I call mayonnaise on your burger. Delicious, isn't it? And stop asking about the amount of pickles this week. I just crave them. Eat up, honey! Chop chop now!
And so we have made it. We have been well fed and nary a meal was tossed. And now again it's Saturday and I am considering managing another haul-less grocery weekend. To flush out the last of the oddities... pesto pasta anyone? and forge through another creative week of cooking. By Wednesday evening, when we sit down to a glorious meal of Italian Meatballs and french fries, I am sure we will be ready to get back to the old ways, where the protein is enhanced by the carb and the veggies are meshed with the protein. In the meantime, our meals will look increasingly like a three ring circus until the last of the artichokes are baked and the pimentos stuffed.

The Soiled Egg Salad?

As I have indicated as much in previous posts, this pregnancy has left me hormonally challenged. Looney tunes. One step closer to forever alienating myself from sanity. I try to control it with walks, baths, reading, etc. But seriously? It's like a flip switches and instead of actually CALMING me the distracting activity generally just goes awry as opposed to staving off another bout of mouth over-use.
Most weeks, in an effort to save some money, as well as maintain our health, I try to make my husband his "lunches". It has become fairly routine and I generally make a big vat of something or other, like egg salad or pasta or burgers and he takes the whole big pot of it to work and portions it out there. I do not judge. He's a man and works in a man's world.
This past week, my husband requested egg salad. Since he stayed home sick on Monday, it was off to work he went Tuesday morning with a 2 pound casserole of egg salad and a loaf of his favorite whole-wheat bread. I sigh in relief as I see another week of lunches, done and out the door.
Tuesday evening, as per usual, I feel inclined to ask about the quality of this particular batch of egg salad, knowing full well that to him it tastes like all the OTHER batches of egg salad. "Good", he replies. I leave well enough alone. He thinks it's good enough to eat, which is good enough for me.
On Wednesday, I shockingly spy the empty caserole on our kitchen counter. Hmmm, I think to myself. Where did all of that egg salad GO? Moving on to other things, the egg salad left my thoughts as we danced around other more important matters, like the weekend and what's for dinner.... The only two things I really seem to care about these days. Later that evening, as things calmed down and we lay in "our" spots on our respective couches, I remembered to ask my husband what happened to all of the egg salad.
He replied, "Oh, I shared some with a guy at work." Generally speaking, my heart would melt at my husband's senstivity and kindness to others, but remember, I am hormonally challenged at the moment.
"YOU WHAT?". He quietly repeated himself, " I shared it with a guy at work."
I quickly find an opportunity to fling something onto the coffee table in an effort to demonstrate my irritation. Knowing full well, his eyes are fixed on me. "You are NOT pissed about that, ARE you?" he asks in shock.
"YES, I am, it pisses me off. Why can't he get his own lunches? He canceled on you last week, so WHY would you give him food? He's unreliable!."
I hear my husband mutter, " I can't believe you are mad about this. Whatever."
My mind is reeling with "JERK! What A JERK! Of COURSE I am mad! What a jerk. "
In order to avoid a blow out, I quietly turned back to my book. Within a few minutes, as my insides caught up with my brain, I mustered, " I think I hit a wall, I better get to bed."
It wasn't until morning that I really ingested what had set me so off the night before. Oh yes... as the room came into focus and my thoughts began to align, I recalled that I was angry at my husband for... Oh NO! I did it again! Shoot shoot shoot! Egg salad? Oh LORI! Why???
And ONCE again, we start off the day with an apolgy.
With each passing day, I love my husband more, never knowing previously the depth of his patience. His forgiveness comes before the apology. He doesn't hold it against me. If it wouldn't potentially piss me off so much I would buy him a vacation far far away from me, to reward him for his stability. Instead, I just wake and "sorry" and set things right in the world again.
With five more months to go... I am not sure how he's going to make it!

Roller Party

It's been a really long time since I have been roller skating. So when we got the invite to my nephew's first boy/girl roller party I immediately cleared the calendar in anticipation of the big event.. that is of course AFTER asking my doctor if pregnant ladies can roller skate... "Yes, " she said, "Just don't land on your belly." I figured I could manage that and mentally prepared myself for a broken wrist.
And last week, as I dragged through the school week, I used the roller party as my "light at the end of the tunnel". Enter Pink Floyd background music here with a dash of strobe lights. It got me thinking about the days of old, garnering rides to the "rink", making sure the battery pack on my red light-up visor was charged, seven dollars tucked into the pocket of my coolest jeans, the ones with the roller skate on the back pocket...
Screeech! Enter reality. What am I going to wear? Now, I know my GM ( generous Mother) bought me some exquisitely comfy maternity pants, including some hip jeans, well... as hip as maternity demin gets for me. However, when I sported said jeans to work on Friday, we ran into some "issues". As in, they won't stay on. They are too big. Way too big. Of course, this didn't become apparent until I was walking down the hallway during passing periods and I was quite sure that the "maternity" portion of my pants was hanging well past my deirrier. And being that my arms were full, led to some temporary panic. I made it to class but spent the remainder of the day seated behind my desk as much as possible. In the end, the idea of wearing these jeans roller skating, well, it would never do.
I went on-line and found that the closest maternity-carrying Old Navy was a good twenty minutes away, and so it became the "Saturday mission". Off I went, patient husband in tow, and within ten minutes I found myself some NEW jeans. Not nearly as cute, but with a little more staying power and illiciting a lot more confidence.
We arrived at the party right on time, and after waiting in line for no less than ten minutes, I finally had my skates. As I laced up dandy pair of beige and orange rentals, I inhaled the familiar scent of old, sweaty leather. Of course the first pair didn't fit. The ogre behind the skate rental desk begrudgingly gave me a new pair. Eventually, it was time to stand. After a good ten minutes of arm waving balancing acts, I felt back in the swing, and off I went, like it was yesterday. Around and around the rink I went, gliding with the wind in my hair. At least that is how I felt- I tried to ignore one comment "Are you sure you should be skating? You looked so wobbly out there! " I could have stayed for hours. Wobble or not.
In the end, I find that I still love roller skating. And all Junior High kids aside, it was still fun.

Special Delivery

Personally, I have a pretty weak stomach for all things medical, particularly those things which involve blood, urine, or feces. It makes me gag just thinking about it. And, if my brother and Father are any testament to my own weaknesses, we are all bona fide medical wusses ( SP? - I don't use that word much?? ) Even the mere mention of certain words could send any one of us into a tailspin of gag reflexes or a scared and worried laughter- like the word, ummm vagina? Or scrotum, or even "tissue". Yuckity yuck yuck YUCK. We lean towards the safe with more pleasant sounding synonyms, like privates, down there's, and "stuff". So knowing that..
While visiting my brother yesterday, the subject of "delivery" came up. Mostly because my brother was explaining how grossed out he was while accidently "glimpsing" childbirth before he wisely repositioned himself to a more discreet location. This, of course, was all meant to be some well-meaning advice to MY husband in regards to our own future delivery. As I saw my husband's eyes widen in horror at some of the details, I heard him mutter, " Maybe I won't even be in the same ROOM! hahaha! HAH!! ". My internal response... "Um, NOT. You will SO be there... watching me suffer and scream in pain! You don't have to ruin your "view" but you are nuts if you think I won't be riding on this delivery to get me lots and LOTS of sympathy over the next year, I mean 10 years, I mean FOREVER!! I NEED this ammo and you MUST be there to watch SOME of it!!
The subject then ventured into "safe" vantage points. And in all honesty, I am a fan of the "safe" vantage point. Why risk it? So my brother, once again falling into advice mode, began to explain like this. "If you are a vegetarian and you go into a butcher shop, you are validated that you shouldn't eat meat. If you love meat, and then go into a butcher shop and from then on cannot stomach meat, you will always wish that you had never gone into the butcher shop. Because some people cannot ever forget the visual. And you will not know if you are that guy until it's too late. So, bottom line, if you like steak, don't go into the butcher shop. "
It's only a man who could break down vaginal delivery into eating steak. I think I just puked in my mouth.

Excuses Excuses

There has been, obviously, very little blogging coming from me lately. I blame it primarily on two things. The first being an interesting, yet effective money saving venture and the other, well, the other being my new multiple personality disorder.
Because we received confirmation on Monday from the specialist that "everything looked great", the reality of our situation has settled in. And as we absorbed what the Dr. was saying regarding our potential future son, yes- he saw what he deemed a "protrusion", we have begun the task of cutting back, holding back, turning back and sitting back. In other words, we have turned the heat WAY down. Way WAY down. And have been using space heaters to toast our toes in our tiny condo. I think it's working, but at the moment, we do not have enough space heaters for EVERY room in the house, andI am afraid the room where our computer sits is a bit too cold for me most evenings. So, therefore, excuse number one, it's actually TOO cold to blog around here.
At the same time, I have recently discovered that around 7 O'clock, there is some raging evil girl that climbs into my body and vascillates between rage and exhaustion. She is mean, impatient, and does very little good except wait for the time to tick so she may fall into a deep slumber, putting everyone else around her at long-awaited peace. In other words, I have become my own worst enemy. And if it ain't done by seven PM, it ain't gonna happen. I get SO tired and SO hormonal, that I do my best to scamper myself off to the bedroom in order to maintain damage control. I feel SO sorry for my husband. I am sure as the clock nears 6:30 he starts to wish he were somewhere else. As the week has progressed and I have noticed this pattern taking full swing, I have proceeded with more and more caution each passing day. Bottom line? There is no way, with a 7 PM time limit, that I am going to spend my few pleasant hours left in the day blogging and after...well... after? Just go rent Psycho and you will understand. Not to mention I am scared to death of what my other personality might write. Seriously, she is EVIL!! And there you have it, excuse number TWO.
Now it is 5:47 AM, as I have decided that if I am going to blog it is going to have to be first thing in the morning. I pray that we get a new space heater soon and that this phase of pregnancy evaporates quickly.