Well, hi again. I'm hoping to return to a semi-normal pattern of writing now that things are relatively calm and the holidays are over.
I'm not one of those people who usually gets stressed out by the holiday season, but this year presented some challenges that made Christmas feel much less Christmas-y than in previous years. Having this baby has been absolutely amazing, if not entirely all-consuming. There have been days when I have not showered, not eaten, not even really stood up much, and have just fed and rocked and fed and fed some more. Those days feel long, and leave me feeling as though one of my days has been sucked into a black hole of time that I'll never get back. They are also sort of sleepy days, lazy and oddly cozy. I wish the weather would get really, really crappy so I could make some cocoa and really settle into them. But for now, those days are few and, thankfully, far between, and I have retained some level of new-mom sanity.
There have been enough of those days, though, that I felt completely unprepared for Christmas and Chris's birthday when they rolled around. I actually had to send poor Chris out to buy not only all my family's Christmas presents, but the ingredients to his own birthday cake, too. I'm hoping that the fact that I am three weeks post-operative and am keeping his daughter alive will help him to forget and forgive me for this holiday season.
So, today is my first day alone with the baby. Chris was home last week but had to work a regular week from home, so I had a little practice, but I'm still feeling a little concerned. What if I fall in the kitchen and don't have the strength to drag myself to my quietly-starving baby in the bedroom? What if...actually, I don't have a lot of concrete concerns. I'm sure it will be just fine. There's just something a little intimidating about being the only person responsible for this little baby all day.
Most of you reading this will have already met Sophie, but if you haven't, let me tell you, we lucked out. This kid is incredible. She is easy-going, doesn't get too upset about anything (other than being hungry), and sleeps like a champion. There is no guessing game when she's crying. We don't have to run down a list of potential irritants, eliminating reasons and trying out different solutions. The answer is always that she is hungry. She doesn't cry when she's tired or wet or for no reason, like some babies. She is either 100% content or 100% hungry. She runs on a simple, baby binary system. She doesn't mind if you take your time getting her little onesie over her head, or if you kind of struggle to get her arms into her tiny sleeves. She just sits there, looking around with her giant, blue eyes, waiting for you to get your parental crap together. Unless she's hungry as you're trying to do these things. Then, she cries. When you feed her, she returns to her natural, happy state for the briefest of moments, and then she falls asleep.
I'm sure I'll write more now, and I'm sure that for awhile, most of these posts will have something to do with motherhood. Bear with me. I'm not doing much more at the moment.
Hope you've had the merriest of Christmases!
xo
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
It Was The Best of Times
It has been a long time since my last post, but I have the best of excuses: Sophie arrived on the 7th!
I've read other people's blogs and some have had a tough time talking about their birth stories until a lot later, and I'm going to be one of those people now. Those of you who read this who are close to me probably already know the whole story, and those of you who are further away can probably wait for any details I'll ever be willing to give. I will sum up the experience for now by saying that it was not the birth I had envisioned, but the baby is healthy, and so am I, and the three of us are all bundled up at home.
Our baby is by far the best thing that has ever happened to me. She is beautiful, soft, sweet, easygoing, and incredibly lovable. The first time I met her, I could barely touch her let alone hold her, but that's all I wanted to do. And since she's been here, that's about all I've done.
She is happy and healthy and gaining weight steadily. She is a good eater, a good sleeper, has a great head of hair, and the most beautiful, big dark eyes that are slowly turning deep blue. She makes funny faces, she is cuddly, and she already makes us laugh. I can't imagine loving somebody more.
So please forgive my last entry, and rest assured when I say that all the discomfort from pregnancy and the birth are all distant memories, and I'd do it all again a hundred times over if that's what it took.
Hope all is well!
xo
I've read other people's blogs and some have had a tough time talking about their birth stories until a lot later, and I'm going to be one of those people now. Those of you who read this who are close to me probably already know the whole story, and those of you who are further away can probably wait for any details I'll ever be willing to give. I will sum up the experience for now by saying that it was not the birth I had envisioned, but the baby is healthy, and so am I, and the three of us are all bundled up at home.
Our baby is by far the best thing that has ever happened to me. She is beautiful, soft, sweet, easygoing, and incredibly lovable. The first time I met her, I could barely touch her let alone hold her, but that's all I wanted to do. And since she's been here, that's about all I've done.
She is happy and healthy and gaining weight steadily. She is a good eater, a good sleeper, has a great head of hair, and the most beautiful, big dark eyes that are slowly turning deep blue. She makes funny faces, she is cuddly, and she already makes us laugh. I can't imagine loving somebody more.
So please forgive my last entry, and rest assured when I say that all the discomfort from pregnancy and the birth are all distant memories, and I'd do it all again a hundred times over if that's what it took.
Hope all is well!
xo
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Anwers to Your Questions
In the spirit of keeping up with this blog, despite really not having much to talk about other than The Baby, I'm going to answer some questions that have been asked of me over the course of the last few days.
Q: Are YOU still HERE? (This is usually asked of me every morning as I arrive at work.)
A: You can still see me, so...yes, I'm still here. I want every minute of my maternity leave to use after the baby is born. When I stop coming in to work, you'll know I'm not here. The biggest clue is that I WON'T BE HERE.
Q: Are you just super uncomfortable?
A: No, I am loving this extra weight attached to the front of me, along with the subsequent back and hip pain. Fat feet and swollen ankles feel amazing. It's better than chocolate. Yes, I'm kind of uncomfortable.
Q: Do you want to ________?
A: Unless you've just proposed that I lie on the couch and have people feed me things, probably not. No offense to you, but I've spent 40 weeks going to things and doing things. Now, I want to do nothing. You can come over and do nothing with me, if you want.
Q: Is there only one baby in there?!
A: Oh, shut up.
Q: How do you even stay upright with that belly?
A: I've got really, really strong legs. And shut up.
Q: Haven't you had that baby YET?
A: Actually, I did. This is just Thanksgiving dinner leftovers gone wrong. The baby is home with her French au pair. Of course I haven't!
Q: Are you still pregnant?
A: God, I hope so. Not being pregnant should neither look nor feel like this.
Again, I can't complain. This hasn't been all that bad. I'm just a little worn out and fairly sick of doing things. The next entry I write will either be in a week when I'm still pregnant and will be inappropriate for my younger readers because of the vulgarity, or will be an account of our baby Sophie's birth. I'm praying for the latter. You probably are too.
Hope you're well!
xo
Q: Are YOU still HERE? (This is usually asked of me every morning as I arrive at work.)
A: You can still see me, so...yes, I'm still here. I want every minute of my maternity leave to use after the baby is born. When I stop coming in to work, you'll know I'm not here. The biggest clue is that I WON'T BE HERE.
Q: Are you just super uncomfortable?
A: No, I am loving this extra weight attached to the front of me, along with the subsequent back and hip pain. Fat feet and swollen ankles feel amazing. It's better than chocolate. Yes, I'm kind of uncomfortable.
Q: Do you want to ________?
A: Unless you've just proposed that I lie on the couch and have people feed me things, probably not. No offense to you, but I've spent 40 weeks going to things and doing things. Now, I want to do nothing. You can come over and do nothing with me, if you want.
Q: Is there only one baby in there?!
A: Oh, shut up.
Q: How do you even stay upright with that belly?
A: I've got really, really strong legs. And shut up.
Q: Haven't you had that baby YET?
A: Actually, I did. This is just Thanksgiving dinner leftovers gone wrong. The baby is home with her French au pair. Of course I haven't!
Q: Are you still pregnant?
A: God, I hope so. Not being pregnant should neither look nor feel like this.
Again, I can't complain. This hasn't been all that bad. I'm just a little worn out and fairly sick of doing things. The next entry I write will either be in a week when I'm still pregnant and will be inappropriate for my younger readers because of the vulgarity, or will be an account of our baby Sophie's birth. I'm praying for the latter. You probably are too.
Hope you're well!
xo
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Eviction Notice
Imagine that I'm writing something very witty and clever about politics, or Occupy Wall Street or something. Imagine that I've just blown your mind with my social commentary, my insights on relevant news stories, or some piece of new philosophy about something deeply philosophical. You must imagine these things because I am, as of this moment, 39 weeks and 4.8 days pregnant. There is no insight to be had, no philosophy to be philosophized, nothing. I am a very pregnant person, and that's about it. My brain is 75% water and 25% GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME.
I shouldn't complain. I read a story earlier today about a couple who struggled for years to get pregnant and eventually spent their life's savings on countless rounds of IVF before having their baby. Chris and I are very, very, very lucky. But just for a second, I want to acknowledge that being 5'2" and having what they tell me is a watermelon-sized baby tucked within my abdomen is beginning to get a little bit uncomfortable. And now that the moment of self-pity has passed, let me describe the silver lining(s) to you: I can still sleep. I am still going to work. My doctor says things are progressing nicely. The baby's head was re-measured and is in the 35th percentile--NOT the 91st, as they guesstimated previously. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
The other day, Chris and I decided to get this thing going. We went for a spicy curry lunch and then walked the mall for a couple of hours. Since I am writing this instead of rocking my infant daughter, you can be assured that neither of these things had any positive effect. We stopped by a Brookstone-type store and I sat in one of those big massage chairs. As my hand drifted towards the 'on' button, one of the employees appeared at my side as if summoned by magic. "Since you've got a little something in there," he said, gesturing loosely at my massive belly, "you can't sit in any of the massaging chairs. It's a store policy. Apparently, it can put you into early labor."
This time, it was Chris who jumped to answer. "But she's 39 weeks. It's OK for her to go into labor." I nodded. "Yeah, a little labor induction would be a great thing!" I said. The employee handled our desperation like a retail wizard by informing us the massaging chairs were on sale and we could purchase one to use for that purpose if we'd like. Instead, we left the store to continue our walking.
And still, no baby. I'm drinking some kind of smelly raspberry leaf tea, walking, doing lunges, and everything the books say to help get this thing going. I think she's just going to have to come out on her own time.
But if December third comes and goes uneventfully, I will definitely be returning to the store to buy that chair.
xo
I shouldn't complain. I read a story earlier today about a couple who struggled for years to get pregnant and eventually spent their life's savings on countless rounds of IVF before having their baby. Chris and I are very, very, very lucky. But just for a second, I want to acknowledge that being 5'2" and having what they tell me is a watermelon-sized baby tucked within my abdomen is beginning to get a little bit uncomfortable. And now that the moment of self-pity has passed, let me describe the silver lining(s) to you: I can still sleep. I am still going to work. My doctor says things are progressing nicely. The baby's head was re-measured and is in the 35th percentile--NOT the 91st, as they guesstimated previously. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
The other day, Chris and I decided to get this thing going. We went for a spicy curry lunch and then walked the mall for a couple of hours. Since I am writing this instead of rocking my infant daughter, you can be assured that neither of these things had any positive effect. We stopped by a Brookstone-type store and I sat in one of those big massage chairs. As my hand drifted towards the 'on' button, one of the employees appeared at my side as if summoned by magic. "Since you've got a little something in there," he said, gesturing loosely at my massive belly, "you can't sit in any of the massaging chairs. It's a store policy. Apparently, it can put you into early labor."
This time, it was Chris who jumped to answer. "But she's 39 weeks. It's OK for her to go into labor." I nodded. "Yeah, a little labor induction would be a great thing!" I said. The employee handled our desperation like a retail wizard by informing us the massaging chairs were on sale and we could purchase one to use for that purpose if we'd like. Instead, we left the store to continue our walking.
And still, no baby. I'm drinking some kind of smelly raspberry leaf tea, walking, doing lunges, and everything the books say to help get this thing going. I think she's just going to have to come out on her own time.
But if December third comes and goes uneventfully, I will definitely be returning to the store to buy that chair.
xo
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sausage Feet and A Fertilized Egg
Yes, after a short hiatus from writing solely about The Baby, I'm going to write about her. This Saturday marked the beginning of what I'm calling "Any Day Now". Sophie is officially 37 weeks, which is what the medical community considers a full-term baby. My doctor said that after 36 weeks, they won't stop labor if it happens, but 37 weeks is the mark at which they also won't worry too much about the baby's breathing, and everything will probably be just fine without any medical dramatics.
So, we've passed that crucial point. I've been having some aches and pains that let me know that the baby might be here relatively soon. Chris is on high alert. He said that every time I text or call him during the day, he thinks I've gone into labor. Walking is somewhat painful a lot of the time, my pelvis feels like it's being slowly stretched apart, and my feet look like Barney Rubble's. Niiiiiice and puffy.
But those aren't the symptoms I'm paying the most attention to. No, the thing that I can't get off my mind is that I'm just ready to have this baby. Be it by c-section, by induction, by natural birth, I don't care. This pregnancy has gone past the point of cute or interesting, and is bordering on being a little disgusting. No belly skin should have to stretch this far. Twenty minutes of gentle yoga should not exhaust me. Sitting on the couch in a slightly awkward position should not warrant the application of Icy Hot to my lower back. It's been 37 weeks and 3 days. That's enough, I think.
I still love to feel her rolling around in there, still love the fact that she's coming, and still stand in her room, imagining her lying in the crib, or rocking her in the rocking chair, or reading little books to her, or putting her in all those adorable clothes we've been given. But now, the waiting has become irritating, like a sneeze that's been building up for 9 1/2 months but won't come out. People say, "Oh, are you so excited?" And I think, "Excited isn't the right word. I'm just ready." I've started trying to bribe her from the outside. I tell her things like, "Hey, if you come out now, I'll put you in this really cute elephant onesie and we'll listen to this Goldilocks and the 3 Bears record I bought you. It will be really fun..."
Part of this, I'm sure, is that I'm a little anxious about giving birth. From what I've heard, this is normal as I will be passing a small person out of my body and into the world. I think I have mentioned before how lucky I feel to be going through all of this in one of the most medically-advanced countries in the developed world, and I know that if I get too tired to go on during labor, or things aren't going well, there will be options to deliver the baby with little pain or danger to either of us. But it's the uncertainty. When is it going to happen? What will it feel like? Will she have my hair, or Chris's nose? And what if they give me a c-section and they end up cutting the baby, they way they cut fruit when they open a box with a box cutter? I'm just saying. These are the things running through my mind.
And so, in these last few weeks, if I seem distracted, please forgive me. I'm probably paying only half the attention I ought to be at any given moment...except when driving. I'm crazy-attentive while driving.
Hope you're well!
xo
So, we've passed that crucial point. I've been having some aches and pains that let me know that the baby might be here relatively soon. Chris is on high alert. He said that every time I text or call him during the day, he thinks I've gone into labor. Walking is somewhat painful a lot of the time, my pelvis feels like it's being slowly stretched apart, and my feet look like Barney Rubble's. Niiiiiice and puffy.
But those aren't the symptoms I'm paying the most attention to. No, the thing that I can't get off my mind is that I'm just ready to have this baby. Be it by c-section, by induction, by natural birth, I don't care. This pregnancy has gone past the point of cute or interesting, and is bordering on being a little disgusting. No belly skin should have to stretch this far. Twenty minutes of gentle yoga should not exhaust me. Sitting on the couch in a slightly awkward position should not warrant the application of Icy Hot to my lower back. It's been 37 weeks and 3 days. That's enough, I think.
I still love to feel her rolling around in there, still love the fact that she's coming, and still stand in her room, imagining her lying in the crib, or rocking her in the rocking chair, or reading little books to her, or putting her in all those adorable clothes we've been given. But now, the waiting has become irritating, like a sneeze that's been building up for 9 1/2 months but won't come out. People say, "Oh, are you so excited?" And I think, "Excited isn't the right word. I'm just ready." I've started trying to bribe her from the outside. I tell her things like, "Hey, if you come out now, I'll put you in this really cute elephant onesie and we'll listen to this Goldilocks and the 3 Bears record I bought you. It will be really fun..."
Part of this, I'm sure, is that I'm a little anxious about giving birth. From what I've heard, this is normal as I will be passing a small person out of my body and into the world. I think I have mentioned before how lucky I feel to be going through all of this in one of the most medically-advanced countries in the developed world, and I know that if I get too tired to go on during labor, or things aren't going well, there will be options to deliver the baby with little pain or danger to either of us. But it's the uncertainty. When is it going to happen? What will it feel like? Will she have my hair, or Chris's nose? And what if they give me a c-section and they end up cutting the baby, they way they cut fruit when they open a box with a box cutter? I'm just saying. These are the things running through my mind.
And so, in these last few weeks, if I seem distracted, please forgive me. I'm probably paying only half the attention I ought to be at any given moment...except when driving. I'm crazy-attentive while driving.
Hope you're well!
xo
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
58% Hippie
There comes a time in every person's life when you have to stop and ask yourself one of the most important questions when it comes to your identity: Am I a hippie?
Actually, scratch that. Not everyone has to ask themselves that. I have an uncle who, despite my familial love for him, drives me crazy with his right-wing politics. He doesn't have to ask himself that question. Neither does Chris's very conservative co-worker, who recently proposed to his girlfriend by hiding the ring a gun case. He is also exempt. And really, maybe this isn't a question most people need to ask themselves.
But I've been thinking about it recently, and have been asking myself that question. First of all, what does it take to consider oneself a hippie? Bare feet and dreadlocks? Hemp clothing? No job with a steady paycheck and/or a European attitude about social justice and hygiene?
We're having a baby soon (in case you didn't know), and I have found myself gravitating towards the most hippie of the baby care choices--cloth diapers, homemade baby food, drug-free labor (a near-impossibility at this point, due to the size of the baby's head), and daycare that serves organic, homemade meals. I even bought one of those cloth baby slings in which to tote the kid around town. I am one or two steps away from getting a henna belly tattoo and planting my placenta in my community garden plot. OK, not that last part.
Chris recently called me a hippie after being quoted in the Star Tribune's article(http://www.startribune.com/politics/statelocal/133406223.html) about Minnesotans' feelings about amending the state constitution to make gay marriage illegal. Guess how I feel about it? That's right, I don't like it! Do you want to know why? Because I think everyone should marry who they love, regardless of gender. Because I think that, if there is a God, he is shaking his head about how silly we're being about love. And because I believe in equality. If this makes me a hippie, well, then, where do I sign up for my standard-issue Birkenstocks?
Since it would be nearly impossible to reach an accurate conclusion on my own, I recently took an "Am I A Hippie?" quiz--feel free to do the same here: www.gotoquiz.com/are_you_a_hippie . Based on the fact that I drink low-fat, store bought milk (instead of raw), am not a vegetarian (anymore), live in an apartment (not a commune), plan to wear my baby (instead of use a stroller all the time), am liberal, and the fact that I sometimes enjoy reading poetry, I am considered 58% hippie.
That's plenty for me, I think. You won't find me dancing naked during a full moon or doing interpretive dances on the street for spare change, but you will find me in the kitchen, blending organic peas into a meal for baby Sophie. And I'll probably be barefoot.
xo
Actually, scratch that. Not everyone has to ask themselves that. I have an uncle who, despite my familial love for him, drives me crazy with his right-wing politics. He doesn't have to ask himself that question. Neither does Chris's very conservative co-worker, who recently proposed to his girlfriend by hiding the ring a gun case. He is also exempt. And really, maybe this isn't a question most people need to ask themselves.
But I've been thinking about it recently, and have been asking myself that question. First of all, what does it take to consider oneself a hippie? Bare feet and dreadlocks? Hemp clothing? No job with a steady paycheck and/or a European attitude about social justice and hygiene?
We're having a baby soon (in case you didn't know), and I have found myself gravitating towards the most hippie of the baby care choices--cloth diapers, homemade baby food, drug-free labor (a near-impossibility at this point, due to the size of the baby's head), and daycare that serves organic, homemade meals. I even bought one of those cloth baby slings in which to tote the kid around town. I am one or two steps away from getting a henna belly tattoo and planting my placenta in my community garden plot. OK, not that last part.
Chris recently called me a hippie after being quoted in the Star Tribune's article(http://www.startribune.com/politics/statelocal/133406223.html) about Minnesotans' feelings about amending the state constitution to make gay marriage illegal. Guess how I feel about it? That's right, I don't like it! Do you want to know why? Because I think everyone should marry who they love, regardless of gender. Because I think that, if there is a God, he is shaking his head about how silly we're being about love. And because I believe in equality. If this makes me a hippie, well, then, where do I sign up for my standard-issue Birkenstocks?
Since it would be nearly impossible to reach an accurate conclusion on my own, I recently took an "Am I A Hippie?" quiz--feel free to do the same here: www.gotoquiz.com/are_you_a_hippie . Based on the fact that I drink low-fat, store bought milk (instead of raw), am not a vegetarian (anymore), live in an apartment (not a commune), plan to wear my baby (instead of use a stroller all the time), am liberal, and the fact that I sometimes enjoy reading poetry, I am considered 58% hippie.
That's plenty for me, I think. You won't find me dancing naked during a full moon or doing interpretive dances on the street for spare change, but you will find me in the kitchen, blending organic peas into a meal for baby Sophie. And I'll probably be barefoot.
xo
Monday, November 7, 2011
Like Crazy? You Betcha.
Chris and I decided to spend part of our lazy Sunday at the movies. We had seen a trailer for a movie called 'Like Crazy', which depicts the unfolding of an international, long-distance relationship between a British girl and an American guy.
Admittedly, Chris and I have become long-distance relationship snobs. I don't think either of us would deny that we're proud of the job we did holding this thing together for all this time, despite uncertainty and expensive flights and a 6-hour time difference and well-meaning advice all that. I, at least, went into the movie with the hopes that they'd show a couple like us who had managed to make it work, and that I'd be able to leave feeling warm and fuzzy about my own difficult-to-make-work relationship.
(And just so you know, I'm totally going to ruin this movie for you. So, if you're wanting to see it, stop reading now.)
So, the story goes that the British girl is over on a student visa, and she develops feelings for one of her classmates. They start spending all their time together on awkward-looking, indie-romance dates and basically just looking at each other for ever-increasing periods of time. Then her visa runs out. She's planning on going home for the summer, then returning on a visitor's visa. At the last minute, she decides, "You know what? Actually, I'm just going to overstay my visa for a few months, go home to England for a week for a wedding, and THEN come back on a visitor's visa." Which, don't even get me started on this, is THE dumbest plan ever, immigration-wise. Just like New Yorkers with tiny studio apartments, countries hate when people stay too long without asking first.
So, she goes back to England for a week, then tries to come back to the US, where she is greeted by Homeland Security and sent directly back home. She can't even leave the airport. So, this "couple" gets all mopey and subsequently enter this pathetic, downward relationship spiral in which they each start dating other people (and pretty seriously, might I add), only to text each other when the going gets tough and they "miss" one another. He flies over there after breaking up with his girlfriend, and this "couple" gets married in front of a judge in London. They then need to be apart for 6 months to fulfill some visa requirement. Each of them resumes their relationship with their 'other people'. Their lives go on. They even seem happy-ish without one another. They barely talk. Then, their immigration forms go through, her visa works out and she is able to move from England to America. Before this happens, her 'other boyfriend' proposes. An awkward conversation is depicted, and then a few days later, she flies to America and moves in with her American husband. The viewer is left to assume that they are now together, but sort of miserable. The last shot is of them hugging awkwardly, each of them with a "What the hell did we DO?" look on their face.
Needless to say, Chris and I both became sort of irritated by this movie. What, another cinematic depiction of international love gone wrong? Is that what's needed? We both decided that a story like ours would probably never be turned into a movie because, after a pretty tough start, it ended up with us married and about to have a baby. Moviegoers apparently aren't jonesing for a happy ending. And besides, the story of our relationship, from its quick start to our happy ending is a little unbelievable. Even I'd roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, right!" if I saw the movie version.
But it obviously can be done, and we're proof. So, I've devised a list of rules to follow if you find yourself in an international, long-distance relationship.
Admittedly, Chris and I have become long-distance relationship snobs. I don't think either of us would deny that we're proud of the job we did holding this thing together for all this time, despite uncertainty and expensive flights and a 6-hour time difference and well-meaning advice all that. I, at least, went into the movie with the hopes that they'd show a couple like us who had managed to make it work, and that I'd be able to leave feeling warm and fuzzy about my own difficult-to-make-work relationship.
(And just so you know, I'm totally going to ruin this movie for you. So, if you're wanting to see it, stop reading now.)
So, the story goes that the British girl is over on a student visa, and she develops feelings for one of her classmates. They start spending all their time together on awkward-looking, indie-romance dates and basically just looking at each other for ever-increasing periods of time. Then her visa runs out. She's planning on going home for the summer, then returning on a visitor's visa. At the last minute, she decides, "You know what? Actually, I'm just going to overstay my visa for a few months, go home to England for a week for a wedding, and THEN come back on a visitor's visa." Which, don't even get me started on this, is THE dumbest plan ever, immigration-wise. Just like New Yorkers with tiny studio apartments, countries hate when people stay too long without asking first.
So, she goes back to England for a week, then tries to come back to the US, where she is greeted by Homeland Security and sent directly back home. She can't even leave the airport. So, this "couple" gets all mopey and subsequently enter this pathetic, downward relationship spiral in which they each start dating other people (and pretty seriously, might I add), only to text each other when the going gets tough and they "miss" one another. He flies over there after breaking up with his girlfriend, and this "couple" gets married in front of a judge in London. They then need to be apart for 6 months to fulfill some visa requirement. Each of them resumes their relationship with their 'other people'. Their lives go on. They even seem happy-ish without one another. They barely talk. Then, their immigration forms go through, her visa works out and she is able to move from England to America. Before this happens, her 'other boyfriend' proposes. An awkward conversation is depicted, and then a few days later, she flies to America and moves in with her American husband. The viewer is left to assume that they are now together, but sort of miserable. The last shot is of them hugging awkwardly, each of them with a "What the hell did we DO?" look on their face.
Needless to say, Chris and I both became sort of irritated by this movie. What, another cinematic depiction of international love gone wrong? Is that what's needed? We both decided that a story like ours would probably never be turned into a movie because, after a pretty tough start, it ended up with us married and about to have a baby. Moviegoers apparently aren't jonesing for a happy ending. And besides, the story of our relationship, from its quick start to our happy ending is a little unbelievable. Even I'd roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, right!" if I saw the movie version.
But it obviously can be done, and we're proof. So, I've devised a list of rules to follow if you find yourself in an international, long-distance relationship.
The Rules
1. DO NOT VIOLATE THE TERMS OF ANY VISA YOU MAY HAVE. Student, travel, work--they're all set in stone, according to your respective countries. You will kick yourself later if you get banned from their country, or they get banned from yours. You really will. Of course, if you do decide to get married on a visitor's visa, there are ways to do it. But, generally speaking, don't violate your visa.
2. Don't date other people. If you're going to do this, really do it. If it's not worth giving up dating, it's not worth it.
3. Evaluate whether or not you're willing to be incredibly uncomfortable for a long time, possible until it works out (which could be months or years), or until the relationship falls apart. This may also take months or years.
4. Talk every day. If you can't talk every day, send messages about why you can't talk, and then make it a top priority to talk the next day. Yes. Every. Single. Day. For months or years. Whatever you've got going on, drop it for 15 minutes or so and call this person. Just do it.
5. Find a way to spend "normal" time with the person. Start a movie at the same time and talk on the phone or even over instant messaging while you watch it. Cook together over the phone, even if you're just pouring a bowl of cereal and the other person is making dinner.
6. Don't watch 'Like Crazy'. You might end up thinking that things like this never work out.
7. Also, don't listen to any naysayers who tell you this can't work out. Either they've seen 'Like Crazy', or they're jealous that you're dating someone with a cool accent and they're not. Or they might just think they're acting in your best interest. Either way, if you think this has got a shot, give it the best shot you've got. If it works out, you've got a great love story. If it doesn't, you've got a great story to tell while drunk, or to get out of a bad date.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Time I Lived In the Hormel Historic Home
The summer after my freshman year of college, I moved back to Austin, Minnesota to work as a waitress at a truck stop like I had the summer before. It was a good job, believe it or not. It was fairly easy, and I could talk to the customers very casually. The tips ranged from bad to poor, but I still managed to fill a plastic lunchbox full of $1s every week, which I brought to the bank with the same joke every week: "No, this is not stripper money."
My parents had moved out of Austin a few weeks after I'd graduated from high school, so I had to find a place to live on my own for the summer. Apartments were out of the question because no one is going to let a 19-year-old with no furniture move in for only 3 months. I can't remember who first suggested this crazy idea, but someone native to Austin suggested I check out the Historic Hormel Home because they sometimes rented out rooms to young women who needed a place to stay for a short time.
Let me interject some history here. Austin is the home of Hormel meat packing, which is where they process bacon, ham, and, most ubiquitously, Spam. The entire town smells like bacon several days a week and there is a 'Spam Jam' every summer, which is just another small-town festival with a funny name. The Hormel family lived in Austin, and one of the Hormel brothers had a big house in the middle of town. That house is still there, and now has a website, should you be so inclined: http://www.hormelhistorichome.org/
So, I checked it out. For $180 a month, I could live in this crazy, furnished house. I signed up and moved in immediately. The rental agreement had its quirks. First of all, the home was subject to tours throughout the day, meaning I had to time my trips to the historic bathroom and leave it spotless after brushing my teeth or showering or whatever. I had to use the servants' staircase at the back of the house. I could only eat at the servants' table in the kitchen, which actually suited me just fine because it was in a little alcove, and I'd always wanted a little breakfast nook-type area to eat my breakfast in.
I could also not have male guests anywhere in the house besides the first floor. I had to refrain from walking through the main part of the house during tours, wedding receptions, and bridge tournaments, which proved to be frequent. I could only use one shelf of the fridge, and one shelf in the pantry. Meals had to be prepared and eaten only when functions were not occurring. As I suggested two sentences ago, this severely limited the amount of time I was able to spend in the kitchen. I wasn't allowed to answer the house phone during business hours, which were 8-5 every day. There was no air conditioning.
The rules weren't the weirdest part of living at the HHH. No, it was the fact that no one else lived there. I was alone in the home after 5PM. Now, you might be thinking, "What's wrong with that? It would be fun to be alone in a big, dark, old house by yourself at night!" Oh, you're not thinking that? Well, neither was I. That house was scary in the dark. There were mannequins and dress forms with historical clothing scattered throughout the house, and a weird, old piano that I was pretty sure was going to start playing itself at any moment. One night after I'd turned out the lights, a bat started flapping around in my room. I debated trying to ignore it or sleeping with the lights on, but eventually I broke the 'no boys on the second floor' rule and called my friend, Mike Porter, who used a tennis racket to scoop it into a Tide box.
The final straw for me was that one morning, after working an overnight shift at the truck stop, I ducked into the bathroom wearing sleep shorts and a tank top to brush my teeth. I was only moments into the process when I heard the clomp-clomping of a tour coming up the stairs towards the bathroom. I froze as the tour guide attempted to open the door, then pounded on it. I sheepishly announced my presence, heard her clumsily explain that people lived in the home, and then waited in silence as they proceeded to the next room. When the chance arose, I dashed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. As I drifted off to sleep, the tour stopped outside my room. Several of the tour group members attempted to open my bedroom door, which woke me up in a panic. I decided then and there to look at other living arrangements for the rest of the summer.
After about 10 weeks in the HHH, I moved out and ended up moving in with Mary's family. Mary and I had a great time. Apparently, she had thought I was really crazy for living there in the first place. I had just considered myself thrifty and independent.
xo
My parents had moved out of Austin a few weeks after I'd graduated from high school, so I had to find a place to live on my own for the summer. Apartments were out of the question because no one is going to let a 19-year-old with no furniture move in for only 3 months. I can't remember who first suggested this crazy idea, but someone native to Austin suggested I check out the Historic Hormel Home because they sometimes rented out rooms to young women who needed a place to stay for a short time.
Let me interject some history here. Austin is the home of Hormel meat packing, which is where they process bacon, ham, and, most ubiquitously, Spam. The entire town smells like bacon several days a week and there is a 'Spam Jam' every summer, which is just another small-town festival with a funny name. The Hormel family lived in Austin, and one of the Hormel brothers had a big house in the middle of town. That house is still there, and now has a website, should you be so inclined: http://www.hormelhistorichome.org/
So, I checked it out. For $180 a month, I could live in this crazy, furnished house. I signed up and moved in immediately. The rental agreement had its quirks. First of all, the home was subject to tours throughout the day, meaning I had to time my trips to the historic bathroom and leave it spotless after brushing my teeth or showering or whatever. I had to use the servants' staircase at the back of the house. I could only eat at the servants' table in the kitchen, which actually suited me just fine because it was in a little alcove, and I'd always wanted a little breakfast nook-type area to eat my breakfast in.
I could also not have male guests anywhere in the house besides the first floor. I had to refrain from walking through the main part of the house during tours, wedding receptions, and bridge tournaments, which proved to be frequent. I could only use one shelf of the fridge, and one shelf in the pantry. Meals had to be prepared and eaten only when functions were not occurring. As I suggested two sentences ago, this severely limited the amount of time I was able to spend in the kitchen. I wasn't allowed to answer the house phone during business hours, which were 8-5 every day. There was no air conditioning.
The rules weren't the weirdest part of living at the HHH. No, it was the fact that no one else lived there. I was alone in the home after 5PM. Now, you might be thinking, "What's wrong with that? It would be fun to be alone in a big, dark, old house by yourself at night!" Oh, you're not thinking that? Well, neither was I. That house was scary in the dark. There were mannequins and dress forms with historical clothing scattered throughout the house, and a weird, old piano that I was pretty sure was going to start playing itself at any moment. One night after I'd turned out the lights, a bat started flapping around in my room. I debated trying to ignore it or sleeping with the lights on, but eventually I broke the 'no boys on the second floor' rule and called my friend, Mike Porter, who used a tennis racket to scoop it into a Tide box.
The final straw for me was that one morning, after working an overnight shift at the truck stop, I ducked into the bathroom wearing sleep shorts and a tank top to brush my teeth. I was only moments into the process when I heard the clomp-clomping of a tour coming up the stairs towards the bathroom. I froze as the tour guide attempted to open the door, then pounded on it. I sheepishly announced my presence, heard her clumsily explain that people lived in the home, and then waited in silence as they proceeded to the next room. When the chance arose, I dashed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. As I drifted off to sleep, the tour stopped outside my room. Several of the tour group members attempted to open my bedroom door, which woke me up in a panic. I decided then and there to look at other living arrangements for the rest of the summer.
After about 10 weeks in the HHH, I moved out and ended up moving in with Mary's family. Mary and I had a great time. Apparently, she had thought I was really crazy for living there in the first place. I had just considered myself thrifty and independent.
xo
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Time I Used A Glue Stick Like Chapstick
So, when I was in 6th grade, my family learned that my dad's job at IBM was transferred out to their site in San Jose, California. We moved out there and I started a new school for 7th grade (which was sort of traumatic in a "that which doesn't kill you..." kind of way). I was not immediately popular, mostly because I was pasty, freckled, had a crazy Minnesotan accent, and wasn't allowed to wear makeup yet. Meanwhile, the other girls were sort of cool and mature. They'd been wearing makeup for years. Some of them had even been in "serious" relationships. I was way out of my league, to say the least.
Anyway, there were some particularly mean girls I won't name, just in case some day they read this blog and feel guilty...or justified, I guess. I had a few friends, and things definitely got better when I realized that it makes sense to pay a little attention to how I look. Things definitely improved when I started paying attention to trends. One of the most important trends at this school was the accumulation of Sanrio school supplies. Sanrio is the company that makes Hello Kitty things. Hello Kitty and all her chubby little animal friends were extremely popular at my new school in California. The good thing was that I genuinely liked these characters and thought they were cool, so it wasn't exactly selling out. The bad thing is that I was 13, had no money, and had very little idea where to obtain said Sanrio items.
So, fast forward a little bit, and I've got a semi-regular baby-sitting job down the street from my house, and therefore, more money to spend on Sanrio school supplies. My family lived in a really great place in California, just about halfway between the Bay Area and the Monterrey/Carmel/Santa Cruz area. One of the best parts of the whole thing is that people wanted to come visit us, which meant that we basically were forced to explore a lot in order to come up with fun things to do with our guests. One of my favorite things to do was to go to Chinatown in San Francisco. It was this busy, exciting part of a beautiful city, full of little shops and lots of restaurants. There were grocery stores selling whole, sometimes live animals. One time, an eel meant to be sold for food flopped out of a Styrofoam box onto the sidewalk in front of me, which I thought was the coolest thing in the world.
Anyway, one of these shops was a massive, brightly-colored Sanrio store. It was full of school supplies, clothing, makeup, and stuffed animals all bearing the likeness of Hello Kitty and all her anthropomorphic animal friends. I was in adolescent girl heaven. I stocked up on this stuff like I was preparing for some kind of tween girl survival camping trip--I got a pencil case with Keropi the frog, some notebooks, some folders, and some pens. When I lugged this up to the register, I noticed a little display selling some chunky chapsticks, all decorated with the cute characters and Chinese writing. Well, I needed an authentic, straight-from-China Hello Kitty chapstick. There was no question in my teen-girl mind. I bought one.
The first time I used it, I thought it was a little strange. It was vaguely mint-flavored and didn't feel moisturizing, like other chapsticks. I thought to my self, 'Well, this is just the way chapstick is in China.' I literally thought those words. The other girls in my class loved my new Sanrio supplies and oohed and aahhhed appropriately. Finally, I felt like I fit in just a little.
I was using my Hello Kitty chapstick one day, and one of the girls asked to see it. She smelled it, frowned, and said, "This smells weird. Can I use it?" This was at a time that I was more interested in keeping friends than cleanliness, so I agreed. She put some on. "This is weird!" she said. Another girl also tried it. "This isn't chapstick!" she said, laughing hysterically. "It's GLUE!" My cheeks almost burned off from the embarrassment. Within moments, the entire class I'd been working so hard to win over knew that this pale, Norwegian-sounding Minnesotan had been routinely slicking on glue stick instead of chapstick. Eventually, everyone got over it. And by eventually, I mean by the time we all moved on to different high schools.
I wish I could say that I'd learned something profound by going through this experience. Maybe I have. Maybe it turned me into someone who is more friendly to people in tough circumstances, or makes me go out of my way to be welcoming to newcomers in any situation. But the most important lessons I can identify all these years later are A.) Don't buy a beauty product unless you can read the language on its packaging and B.) Don't share your chapstick. If it does happen to actually be a glue stick, you'll be really, really embarrassed.
xo
Anyway, there were some particularly mean girls I won't name, just in case some day they read this blog and feel guilty...or justified, I guess. I had a few friends, and things definitely got better when I realized that it makes sense to pay a little attention to how I look. Things definitely improved when I started paying attention to trends. One of the most important trends at this school was the accumulation of Sanrio school supplies. Sanrio is the company that makes Hello Kitty things. Hello Kitty and all her chubby little animal friends were extremely popular at my new school in California. The good thing was that I genuinely liked these characters and thought they were cool, so it wasn't exactly selling out. The bad thing is that I was 13, had no money, and had very little idea where to obtain said Sanrio items.
So, fast forward a little bit, and I've got a semi-regular baby-sitting job down the street from my house, and therefore, more money to spend on Sanrio school supplies. My family lived in a really great place in California, just about halfway between the Bay Area and the Monterrey/Carmel/Santa Cruz area. One of the best parts of the whole thing is that people wanted to come visit us, which meant that we basically were forced to explore a lot in order to come up with fun things to do with our guests. One of my favorite things to do was to go to Chinatown in San Francisco. It was this busy, exciting part of a beautiful city, full of little shops and lots of restaurants. There were grocery stores selling whole, sometimes live animals. One time, an eel meant to be sold for food flopped out of a Styrofoam box onto the sidewalk in front of me, which I thought was the coolest thing in the world.
Anyway, one of these shops was a massive, brightly-colored Sanrio store. It was full of school supplies, clothing, makeup, and stuffed animals all bearing the likeness of Hello Kitty and all her anthropomorphic animal friends. I was in adolescent girl heaven. I stocked up on this stuff like I was preparing for some kind of tween girl survival camping trip--I got a pencil case with Keropi the frog, some notebooks, some folders, and some pens. When I lugged this up to the register, I noticed a little display selling some chunky chapsticks, all decorated with the cute characters and Chinese writing. Well, I needed an authentic, straight-from-China Hello Kitty chapstick. There was no question in my teen-girl mind. I bought one.
The first time I used it, I thought it was a little strange. It was vaguely mint-flavored and didn't feel moisturizing, like other chapsticks. I thought to my self, 'Well, this is just the way chapstick is in China.' I literally thought those words. The other girls in my class loved my new Sanrio supplies and oohed and aahhhed appropriately. Finally, I felt like I fit in just a little.
I was using my Hello Kitty chapstick one day, and one of the girls asked to see it. She smelled it, frowned, and said, "This smells weird. Can I use it?" This was at a time that I was more interested in keeping friends than cleanliness, so I agreed. She put some on. "This is weird!" she said. Another girl also tried it. "This isn't chapstick!" she said, laughing hysterically. "It's GLUE!" My cheeks almost burned off from the embarrassment. Within moments, the entire class I'd been working so hard to win over knew that this pale, Norwegian-sounding Minnesotan had been routinely slicking on glue stick instead of chapstick. Eventually, everyone got over it. And by eventually, I mean by the time we all moved on to different high schools.
I wish I could say that I'd learned something profound by going through this experience. Maybe I have. Maybe it turned me into someone who is more friendly to people in tough circumstances, or makes me go out of my way to be welcoming to newcomers in any situation. But the most important lessons I can identify all these years later are A.) Don't buy a beauty product unless you can read the language on its packaging and B.) Don't share your chapstick. If it does happen to actually be a glue stick, you'll be really, really embarrassed.
xo
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Time I Almost Moved In With Those Hippies
One part of this whole pregnancy experience that has been kind of interesting is the time between 3:45AM and 5AM. I inevitably wake up around this time every morning and have a tough time getting back to sleep. My mind leads me around, sometimes into the future, but mostly, it takes me back to seemingly-random points in my life and really lets me take a good look at them. The thoughts are rarely unpleasant, so they're not stressful or anything like that. They're just thoughts about things I've done in my life, free and clear of any judgment.
This morning, my mind settled in with thoughts of the year before I moved out to Glasgow. It was a weird time--I was in this new-ish relationship with someone I rarely had a chance to spend time with, and was mentally preparing to leave the country, but not for a year. I was working a job at a hospital with weird hours, and had a part-time job as a mental health worker that was quickly becoming like a full-time job. I was living in a little apartment in uptown next to a chronic alcoholic who was both sweet and concerning. It was a kind of stressful time, but I remember also feeling like it was sort of fun to be young and poor and living on my own.
Anyway, I had decided to move out of the apartment and into some kind of other living situation that would allow me to get rid of the majority of my personal possessions so that when the time came for me to make my way across the ocean, I'd be unencumbered. I found an ad on Craigslist for a couple who was looking to rent out one of the bedrooms in their apartment. They lived only blocks away from my old place. The ad said the room would be furnished. It sounded fine. And yes, I understand finding a living arrangement on Craigslist is sketchy. I wouldn't do it now, obviously.
I alerted one of my friends that I was going to look at this place, and told her to call the police if I didn't call back in an hour. When I arrived, I was greeted by what I would now call a 'late 30s hipster couple', but who at the time, I referred to as 'the old hippies'. The woman was wearing some kind of caftan and had disheveled, maroon hair that hadn't seen Pantene or a brush in a long time, and wore manic, red lipstick. The man was equally disheveled with long hair and a longer beard. There was a sweet dog with matted hair who jumped immediately into my lap. The apartment was crammed full of dusty piles of books, mason jars with plants and dirt, and smelled strongly of incense. The part of me raised by my parents felt immediately dubious, but another part of me really liked it. We, the hippies and I, talked for over an hour about politics, community gardens, and people from the suburbs getting mugged in their neighborhood. I ended up going to their neighborhood block party, drinking wine and biking the few blocks home a little tipsy.
The short story is that I was thisclose to moving in with them until my school in Glasgow told me I might be able to enroll a year earlier than I had anticipated (this ultimately fell through). Mary and I ended up moving in together, and it was the best possible way to spend my "last year in America", which turned out not to be my last at all. The hippies ended up keeping my deposit because I bailed on them at the last minute, which sort of irked me at the time, but really, nothing came of it and I never saw them again.
So, this morning, my mind brought me there. I don't know why. Maybe it was saying, "Hey, look again at this odd decision you almost made." Or maybe it was a warning not to lose that open-minded part of myself. Or maybe it was just a random thought my mind was trying to get rid of in order to make space for all the parenting advice I'm about to be given. Who knows?
xo
This morning, my mind settled in with thoughts of the year before I moved out to Glasgow. It was a weird time--I was in this new-ish relationship with someone I rarely had a chance to spend time with, and was mentally preparing to leave the country, but not for a year. I was working a job at a hospital with weird hours, and had a part-time job as a mental health worker that was quickly becoming like a full-time job. I was living in a little apartment in uptown next to a chronic alcoholic who was both sweet and concerning. It was a kind of stressful time, but I remember also feeling like it was sort of fun to be young and poor and living on my own.
Anyway, I had decided to move out of the apartment and into some kind of other living situation that would allow me to get rid of the majority of my personal possessions so that when the time came for me to make my way across the ocean, I'd be unencumbered. I found an ad on Craigslist for a couple who was looking to rent out one of the bedrooms in their apartment. They lived only blocks away from my old place. The ad said the room would be furnished. It sounded fine. And yes, I understand finding a living arrangement on Craigslist is sketchy. I wouldn't do it now, obviously.
I alerted one of my friends that I was going to look at this place, and told her to call the police if I didn't call back in an hour. When I arrived, I was greeted by what I would now call a 'late 30s hipster couple', but who at the time, I referred to as 'the old hippies'. The woman was wearing some kind of caftan and had disheveled, maroon hair that hadn't seen Pantene or a brush in a long time, and wore manic, red lipstick. The man was equally disheveled with long hair and a longer beard. There was a sweet dog with matted hair who jumped immediately into my lap. The apartment was crammed full of dusty piles of books, mason jars with plants and dirt, and smelled strongly of incense. The part of me raised by my parents felt immediately dubious, but another part of me really liked it. We, the hippies and I, talked for over an hour about politics, community gardens, and people from the suburbs getting mugged in their neighborhood. I ended up going to their neighborhood block party, drinking wine and biking the few blocks home a little tipsy.
The short story is that I was thisclose to moving in with them until my school in Glasgow told me I might be able to enroll a year earlier than I had anticipated (this ultimately fell through). Mary and I ended up moving in together, and it was the best possible way to spend my "last year in America", which turned out not to be my last at all. The hippies ended up keeping my deposit because I bailed on them at the last minute, which sort of irked me at the time, but really, nothing came of it and I never saw them again.
So, this morning, my mind brought me there. I don't know why. Maybe it was saying, "Hey, look again at this odd decision you almost made." Or maybe it was a warning not to lose that open-minded part of myself. Or maybe it was just a random thought my mind was trying to get rid of in order to make space for all the parenting advice I'm about to be given. Who knows?
xo
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Is This It?
Something has changed in the last week or so, and I'm not really sure where to start. To begin with, my awesome in-laws were here for a week and just left on Tuesday (it's Thursday now). While they were here, we did a lot of things, ate out a lot, went to the orchestra, went to Duluth, and generally spent a lot of time together. It was really nice to have them come stay with us and it felt very good to have them so close, even if just for a little bit of time. There was also a lot of tea and biscuits--so, so many biscuits!
During that time, my best friend Mary threw me an amazing baby shower. It was perfect. It was so fun and perfectly low-key and I got to invite all the women in my life I like the most. It was incredible to have my mom, Chris's mom, Mary's mom, and a bunch of friends in the same room, and all to celebrate this little baby who we've decided to bring into the world. People wrote little pieces of advice for me, and my own mom wrote, "It takes a village to raise a baby, and you've got one." And I believe it now. Maybe that's what baby showers are really all about--a reminder that people are happy for you, happy about the baby, and just there for you if you need them. And it's a reminder that comes at the perfect time--when you are beginning to get anxious about your ability to do this.
So, after the shower, I had more things for the baby--really important things, like a place for her to sleep, a health and safety kit (complete with one of those little nose suction things and a thermometer)--and more love (and leftover pasta salad) than I could have imagined having. I also had time with both sets of Sophie's grandparents, and the realization that holy crap, this kid is lucky. Our parents are all incredible, loving, generous, supportive people. They are ready to love this baby.
So, we have the baby stuff, and the support. Our daycare is in place. The baby will have insurance. We have money squirreled away. Chris has thoughts and plans of starting a college fund in his head. We've researched all the applicable tax credits and childcare savings plans through our employers. We know where to go to have the baby. I'm wondering now, is this it? Are these the exact moments in which we've become ready to have this baby arrive?
A week or so ago, I felt completely unprepared. But lately, life has quickly pushed me towards readiness, and I can feel my body preparing for what's to come. It's so crazy, and so awesome.
So, that's what's been going on over here. How have you all been?
xo
During that time, my best friend Mary threw me an amazing baby shower. It was perfect. It was so fun and perfectly low-key and I got to invite all the women in my life I like the most. It was incredible to have my mom, Chris's mom, Mary's mom, and a bunch of friends in the same room, and all to celebrate this little baby who we've decided to bring into the world. People wrote little pieces of advice for me, and my own mom wrote, "It takes a village to raise a baby, and you've got one." And I believe it now. Maybe that's what baby showers are really all about--a reminder that people are happy for you, happy about the baby, and just there for you if you need them. And it's a reminder that comes at the perfect time--when you are beginning to get anxious about your ability to do this.
So, after the shower, I had more things for the baby--really important things, like a place for her to sleep, a health and safety kit (complete with one of those little nose suction things and a thermometer)--and more love (and leftover pasta salad) than I could have imagined having. I also had time with both sets of Sophie's grandparents, and the realization that holy crap, this kid is lucky. Our parents are all incredible, loving, generous, supportive people. They are ready to love this baby.
So, we have the baby stuff, and the support. Our daycare is in place. The baby will have insurance. We have money squirreled away. Chris has thoughts and plans of starting a college fund in his head. We've researched all the applicable tax credits and childcare savings plans through our employers. We know where to go to have the baby. I'm wondering now, is this it? Are these the exact moments in which we've become ready to have this baby arrive?
A week or so ago, I felt completely unprepared. But lately, life has quickly pushed me towards readiness, and I can feel my body preparing for what's to come. It's so crazy, and so awesome.
So, that's what's been going on over here. How have you all been?
xo
Monday, October 3, 2011
Christina vs Christopherson
So, Chris and I moved to a new apartment back in February. We had gone to look at our new place with a delightful half-wit I will not name here. Actually, what the hell--her name is Heidi.
Heidi showed us around the apartment, which was several steps above our dingy basement apartment in Uptown. This evaluation is based on the fact that the new apartment was not in the basement, did not have non-ornamental exposed piping, and was larger than a refrigerator box. We really liked the apartment, except for one tiny thing: It did not have a dishwasher. We brought this up to Heidi, who immediately said that she could get us a dishwasher, and that management would never let something like a dishwasher get in the way of having us sign a new lease. So, we were optimistic. Who wouldn't have been?
How foolish we were.
We went in to sign the lease a few days later after again being reassured that they'd be able to put in a dishwasher, "no problem". Before we put pen to paper, I asked about the dishwasher. Heidi rolled her eyes and said, "Oh! I forgot to ask! But seriously, it won't be a problem."
I hesitated. "This is a pretty big deal. We are thinking this is the apartment we'll be in for a few years and we really, really need a dishwasher. It's really important to us."
Heidi reassured us again, this time even going as far as to say, "Here, let me call my manager so you'll be hearing it from someone else, too." She got on the phone, put it on speaker, and called her manager, who said it shouldn't be a problem. At this point, what would you have assumed about this? We assumed we were getting a dishwasher. We signed the lease.
On the way back to our old place, I commented that I thought maybe we should have had them put something about the dishwasher in writing. Chris, being British and less jaded than I, said he thought it would all work out. I felt comforted. We were getting our dishwasher!
A few days later, after we'd planned for the movers to come, changed out address, and told everyone about the move, Heidi called me at work. She asked if we were excited to get moved in. I said, "Yes, very!" There was a pause on the other end. "...even if you don't have a dishwasher?" she asked, verbally cowering in the corner.
It turns out that, actually, management decided that, actually, they 'couldn't sacrifice cabinet space for a dishwasher'. So, no dishwasher. No dishwasher at all. No chance.
Fast forward through a not-so-polite conversation between Heidi and I, and then one between Chris and Heidi, and then a few months. Mary, my best friend of 23 years, and her boyfriend, Nate, ended up moving into the apartment across the hall. As they were moving in, Chris and I came over to marvel in the fact that their apartment is an exact replica of ours...except for one thing. THEY HAD A DISHWASHER! Their kitchen was exactly the same, except that they had half the cabinet space and 100% MORE DISHWASHER!
Chris and I made an attempt to talk to Christopherson management about this, but were again denied. We lived with it and considered a lack of dishwasher a kind of bourgeoisie problem. But now, we're having a kid. A sticky, messy, lovely kid who will enter this world as a baby, and will sometimes need bottles. And yes, I'm aware that people washed bottles by hand before dishwashers were invented. People also got small pox and washed their petticoats on rocks in the river before we figured out we didn't have to do that stuff.
In any case, I decided to wait until I was really pregnant to go in and talk to them about getting a dishwasher. And now is that time. I went in to drop of my rent and asked to speak with a manager about getting a dishwasher. Then I was told that I had to set up an appointment to do that. So...I will be meeting toe to toe with Bonnie from Christopherson properties tomorrow. Wish me luck. Actually, wish her luck. I'm a hormonal pregnant person. She's going to need it!
xo
Heidi showed us around the apartment, which was several steps above our dingy basement apartment in Uptown. This evaluation is based on the fact that the new apartment was not in the basement, did not have non-ornamental exposed piping, and was larger than a refrigerator box. We really liked the apartment, except for one tiny thing: It did not have a dishwasher. We brought this up to Heidi, who immediately said that she could get us a dishwasher, and that management would never let something like a dishwasher get in the way of having us sign a new lease. So, we were optimistic. Who wouldn't have been?
How foolish we were.
We went in to sign the lease a few days later after again being reassured that they'd be able to put in a dishwasher, "no problem". Before we put pen to paper, I asked about the dishwasher. Heidi rolled her eyes and said, "Oh! I forgot to ask! But seriously, it won't be a problem."
I hesitated. "This is a pretty big deal. We are thinking this is the apartment we'll be in for a few years and we really, really need a dishwasher. It's really important to us."
Heidi reassured us again, this time even going as far as to say, "Here, let me call my manager so you'll be hearing it from someone else, too." She got on the phone, put it on speaker, and called her manager, who said it shouldn't be a problem. At this point, what would you have assumed about this? We assumed we were getting a dishwasher. We signed the lease.
On the way back to our old place, I commented that I thought maybe we should have had them put something about the dishwasher in writing. Chris, being British and less jaded than I, said he thought it would all work out. I felt comforted. We were getting our dishwasher!
A few days later, after we'd planned for the movers to come, changed out address, and told everyone about the move, Heidi called me at work. She asked if we were excited to get moved in. I said, "Yes, very!" There was a pause on the other end. "...even if you don't have a dishwasher?" she asked, verbally cowering in the corner.
It turns out that, actually, management decided that, actually, they 'couldn't sacrifice cabinet space for a dishwasher'. So, no dishwasher. No dishwasher at all. No chance.
Fast forward through a not-so-polite conversation between Heidi and I, and then one between Chris and Heidi, and then a few months. Mary, my best friend of 23 years, and her boyfriend, Nate, ended up moving into the apartment across the hall. As they were moving in, Chris and I came over to marvel in the fact that their apartment is an exact replica of ours...except for one thing. THEY HAD A DISHWASHER! Their kitchen was exactly the same, except that they had half the cabinet space and 100% MORE DISHWASHER!
Chris and I made an attempt to talk to Christopherson management about this, but were again denied. We lived with it and considered a lack of dishwasher a kind of bourgeoisie problem. But now, we're having a kid. A sticky, messy, lovely kid who will enter this world as a baby, and will sometimes need bottles. And yes, I'm aware that people washed bottles by hand before dishwashers were invented. People also got small pox and washed their petticoats on rocks in the river before we figured out we didn't have to do that stuff.
In any case, I decided to wait until I was really pregnant to go in and talk to them about getting a dishwasher. And now is that time. I went in to drop of my rent and asked to speak with a manager about getting a dishwasher. Then I was told that I had to set up an appointment to do that. So...I will be meeting toe to toe with Bonnie from Christopherson properties tomorrow. Wish me luck. Actually, wish her luck. I'm a hormonal pregnant person. She's going to need it!
xo
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Top Five Things I Didn't Know About Being "With Child"
5. How wild and free other people get when talking about pregnant women. Yeah, comment about my size. Go ahead, ask me if I'm about to pop. Sure, make a weird comment about my body, even though it's doing something pretty difficult and amazing. No, that's totally fine. Yeah, that's normal. It's allll normal.
4. How amazing I'd find it all. I'm not one of those 'life is a miracle' people (yet), because we don't really say that about any other animal. No one is saying, "Wow, look at all those baby snakes. What a miracle." Or, "Wow, look at all those tadpoles. It's a miracle!" We usually just say that about ourselves. But the other day, Chris and I were just kind of marvelling at how, right now, there is a little person living inside me that is made up of both of us. She used to be the size of a period on a page, and now she's the size of a cabbage, and I really didn't have to do much except wait for it to happen. That's just...that's just crazy!
3. How absolutely crazy and protective I am becoming already. I looked at 12 daycare centers before finally choosing one. And even though the one we decided on seems like a safe, nurturing environment, the thought of leaving my baby there makes me want to throw up. I tested myself by imagining leaving her at any of the centers and had the same result. Also, I am not-so-secretly hoping that our elderly pet rat, Winston, kicks it before the baby comes. The thought of a smelly, dirty rat in our apartment with our fresh, sweet newborn is not one I want to have. If he's still around, it's OK, I'm just saying that I'm not going to be too shaken up if he happens to pass away peacefully in his sleep. Sorry, Chris. I love him, but...gross.
2. How much it would make me think about my own parents. I imagine them going through all of the things that Chris and I are--all the uncertainty, all the excitement, and the throwing up (my god, the throwing up!)--and I think that someone felt the way I feel about Sophie about me, and someone got just as excited about me kicking them in the ribs, and someone worried about how I was doing 'on the inside' like I worry about my baby. It makes me appreciate even more that life is a cycle, and I was, and am, very lucky to be loved like that.
1. How ready/not ready I am to be a mom. I know that for the time being, my responsibilities as a mom are to eat well, continue to not drink/smoke/do drugs/eat deli meat and predatory fish, but soon, that list will expand. The first year or two is basically about keeping the kid alive, warm, dry, fed, and watered, and I think I can do that stuff. Yes, I'll be tired. Yes, I'll be cranky. Yes, I'll probably write insomniac blog postings that make little sense while breastfeeding at 3AM. But I think I can do that. It's the stuff that comes afterwards that makes me nervous. Stuff like if my kid asks questions I don't know the answer to, or asks about what happens when you die, or why bad things happen to good people, or if she can't make friends at her new school, or if she is bad at math, or if she gets rejected by someone/a school/a job that is important to her. I can tell her what I think about those things, but I don't want that to automatically become what she thinks. That's really important to me, and I don't know how to do that yet.
I have a lot to learn. My hope is that when this kid comes out, I'll get to know her and be able to be what she needs whenever she needs it. And if I can't, she'll have to talk to her dad. And if he doesn't know, she'll probably be asking some of you for help. Just a warning.
xo
4. How amazing I'd find it all. I'm not one of those 'life is a miracle' people (yet), because we don't really say that about any other animal. No one is saying, "Wow, look at all those baby snakes. What a miracle." Or, "Wow, look at all those tadpoles. It's a miracle!" We usually just say that about ourselves. But the other day, Chris and I were just kind of marvelling at how, right now, there is a little person living inside me that is made up of both of us. She used to be the size of a period on a page, and now she's the size of a cabbage, and I really didn't have to do much except wait for it to happen. That's just...that's just crazy!
3. How absolutely crazy and protective I am becoming already. I looked at 12 daycare centers before finally choosing one. And even though the one we decided on seems like a safe, nurturing environment, the thought of leaving my baby there makes me want to throw up. I tested myself by imagining leaving her at any of the centers and had the same result. Also, I am not-so-secretly hoping that our elderly pet rat, Winston, kicks it before the baby comes. The thought of a smelly, dirty rat in our apartment with our fresh, sweet newborn is not one I want to have. If he's still around, it's OK, I'm just saying that I'm not going to be too shaken up if he happens to pass away peacefully in his sleep. Sorry, Chris. I love him, but...gross.
2. How much it would make me think about my own parents. I imagine them going through all of the things that Chris and I are--all the uncertainty, all the excitement, and the throwing up (my god, the throwing up!)--and I think that someone felt the way I feel about Sophie about me, and someone got just as excited about me kicking them in the ribs, and someone worried about how I was doing 'on the inside' like I worry about my baby. It makes me appreciate even more that life is a cycle, and I was, and am, very lucky to be loved like that.
1. How ready/not ready I am to be a mom. I know that for the time being, my responsibilities as a mom are to eat well, continue to not drink/smoke/do drugs/eat deli meat and predatory fish, but soon, that list will expand. The first year or two is basically about keeping the kid alive, warm, dry, fed, and watered, and I think I can do that stuff. Yes, I'll be tired. Yes, I'll be cranky. Yes, I'll probably write insomniac blog postings that make little sense while breastfeeding at 3AM. But I think I can do that. It's the stuff that comes afterwards that makes me nervous. Stuff like if my kid asks questions I don't know the answer to, or asks about what happens when you die, or why bad things happen to good people, or if she can't make friends at her new school, or if she is bad at math, or if she gets rejected by someone/a school/a job that is important to her. I can tell her what I think about those things, but I don't want that to automatically become what she thinks. That's really important to me, and I don't know how to do that yet.
I have a lot to learn. My hope is that when this kid comes out, I'll get to know her and be able to be what she needs whenever she needs it. And if I can't, she'll have to talk to her dad. And if he doesn't know, she'll probably be asking some of you for help. Just a warning.
xo
Monday, September 19, 2011
Holy Sheets
In about two weeks, Chris's lovely parents are coming to stay with us for a week. I'm really excited about it because it's been over a year since we've seen them (other than our weekly Skype dates), and because I am one of the lucky people in the world who has great in-laws. And no, I'm not just saying that because they read this blog. They're just nice people to be around and it's always great to see them.
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, September 9, 2011
50 "First Dates"
Since my real dating days are (thankfully) behind me, I've had to find a substitute for the awkward, disappointing, and sometimes hilarious process of meeting people for the first time in the hope that they will someday become an important part of my future. My substitute has recently come in the form of looking for our future daycare.
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Friday, September 2, 2011
Jerk Store
I had my first encounter with a rude pregnancy commenter last night. Chris and I were buying concessions at the Vikings game, and a woman looked me up and down and said, "Wow, you must be almost ready to pop." I told her that, in fact, I had about 13 weeks left. She looked shocked. "Is this your first?" she asked incredulously. "Yup," I replied, praying for this conversation to be over. She continued. "Really?! Are you maybe having twins?" At this point, phrases that I can't type were swimming through my mind. Because I was born and raised in Minnesota, I didn't say any of them out loud (to her, at least). I just laughed and shook my head and said, "No, just one." She shook her head in amazement. I grabbed my bison burger, sans fries, mind you, and got the hell out of there.
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
Monday, August 22, 2011
Weird at Work
Mental health is a field widely-known for attracting colorful characters. My office works barely, just barely, in the mental health field but does not lack for weirdos. Unlike in some other mental health jobs I've had, these weirdos are safe and lovable...like kittens or Beanie Babies. Here are some of my favorites:
Ho-Hum Secretary
This woman's only response to "How are you?" is "It's been a loooong day." In fact, you don't even have to ask her how she is. She'll just tell you. Sometimes all it takes is a little eye contact, and she's launching into how crappy her day has been, or how slowly the week is going, or how confusing some new system is, or how rude someone just was to her over the phone. Sometimes I want to say something to the effect of "Hey, it's not that I don't care, but I'm just walking past your desk on my way to the bathroom", but I never do. And now that I'm pregnant and therefore peeing every 40 seconds, I have to pass by her desk and hear about how mopey and anxious she is just as often. (And no, she is not clinically depressed or anything. Just very ho-hum. Yes, I'm sure.)
Three-Piece Suit
This doctor wears a three piece suit every single day, winter or summer, rain or shine, planned interaction with the public or not. He also acts like someone who should be wearing a three piece suit all the time. He's incredibly chivalrous, is incredibly polite and cheerful, and is about as anal retentive as they come. One time, he was in a meeting room I had reserved and had taped up about a thousand huge sheets of paper on the walls. I offered to help take them down (keep in mind, they were literally just sheets of paper with magic marker writing on them), and he said, "No! It's probably best if you don't touch them." I guess clean hands and 5 years of education don't qualify me to touch his papers.
Musical Doctor (aka, The Original Hipster)
This doctor listens to great music, gave me tickets to the New Pornographers because he wanted to spend time with his dog before having to have it put down, rides a scooter to work on nice days, and accidentally sent me an email in which he referred to his co-workers as 'losers'. He also has a mustache and is very tall, awkward, and lanky. He's not that great during social interactions, either. I like to think he grows his own pot, listens to vinyl, and lives in the upstairs of a duplex, but he probably lives with his wife in the 'burbs and has a vegetable garden. Still interesting.
Perpetually Hungover Billing Lady
I'm not here to say that this woman has a drinking problem or anything like that, but I think she is always recovering from the weekend, even on Wednesday. She's got amazing hair--like a 50's hairdo sprayed solid and cut down the middle with a headband--and the skinniest legs I've ever seen on an adult. I'm not kidding, her legs are as thin as my arms, and she's very round from the waist up. She likes to wear stretch pants and big t-shirts. Her voice sounds like she's been smoking since conception. Her laugh startles me sometimes, especially when it descends into a hacking cough that lasts for several minutes. There a picture on her desk of a horse, photographed sort of from the backside. One day I asked, "Is that your horse?" She started laughing her crazy, hacking cackle and shouted, "NO! MY EX-HUSBAND!" She subsists exclusively on pickle juice, hard candy, and Ramen noodles. Seriously, she said so.
The Loud One
In the office just around the corner, there lives a loud woman who thinks everyone else is kind of a moron. She tells high-volume, intense stories about the idiots who dare to show her houses she might like to buy, her future in-laws, and the people helping her to plan her wedding. My co-worker sits unfortunately close to the doorway and often has to shut the door to keep this woman's voice from carrying over the phone while she speaks with our patients. A few weeks ago, the door to our office was closed right away on Monday morning. When I opened it, my co-worker said, "I heard her say on Friday that she was going shopping for new kitchen cabinets over the weekend, and I can't listen to that this morning." She likes to wear Vikings jerseys to work. I know this woman better than I know most of my close friends...and I'm not even sure she knows my name.
Hope you're well!
xo
Ho-Hum Secretary
This woman's only response to "How are you?" is "It's been a loooong day." In fact, you don't even have to ask her how she is. She'll just tell you. Sometimes all it takes is a little eye contact, and she's launching into how crappy her day has been, or how slowly the week is going, or how confusing some new system is, or how rude someone just was to her over the phone. Sometimes I want to say something to the effect of "Hey, it's not that I don't care, but I'm just walking past your desk on my way to the bathroom", but I never do. And now that I'm pregnant and therefore peeing every 40 seconds, I have to pass by her desk and hear about how mopey and anxious she is just as often. (And no, she is not clinically depressed or anything. Just very ho-hum. Yes, I'm sure.)
Three-Piece Suit
This doctor wears a three piece suit every single day, winter or summer, rain or shine, planned interaction with the public or not. He also acts like someone who should be wearing a three piece suit all the time. He's incredibly chivalrous, is incredibly polite and cheerful, and is about as anal retentive as they come. One time, he was in a meeting room I had reserved and had taped up about a thousand huge sheets of paper on the walls. I offered to help take them down (keep in mind, they were literally just sheets of paper with magic marker writing on them), and he said, "No! It's probably best if you don't touch them." I guess clean hands and 5 years of education don't qualify me to touch his papers.
Musical Doctor (aka, The Original Hipster)
This doctor listens to great music, gave me tickets to the New Pornographers because he wanted to spend time with his dog before having to have it put down, rides a scooter to work on nice days, and accidentally sent me an email in which he referred to his co-workers as 'losers'. He also has a mustache and is very tall, awkward, and lanky. He's not that great during social interactions, either. I like to think he grows his own pot, listens to vinyl, and lives in the upstairs of a duplex, but he probably lives with his wife in the 'burbs and has a vegetable garden. Still interesting.
Perpetually Hungover Billing Lady
I'm not here to say that this woman has a drinking problem or anything like that, but I think she is always recovering from the weekend, even on Wednesday. She's got amazing hair--like a 50's hairdo sprayed solid and cut down the middle with a headband--and the skinniest legs I've ever seen on an adult. I'm not kidding, her legs are as thin as my arms, and she's very round from the waist up. She likes to wear stretch pants and big t-shirts. Her voice sounds like she's been smoking since conception. Her laugh startles me sometimes, especially when it descends into a hacking cough that lasts for several minutes. There a picture on her desk of a horse, photographed sort of from the backside. One day I asked, "Is that your horse?" She started laughing her crazy, hacking cackle and shouted, "NO! MY EX-HUSBAND!" She subsists exclusively on pickle juice, hard candy, and Ramen noodles. Seriously, she said so.
The Loud One
In the office just around the corner, there lives a loud woman who thinks everyone else is kind of a moron. She tells high-volume, intense stories about the idiots who dare to show her houses she might like to buy, her future in-laws, and the people helping her to plan her wedding. My co-worker sits unfortunately close to the doorway and often has to shut the door to keep this woman's voice from carrying over the phone while she speaks with our patients. A few weeks ago, the door to our office was closed right away on Monday morning. When I opened it, my co-worker said, "I heard her say on Friday that she was going shopping for new kitchen cabinets over the weekend, and I can't listen to that this morning." She likes to wear Vikings jerseys to work. I know this woman better than I know most of my close friends...and I'm not even sure she knows my name.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, August 19, 2011
You May Say That I'm A Socialist, But I'm Obviously Not The Only One
I've been having a lot of thoughts lately, partly about the baby but also about a lot of other things related to what it's really like to think about having a baby in this country.
Now, first of all, let me be all sunshine and roses here and say that yes, I understand that I'm living in a medically-advanced country, I am lucky to have health care that allows me to meet all my prenatal needs inexpensively, and I am, frankly, lucky to be a middle-class white, educated, married, employed woman of 28 giving birth to her first child. I am lucky that we got pregnant easily, lucky that I have a wonderful, supportive, loving, employed, educated husband, family, and group of friends, and lucky that I have a job that will allow me to work until I give birth and then take off 3 months with my new baby. I am lucky that I will probably not die in childbirth, lucky that my baby will have immediate access to the best medical care should something go wrong, and lucky that I've been tested all over the place during this pregnancy to ensure that nothing, so far, has gone wrong during womb-time, which makes me lucky all over again.
So, what have I done to deserve all this? Sure, I've made relatively good life choices--going to college, avoiding street drugs, getting married to the right person--but the most important things that eventually led me to this lucky place have been purely circumstantial. I just happened to be born to two married, white parents who wanted me. My parents and extended family gave me every educational advantage--they read to me, encouraged my studies, gave me educational toys, limited my TV, and fed me a balanced diet. I was lucky to be born into this fortuitous situation, and did nothing "right" to deserve this place in life.
So, I'm having a baby, and I'm lucky to have the care that I have. But what about the people who weren't so lucky--the ones who didn't have a loving and supportive family? The ones whose parents didn't have enough money or time or knowledge to give them all the advantages I've enjoyed? The ones who, now, don't have access to the health care that I have access to, but are facing the same new motherhood I am?
My sister-in-law and her husband recently gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl who arrived about 6 weeks early. She didn't have to worry about the medical bills that may have resulted in the birth of a preemie, and will have a year off to bond with, breastfeed, and care for her baby. She will not have to make the difficult decision of putting her tiny baby into a day care center until the baby is almost walking. She and her husband won't have to worry about balancing new parenthood and work for a year. They will also, as a side note, not have to worry about putting away money for their baby's college education. Their lucky position in life comes from the fact that they were born in a country with universal health care, nearly-free education, and liberal maternity leave.
Why is it that access to things like maternity leave, higher education, and health care are dependent on luck? What have we done wrong as a country to allow luck to be a major deciding factor in a person's ability to access life's necessities? And why do we allow those who have been lucky to make sweeping political changes that affect those who have not?
It is my strong belief, now more than ever, that we need, need, need to reform our health care system even more, and I believe we need to offer universal care. And to start this, we, the lucky in America, need to acknowledge our vastly unearned positions and stand up for the ones who have not been so fortunate. We need to create a country that uses tax money to enhance the life of the people who live here, and to care for people who need extra assistance. As an almost-mother, I want nothing more than to bring my baby into a world that provides security, not anxiety, and opportunities rather than financial burdens and fear.
Now, first of all, let me be all sunshine and roses here and say that yes, I understand that I'm living in a medically-advanced country, I am lucky to have health care that allows me to meet all my prenatal needs inexpensively, and I am, frankly, lucky to be a middle-class white, educated, married, employed woman of 28 giving birth to her first child. I am lucky that we got pregnant easily, lucky that I have a wonderful, supportive, loving, employed, educated husband, family, and group of friends, and lucky that I have a job that will allow me to work until I give birth and then take off 3 months with my new baby. I am lucky that I will probably not die in childbirth, lucky that my baby will have immediate access to the best medical care should something go wrong, and lucky that I've been tested all over the place during this pregnancy to ensure that nothing, so far, has gone wrong during womb-time, which makes me lucky all over again.
So, what have I done to deserve all this? Sure, I've made relatively good life choices--going to college, avoiding street drugs, getting married to the right person--but the most important things that eventually led me to this lucky place have been purely circumstantial. I just happened to be born to two married, white parents who wanted me. My parents and extended family gave me every educational advantage--they read to me, encouraged my studies, gave me educational toys, limited my TV, and fed me a balanced diet. I was lucky to be born into this fortuitous situation, and did nothing "right" to deserve this place in life.
So, I'm having a baby, and I'm lucky to have the care that I have. But what about the people who weren't so lucky--the ones who didn't have a loving and supportive family? The ones whose parents didn't have enough money or time or knowledge to give them all the advantages I've enjoyed? The ones who, now, don't have access to the health care that I have access to, but are facing the same new motherhood I am?
My sister-in-law and her husband recently gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl who arrived about 6 weeks early. She didn't have to worry about the medical bills that may have resulted in the birth of a preemie, and will have a year off to bond with, breastfeed, and care for her baby. She will not have to make the difficult decision of putting her tiny baby into a day care center until the baby is almost walking. She and her husband won't have to worry about balancing new parenthood and work for a year. They will also, as a side note, not have to worry about putting away money for their baby's college education. Their lucky position in life comes from the fact that they were born in a country with universal health care, nearly-free education, and liberal maternity leave.
Why is it that access to things like maternity leave, higher education, and health care are dependent on luck? What have we done wrong as a country to allow luck to be a major deciding factor in a person's ability to access life's necessities? And why do we allow those who have been lucky to make sweeping political changes that affect those who have not?
It is my strong belief, now more than ever, that we need, need, need to reform our health care system even more, and I believe we need to offer universal care. And to start this, we, the lucky in America, need to acknowledge our vastly unearned positions and stand up for the ones who have not been so fortunate. We need to create a country that uses tax money to enhance the life of the people who live here, and to care for people who need extra assistance. As an almost-mother, I want nothing more than to bring my baby into a world that provides security, not anxiety, and opportunities rather than financial burdens and fear.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Last Blog-a-Day
Seriously, I don't have anything to say today. It was a nice day, complete with brunch with my parents, some grocery shopping, and a request to read at the wedding of two friends.
The thing is, I don't have a way to make any of that funny. I am compelled to write tonight because I said I was going to write every day for a week, but I really don't have anything to say. I'm all 'blogged out', squeezed of ideas and cleverness like an empty lemon peel. Ha, there you go, a cheesy metaphor to end the week.
Hope you're all doing well.
xo
The thing is, I don't have a way to make any of that funny. I am compelled to write tonight because I said I was going to write every day for a week, but I really don't have anything to say. I'm all 'blogged out', squeezed of ideas and cleverness like an empty lemon peel. Ha, there you go, a cheesy metaphor to end the week.
Hope you're all doing well.
xo
Saturday, August 6, 2011
"High School Reunion"
It's been 10 years since I graduated from high school. Yikes. Actually, that doesn't bother me. Since then, I've been to college, gotten a Postgraduate degree from a foreign university, lived abroad, married someone from another country, and am pregnant. Besides having a bunch of pretty good life experiences to show for the last decade, I also didn't have to worry about losing weight for the reunion.
Our class president made an attempt to arrange the 19 of us--oh, wait, you didn't know? My graduating class only had 19 people in it. Yes, really.
Anyway, he made an attempt to get the 19 of us together in our hometown, which promptly fell apart. I, being both cocky and foolish, thought I might have more success if I arranged a mini-reunion here in Minneapolis. I put out an invitation a couple of weeks ago for people to meet at Brit's for dinner, drinks, and maybe some rooftop lawn bowling.
No one responded.
Finally, about a week later, one person responded that she was coming. And no, that person was not Mary. I started to get a little nervous and thought, "Self, maybe you should just cancel this thing." But I, being oh-so-cocky, thought that I could still get this to happen. So I waited.
And waited.
Finally, two days before this thing, desperation set in. I sent out a plea for people to respond to the invitation, to merely indicate whether or not they would be attending. I wrote again later that day. The next day, I sent out my phone number in case anyone decided to show up at the last minute.
Finally, Mary said she'd go. On the day of the reunion (today), she asked if we could drive there together. I told her I had already planned on taking her so she couldn't back out at the last minute. She confessed that this thought had crossed her mind.
It had crossed mine, too.
But we went, and the only other classmate to respond showed up, and it was nice to catch up. And even though it was only the three of us old classmates (oh, and a very patient Chris), we represented 17% of our graduating class. We had dinner and talked about old high school stories just like you're supposed to at these things.
All in all, I'm calling this reunion a success. Look for the article about it in the next Pacelli newsletter. What's that? You don't get the Pacelli newsletter? It's OK, I made up the part about the article.
Hope you had a good night!
xo
Our class president made an attempt to arrange the 19 of us--oh, wait, you didn't know? My graduating class only had 19 people in it. Yes, really.
Anyway, he made an attempt to get the 19 of us together in our hometown, which promptly fell apart. I, being both cocky and foolish, thought I might have more success if I arranged a mini-reunion here in Minneapolis. I put out an invitation a couple of weeks ago for people to meet at Brit's for dinner, drinks, and maybe some rooftop lawn bowling.
No one responded.
Finally, about a week later, one person responded that she was coming. And no, that person was not Mary. I started to get a little nervous and thought, "Self, maybe you should just cancel this thing." But I, being oh-so-cocky, thought that I could still get this to happen. So I waited.
And waited.
Finally, two days before this thing, desperation set in. I sent out a plea for people to respond to the invitation, to merely indicate whether or not they would be attending. I wrote again later that day. The next day, I sent out my phone number in case anyone decided to show up at the last minute.
Finally, Mary said she'd go. On the day of the reunion (today), she asked if we could drive there together. I told her I had already planned on taking her so she couldn't back out at the last minute. She confessed that this thought had crossed her mind.
It had crossed mine, too.
But we went, and the only other classmate to respond showed up, and it was nice to catch up. And even though it was only the three of us old classmates (oh, and a very patient Chris), we represented 17% of our graduating class. We had dinner and talked about old high school stories just like you're supposed to at these things.
All in all, I'm calling this reunion a success. Look for the article about it in the next Pacelli newsletter. What's that? You don't get the Pacelli newsletter? It's OK, I made up the part about the article.
Hope you had a good night!
xo
Friday, August 5, 2011
Five Minutes
I literally have 5 minutes until I can clock out of this cubicle and go home for the weekend. Yes, maybe it is irresponsible for me to be doing this on paid time, but I have wrapped up for the week. Anything I start now would remain unfinished over the weekend, and really, what is the point of starting something you can't finish?
Yesterday was a pretty crazy day. We went to an ultrasound and got to see a 3-D picture of Sophie (there was a trainee helping with the ultrasound, so they did it for free!), and let me tell you, she is really, really cute. Well, the little portion of her face that we could see is really cute. I almost feel spoiled that I get to see her at this stage. But I'm not complaining. We already have a beautiful baby!
The most incredible, wonderful, MAJOR thing is that my brother and sister-in-law had their baby girl! It was a little bit earlier than anyone expected and it sounds like it was a bit of a surprise, but I saw a picture of baby Lucy and she is absolutely gorgeous. I just couldn't believe it. Chris and I are an uncle and aunt! It was the most excited I've ever been about a baby being born--our beautiful, little niece, Lucy.
There were some other things--great lunch on the rooftop at Joe's Garage, another doctor's appointment, some dog-walking, and Chris feeling Sophie kick for the first time (I have a mental image of the look on his face that I will probably remember forever), but I've got to get out of here. Sushi dinner (and the weekend) calls!
Have a good one.
xo
Yesterday was a pretty crazy day. We went to an ultrasound and got to see a 3-D picture of Sophie (there was a trainee helping with the ultrasound, so they did it for free!), and let me tell you, she is really, really cute. Well, the little portion of her face that we could see is really cute. I almost feel spoiled that I get to see her at this stage. But I'm not complaining. We already have a beautiful baby!
The most incredible, wonderful, MAJOR thing is that my brother and sister-in-law had their baby girl! It was a little bit earlier than anyone expected and it sounds like it was a bit of a surprise, but I saw a picture of baby Lucy and she is absolutely gorgeous. I just couldn't believe it. Chris and I are an uncle and aunt! It was the most excited I've ever been about a baby being born--our beautiful, little niece, Lucy.
There were some other things--great lunch on the rooftop at Joe's Garage, another doctor's appointment, some dog-walking, and Chris feeling Sophie kick for the first time (I have a mental image of the look on his face that I will probably remember forever), but I've got to get out of here. Sushi dinner (and the weekend) calls!
Have a good one.
xo
Thursday, August 4, 2011
A Blog About Babies No One Will Read
This is what my charming husband suggested I call this entry. I'm becoming one of those people who just blogs about their baby. But since I'm creating a miracle within my body and he is not, I win.
Having a baby had changed me in a lot of ways. No, not in some sappy, 'everything is right in the world' kind of way. I'm sure that will happen when the baby is actually wrenched from my nether regions and placed into my arms. But for now, the changes are mostly physical.
I've just gotten back from my doctor and have been told that I've gained 11 pounds since the beginning of this pregnancy. This is pretty good, I guess, but the thing is, we also just found out that the baby is 1 pound, 3 ounces. That means that there are 10 other pounds just hanging out. Oddly enough, most of them have gone to my feet. They've grown about half a size and I've been told this will not change. Goodbye, cute size 6 1/2 shoes. Hello, size 7s. But that's OK.
I did have some pretty terrible morning sickness in the beginning, too, but it's really calmed down. However, I still throw up on about 50% of mornings while brushing my teeth. It's odd because I'm fine at night. The smell of our garbage can and a sink full of dishes also does it to me. Otherwise, I'm fine...except for the Mexican food thing. Sorry, Mexico. Your enchiladas are no bueno to me now.
The best physical thing to change, though, is my belly. It's becoming more and more 'pregnant-looking' and less 'Freshman 15' by the day. And, most excitingly, I can feel Sophie kicking and rolling around in there. The other night, I was reading on the porch and it was very quiet. I started drumming a little on my belly, and I swear she started kicking right then. When I stopped, she stopped. I started up again, and she kicked again. So either she was really loving it, or else she was doing the baby equivalent of banging a broom handle against the ceiling when your upstairs neighbors are having a party. Either way, it was nice.
Hope you're having a good day today!
xo
Having a baby had changed me in a lot of ways. No, not in some sappy, 'everything is right in the world' kind of way. I'm sure that will happen when the baby is actually wrenched from my nether regions and placed into my arms. But for now, the changes are mostly physical.
I've just gotten back from my doctor and have been told that I've gained 11 pounds since the beginning of this pregnancy. This is pretty good, I guess, but the thing is, we also just found out that the baby is 1 pound, 3 ounces. That means that there are 10 other pounds just hanging out. Oddly enough, most of them have gone to my feet. They've grown about half a size and I've been told this will not change. Goodbye, cute size 6 1/2 shoes. Hello, size 7s. But that's OK.
I did have some pretty terrible morning sickness in the beginning, too, but it's really calmed down. However, I still throw up on about 50% of mornings while brushing my teeth. It's odd because I'm fine at night. The smell of our garbage can and a sink full of dishes also does it to me. Otherwise, I'm fine...except for the Mexican food thing. Sorry, Mexico. Your enchiladas are no bueno to me now.
The best physical thing to change, though, is my belly. It's becoming more and more 'pregnant-looking' and less 'Freshman 15' by the day. And, most excitingly, I can feel Sophie kicking and rolling around in there. The other night, I was reading on the porch and it was very quiet. I started drumming a little on my belly, and I swear she started kicking right then. When I stopped, she stopped. I started up again, and she kicked again. So either she was really loving it, or else she was doing the baby equivalent of banging a broom handle against the ceiling when your upstairs neighbors are having a party. Either way, it was nice.
Hope you're having a good day today!
xo
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
An Experiment in SEO
So, for a while, I was doing some SEO (Search Engine Optimization) writing on a very part-time basis. It was basically just re-writing articles for a company that would be published somewhere and would increase the likelihood that their site would come up first if someone would type certain search terms into Google. I actually don't understand exactly how it works, to be honest. I ended up just having a good time writing and getting paid for it for the first time ever, even though it wasn't all that creative. I used some of the money to buy things on Ebay and now have a ton of cheap, jade jewelery in all colors. Totally worth it.
In any case, I was thinking, how can I get people to read my blog without sending out a desperate plea on Facebook to my friends and family? It's kind of sad to ask people to read your blog (unless you're doing something really interesting like studying abroad or doing a stint in the Peace Corps, which I am not), but it's another thing altogether if someone just searches for something on the Internet and stumbles upon your blog.
I have this idea that if I start writing about controversial news stories in my blog, maybe it will come up when people search for information. This idea really took shape when, a few months ago, Chris was telling me that Piers Morgan was really the father of Prince Harry. I was stunned and immediately searched the Internet for more information. It turns out that, no, Piers Morgan is not rumored to be his father, but that someone named James Hewitt is. I was thinking, what if I wrote 'Piers Morgan is Prince Harry's real father' in my blog? Would someone else Google that and come across my blog? And through the magic of my SEO writing experience, I have managed to pepper those terms into this very paragraph three times. Sneaky, right? We'll see if that works!
The idea took shape further when Chris read a post I wrote last week that mentioned Michele Bachmann's husband running a clinic, which reportedly tries to counsel people out of being gay. He said, "Wow, I wonder if your blog will get any more readers because you wrote about Michele Bachmann and her anti-gay husband." Now, I'm not an expert on how the Internet works, but I would think that I would have to do more than make just a passing reference to Michele Bachmann's husband running an anti-gay therapy office in order for my little blog to show up in a Google search. But maybe it will work. Let's see!
I am going to judge my SEO success based on how many times this blog is viewed in the next week, and if I can find my blog by typing "Piers Morgan real father of Prince Harry" or "Michele Bachmann's husband runs anti-gay clinic" into Google. I think my readership usually averages out to about 10 per week, which amazes me to no end. Ten times a week, someone clicks over to this blog, thinking, "Hey, I'm going to see what that girl wrote, if anything." And I'm that girl! Incredible! I'll keep you posted about any success I notice.
Hope you're having a good day.
xo
In any case, I was thinking, how can I get people to read my blog without sending out a desperate plea on Facebook to my friends and family? It's kind of sad to ask people to read your blog (unless you're doing something really interesting like studying abroad or doing a stint in the Peace Corps, which I am not), but it's another thing altogether if someone just searches for something on the Internet and stumbles upon your blog.
I have this idea that if I start writing about controversial news stories in my blog, maybe it will come up when people search for information. This idea really took shape when, a few months ago, Chris was telling me that Piers Morgan was really the father of Prince Harry. I was stunned and immediately searched the Internet for more information. It turns out that, no, Piers Morgan is not rumored to be his father, but that someone named James Hewitt is. I was thinking, what if I wrote 'Piers Morgan is Prince Harry's real father' in my blog? Would someone else Google that and come across my blog? And through the magic of my SEO writing experience, I have managed to pepper those terms into this very paragraph three times. Sneaky, right? We'll see if that works!
The idea took shape further when Chris read a post I wrote last week that mentioned Michele Bachmann's husband running a clinic, which reportedly tries to counsel people out of being gay. He said, "Wow, I wonder if your blog will get any more readers because you wrote about Michele Bachmann and her anti-gay husband." Now, I'm not an expert on how the Internet works, but I would think that I would have to do more than make just a passing reference to Michele Bachmann's husband running an anti-gay therapy office in order for my little blog to show up in a Google search. But maybe it will work. Let's see!
I am going to judge my SEO success based on how many times this blog is viewed in the next week, and if I can find my blog by typing "Piers Morgan real father of Prince Harry" or "Michele Bachmann's husband runs anti-gay clinic" into Google. I think my readership usually averages out to about 10 per week, which amazes me to no end. Ten times a week, someone clicks over to this blog, thinking, "Hey, I'm going to see what that girl wrote, if anything." And I'm that girl! Incredible! I'll keep you posted about any success I notice.
Hope you're having a good day.
xo
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Woman and the Womb
It's my mom's birthday today! Happy birthday, Woman Who Gave Me Life!
My mom is pretty great. She's a runner (yes, you are), a Nordic-pole walker (and defender of the "sport" at family reunions), and the last time I heard, she was doing P90-X. I think she could definitely beat me up. But she wouldn't do that. She's too nice.
My mom is just drooling for the moment she can hold her first grandchild, and I can't wait to give her that chance. She was (is) a fantastic mother, and I can't wait to have her be little Sophie's grandma. I know that any success I have as a mother will be due in large part to her excellence as my mom.
Speaking of being a good mother, something I've been thinking about more and more is what to do after Sophie is born. I mean, not what to do on a daily basis or anything, although the thought of that is a little daunting at the moment. I'm talking about what to do for work.
From my past posts, you may have gathered that I have a sort of love-hate relationship with my current employment. On the one hand, I have great hours, good benefits, a relatively calm work environment, and am paid fairly for what I do.
On the other, my work day is riddled with pointless meetings, overly-explanatory emails, an excess of donuts, and long stretches of time that goes unused because there is too much bureaucracy involved in anything I do to allow me to be truly productive. It is not work that I feel a passion for, in short, but I know I am lucky to have it.
I've recently thought, "Self, why don't you try to write for money?" My mom suggested it, too, and Chris has brought it up as a realistic possibility, so I know it's not a purely crazy thought (because nothing is more valid than the support of two people who love you unconditionally...right?). It's just something that has been on my mind. And in fact, I've recently applied for a contract as a culture blogger for Slate.com, which would be an absolute dream in any life scenario, baby or no baby. If I could find a way to stay home and write, it would be killing two birds with one word processor. But realistically...what if I can't?
Meh, things have a way of working themselves out. I'm not losing sleep about it. I'm too busy losing sleep to back pain and thrice-nightly bathroom trips.
Hope you're well!
xo
My mom is pretty great. She's a runner (yes, you are), a Nordic-pole walker (and defender of the "sport" at family reunions), and the last time I heard, she was doing P90-X. I think she could definitely beat me up. But she wouldn't do that. She's too nice.
My mom is just drooling for the moment she can hold her first grandchild, and I can't wait to give her that chance. She was (is) a fantastic mother, and I can't wait to have her be little Sophie's grandma. I know that any success I have as a mother will be due in large part to her excellence as my mom.
Speaking of being a good mother, something I've been thinking about more and more is what to do after Sophie is born. I mean, not what to do on a daily basis or anything, although the thought of that is a little daunting at the moment. I'm talking about what to do for work.
From my past posts, you may have gathered that I have a sort of love-hate relationship with my current employment. On the one hand, I have great hours, good benefits, a relatively calm work environment, and am paid fairly for what I do.
On the other, my work day is riddled with pointless meetings, overly-explanatory emails, an excess of donuts, and long stretches of time that goes unused because there is too much bureaucracy involved in anything I do to allow me to be truly productive. It is not work that I feel a passion for, in short, but I know I am lucky to have it.
I've recently thought, "Self, why don't you try to write for money?" My mom suggested it, too, and Chris has brought it up as a realistic possibility, so I know it's not a purely crazy thought (because nothing is more valid than the support of two people who love you unconditionally...right?). It's just something that has been on my mind. And in fact, I've recently applied for a contract as a culture blogger for Slate.com, which would be an absolute dream in any life scenario, baby or no baby. If I could find a way to stay home and write, it would be killing two birds with one word processor. But realistically...what if I can't?
Meh, things have a way of working themselves out. I'm not losing sleep about it. I'm too busy losing sleep to back pain and thrice-nightly bathroom trips.
Hope you're well!
xo
Monday, August 1, 2011
Blog a Day
Chris likes to read my blog. He laughs a lot when he reads it, which is sort of strange because he doesn't often laugh at me in real life unless I'm doing something clumsy. I asked him about this, and he said, "I think you're funny. I just sometimes don't laugh because I don't want to give you the satisfaction." And then he hung his head in mock-shame.
Anyway, he thinks I need to write more. I told him I'd thought of trying to do a blog a day for a week to see how it goes, but that I didn't really think I had enough to write about that would be funny, or at least somewhat pleasant to read. He suggested (really helpfully) that I just 'write whatever is on my mind'. I referred him back to a conversation we'd had a while ago in the car...
After we'd been silent for the span of 5 or so miles, he commented that I was quiet. I had been deep in thought and said, "I was just thinking about the baby, and how having a baby is kind of like our major contribution to the world. When you have a child, you're sort of accepting the fact that you'll die someday, but that it's OK because you've left a piece of you behind. It's a natural step in a person's life and something that I think all humans kind of strive for. There was a psychologist named Erik Erikson who had a theory that people start going through these stages of development starting at birth, and almost all of the stages have something to do with striving for independence and being productive at every level of our lives. Having a baby right now is maybe our greatest possible level of productivity at this stage of our lives. It's kind of like accepting that we're like a dying layer of skin, ready to be sloughed off, but it's OK because there's a new layer, and there will still be a part of us left behind when we go."
When I looked over at him, he had a look of shock and annoyance on his face.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"That's terrible!" he said.
"It is?" I asked. "I don't think it's sad. I think it's hopeful. You think that's sad?"
"Yes!" he replied.
We were quiet for a little while.
"Well," I said, "what were you thinking about?"
"Definitely not that."
I reminded him about that conversation and said that maybe just writing what I am thinking for a week wouldn't work out that well. He said I should maybe just write about that conversation.
And there you have it.
xo
Anyway, he thinks I need to write more. I told him I'd thought of trying to do a blog a day for a week to see how it goes, but that I didn't really think I had enough to write about that would be funny, or at least somewhat pleasant to read. He suggested (really helpfully) that I just 'write whatever is on my mind'. I referred him back to a conversation we'd had a while ago in the car...
After we'd been silent for the span of 5 or so miles, he commented that I was quiet. I had been deep in thought and said, "I was just thinking about the baby, and how having a baby is kind of like our major contribution to the world. When you have a child, you're sort of accepting the fact that you'll die someday, but that it's OK because you've left a piece of you behind. It's a natural step in a person's life and something that I think all humans kind of strive for. There was a psychologist named Erik Erikson who had a theory that people start going through these stages of development starting at birth, and almost all of the stages have something to do with striving for independence and being productive at every level of our lives. Having a baby right now is maybe our greatest possible level of productivity at this stage of our lives. It's kind of like accepting that we're like a dying layer of skin, ready to be sloughed off, but it's OK because there's a new layer, and there will still be a part of us left behind when we go."
When I looked over at him, he had a look of shock and annoyance on his face.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"That's terrible!" he said.
"It is?" I asked. "I don't think it's sad. I think it's hopeful. You think that's sad?"
"Yes!" he replied.
We were quiet for a little while.
"Well," I said, "what were you thinking about?"
"Definitely not that."
I reminded him about that conversation and said that maybe just writing what I am thinking for a week wouldn't work out that well. He said I should maybe just write about that conversation.
And there you have it.
xo
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Spaghetti Squash
First, I am quickly going to say that I want to have a t-shirt made with the following on it:
1. 22 weeks
2. I feel great, thank you!
3. A girl.
4. Sophie.
5. Yes, I can feel her kick.
6. Yes, very excited.
That would save everyone some time! But yes, everything is going well, pregnancy-wise, and I'm really happy and grateful for that.
This week sort of flew by for me. I ended up being sick on Wednesday and sent myself home after only an hour in the office. An hour, by the way, is the maximum amount of time one can spend dry-heaving in a cubicle according to legal clause 634.1, subsection 432.23 of the 'Mandatory Sick Day' law in the state of Minnesota. (No, that is not a real law.)
Chris, on the other hand, has been working like crazy on some start-up in Northfield. Either that, or he's starting a second life with another family somewhere else. In any case, he's been leaving the house at 5AM and returning around 8PM for the last week, including today (Saturday). It's just gross and I feel pretty bad for him.
It continues to be hot here in Minnesota. And let me be clear--I understand that my 'delicate condition' makes me more susceptible to the heat, but still. It's very hot. Sticky hot. The kind of hot that makes you stick to car seats and restaurant booths. Just gross.
So, to sum it up...hot, sick day, baby's good. Hope you're well.
xoxo
1. 22 weeks
2. I feel great, thank you!
3. A girl.
4. Sophie.
5. Yes, I can feel her kick.
6. Yes, very excited.
That would save everyone some time! But yes, everything is going well, pregnancy-wise, and I'm really happy and grateful for that.
This week sort of flew by for me. I ended up being sick on Wednesday and sent myself home after only an hour in the office. An hour, by the way, is the maximum amount of time one can spend dry-heaving in a cubicle according to legal clause 634.1, subsection 432.23 of the 'Mandatory Sick Day' law in the state of Minnesota. (No, that is not a real law.)
Chris, on the other hand, has been working like crazy on some start-up in Northfield. Either that, or he's starting a second life with another family somewhere else. In any case, he's been leaving the house at 5AM and returning around 8PM for the last week, including today (Saturday). It's just gross and I feel pretty bad for him.
It continues to be hot here in Minnesota. And let me be clear--I understand that my 'delicate condition' makes me more susceptible to the heat, but still. It's very hot. Sticky hot. The kind of hot that makes you stick to car seats and restaurant booths. Just gross.
So, to sum it up...hot, sick day, baby's good. Hope you're well.
xoxo
Monday, July 18, 2011
Banana
I've decided to do a Top Ten list in honor of the fact that the baby is a massive 10 inches this week! So, here are the top ten things going on here:
10. Yesterday, I held a baby and he didn't cry. In fact, he nestled his little baby face against my neck and gummed my inner arm. This is significant to me because the last two babies I had held had cried, and I was starting to get a complex.
9. It's really hot. We all know that. But today, Chris saw on the news that we were HOTTER THAN SAUDI ARABIA (and more humid) yesterday. We pulled out the futon and slept in the living room under the air conditioner last night. It's pavement-buckling, 'check on your elderly neighbor' hot. It's just...it's just a real bitch. There's nothing more to be said about it.
8. We got a new car! It's a Corolla--yes, another one. My friend Mike checked it out and said it was a great deal. This is the same friend who warned me not to buy the Volvo a couple of years ago, and I definitely should have listened to him back then. My hopes for this car are high.
7. Our pet rat, Alfred, died a couple of weeks ago. He was sick near the end, but we think he had a good life. We bought a little stuffed walrus for Winston to snuggle with. I think he's a little depressed, as he will bite any kind hand that enters his cage.
6. We've been told at work that any inquiries about Bachmann and Associates, the clinic run by Michele Bachmann's husband, should be redirected to the Fairview Media Relations department. Apparently, the clinic is in our network, and we have referred people there in the past. Can I just say that the fact that Michele Bachmann is doing well in the polls seems to be an indication that all hell has broken loose in America, politically? How can we, as people, without bringing right or left-wing politics into things, believe that this person is qualified to make decisions that impact us all? She has done very little, politically, and she's just so judgmental. I want to shake her and say, 'You know, you'd be representing EVERYONE, not just your friends. Same to you, Sarah Palin.'
5. The other night, Chris and I went to a friend's brother's engagement party. When we arrived, it turned out that we'd fallen into the laps of some of nicest people, and that they were all very left-leaning. We discussed politics and ideas and philosophies about society's responsibility to help people who are disadvantaged, and it was just generally nice. The thing about this that was the most shocking is that these people are my parents' age or older. It was the first time I've had a conversation about politics with what I'll call 'real adults' (you know, ones who have worked, paid taxes, raised children and retired) where I didn't feel as though my ideas were silly, or didn't count because I'm 'young' (even though, I'd like to remind them that I'm almost 30). Chris and I were so taken aback and so giddy and didn't want to leave. My family tends to the right, as do Chris's coworkers, so we each spend a fair amount of time feeling frustrated at being discounted when it comes to our political ideas. Chris especially loves when people ask him, 'Come on, you can't possibly believe people should have universal health care, can you?', because he is, of course, from a country with universal health care, and it works out just fine.
4. Harry Potter is over. Chris and I saw the last movie on Friday with some friends. I remember reluctantly agreeing to read the first book, and then quickly realizing I was stupid to hesitate. Those books will be read forever, I'm sure. I'm already looking forward to the day that I can start reading them to my kids.
3. Work is...it's just work. I've started working 4, 10-hour days and taking off every Thursday. It's glorious. Recently, management thought that something major had gone wrong, didn't do much research into it, apparently, and then made us underlings spend about 30 hours fixing it. My part of the Big Fix involved driving down to one of the hospitals to sit in their medical records department and file things...twice. After the fact, we realized that nothing had actually gone wrong, and they had just panicked and deployed an unnecessary Big Fix. Yeah, welcome to my Cubicle of Hell. Pull up an ergonomic chair and prepare for some mental carpal tunnel syndrome.
2. My appetite has become like a truck driver's. My belly has also become that of a truck driver's.
1. I'm starting to feel the baby kick! The other night, I was having a tough time finding a comfortable sleeping position, so I rolled onto my stomach. Within ten seconds, the baby started to kick me in an annoyed way. Apparently, she is already assertive. I loved it!
Hope you're all doing well.
xo
10. Yesterday, I held a baby and he didn't cry. In fact, he nestled his little baby face against my neck and gummed my inner arm. This is significant to me because the last two babies I had held had cried, and I was starting to get a complex.
9. It's really hot. We all know that. But today, Chris saw on the news that we were HOTTER THAN SAUDI ARABIA (and more humid) yesterday. We pulled out the futon and slept in the living room under the air conditioner last night. It's pavement-buckling, 'check on your elderly neighbor' hot. It's just...it's just a real bitch. There's nothing more to be said about it.
8. We got a new car! It's a Corolla--yes, another one. My friend Mike checked it out and said it was a great deal. This is the same friend who warned me not to buy the Volvo a couple of years ago, and I definitely should have listened to him back then. My hopes for this car are high.
7. Our pet rat, Alfred, died a couple of weeks ago. He was sick near the end, but we think he had a good life. We bought a little stuffed walrus for Winston to snuggle with. I think he's a little depressed, as he will bite any kind hand that enters his cage.
6. We've been told at work that any inquiries about Bachmann and Associates, the clinic run by Michele Bachmann's husband, should be redirected to the Fairview Media Relations department. Apparently, the clinic is in our network, and we have referred people there in the past. Can I just say that the fact that Michele Bachmann is doing well in the polls seems to be an indication that all hell has broken loose in America, politically? How can we, as people, without bringing right or left-wing politics into things, believe that this person is qualified to make decisions that impact us all? She has done very little, politically, and she's just so judgmental. I want to shake her and say, 'You know, you'd be representing EVERYONE, not just your friends. Same to you, Sarah Palin.'
5. The other night, Chris and I went to a friend's brother's engagement party. When we arrived, it turned out that we'd fallen into the laps of some of nicest people, and that they were all very left-leaning. We discussed politics and ideas and philosophies about society's responsibility to help people who are disadvantaged, and it was just generally nice. The thing about this that was the most shocking is that these people are my parents' age or older. It was the first time I've had a conversation about politics with what I'll call 'real adults' (you know, ones who have worked, paid taxes, raised children and retired) where I didn't feel as though my ideas were silly, or didn't count because I'm 'young' (even though, I'd like to remind them that I'm almost 30). Chris and I were so taken aback and so giddy and didn't want to leave. My family tends to the right, as do Chris's coworkers, so we each spend a fair amount of time feeling frustrated at being discounted when it comes to our political ideas. Chris especially loves when people ask him, 'Come on, you can't possibly believe people should have universal health care, can you?', because he is, of course, from a country with universal health care, and it works out just fine.
4. Harry Potter is over. Chris and I saw the last movie on Friday with some friends. I remember reluctantly agreeing to read the first book, and then quickly realizing I was stupid to hesitate. Those books will be read forever, I'm sure. I'm already looking forward to the day that I can start reading them to my kids.
3. Work is...it's just work. I've started working 4, 10-hour days and taking off every Thursday. It's glorious. Recently, management thought that something major had gone wrong, didn't do much research into it, apparently, and then made us underlings spend about 30 hours fixing it. My part of the Big Fix involved driving down to one of the hospitals to sit in their medical records department and file things...twice. After the fact, we realized that nothing had actually gone wrong, and they had just panicked and deployed an unnecessary Big Fix. Yeah, welcome to my Cubicle of Hell. Pull up an ergonomic chair and prepare for some mental carpal tunnel syndrome.
2. My appetite has become like a truck driver's. My belly has also become that of a truck driver's.
1. I'm starting to feel the baby kick! The other night, I was having a tough time finding a comfortable sleeping position, so I rolled onto my stomach. Within ten seconds, the baby started to kick me in an annoyed way. Apparently, she is already assertive. I loved it!
Hope you're all doing well.
xo
Friday, July 8, 2011
Double X
We found out yesterday at our ultrasound that this little tomato-sized baby inside me is actually a girl! I watched her kick my bladder and generally ignore the ultrasound tech's pleas to 'flip over!' and was reminded that someday, this kid will be a teenager. That's right, I'm going to have a daughter.
It's really tough to think beyond this time, to be honest. I'm not scared of her becoming a sassy teenager. Right now, I'm focused on making sure she's healthy and strong enough to come out into the world. She looks very good--strong, active, and, dare I say it, cute. OK, she's actually a little skeletal-looking now, at least from the top view, but she's got one heck of a cute profile, and cute little hands and feet.
Anyway, blah blah blah, pregnancy. Let's not overdo it here. I have other things going on too. And while the Black Keys concert wasn't quite as miraculous as the creation of life within my body, it was a close second. The show was great--I've been listening to the Keys for a few years, but this is the first chance I've had to see them live. For only being made up of two guys, they made a lot of noise. Great noise.
There was one thing that bugged me at the show, though. A few rows ahead of me, there was some mouth-breather checking his Facebook. Now, I thought maybe he was going to post a picture of the show or something, but he didn't. He was just scrolling through his friends' profiles! There was an awesome band putting on a rocking show, and this slack-jawed technophile was more interested that his friend "Mike" was "totally going to drink a milkshake" or whatever other genius status update he'd found. There were also plenty of people watching the show through the screen of their iPhone or their cameras. So, these people had paid PLENTY to go see a live show, only to watch it through a screen of some sort. Ugh, people. Please, detach. Life is happening and you're missing it.
Speaking of, I'm going to detach now. Hope you're all well!
xo
It's really tough to think beyond this time, to be honest. I'm not scared of her becoming a sassy teenager. Right now, I'm focused on making sure she's healthy and strong enough to come out into the world. She looks very good--strong, active, and, dare I say it, cute. OK, she's actually a little skeletal-looking now, at least from the top view, but she's got one heck of a cute profile, and cute little hands and feet.
Anyway, blah blah blah, pregnancy. Let's not overdo it here. I have other things going on too. And while the Black Keys concert wasn't quite as miraculous as the creation of life within my body, it was a close second. The show was great--I've been listening to the Keys for a few years, but this is the first chance I've had to see them live. For only being made up of two guys, they made a lot of noise. Great noise.
There was one thing that bugged me at the show, though. A few rows ahead of me, there was some mouth-breather checking his Facebook. Now, I thought maybe he was going to post a picture of the show or something, but he didn't. He was just scrolling through his friends' profiles! There was an awesome band putting on a rocking show, and this slack-jawed technophile was more interested that his friend "Mike" was "totally going to drink a milkshake" or whatever other genius status update he'd found. There were also plenty of people watching the show through the screen of their iPhone or their cameras. So, these people had paid PLENTY to go see a live show, only to watch it through a screen of some sort. Ugh, people. Please, detach. Life is happening and you're missing it.
Speaking of, I'm going to detach now. Hope you're all well!
xo
Friday, July 1, 2011
Bell Pepper
On Monday, people started to notice that I'm showing. I had five separate people point it out or say I was glowing! All in one day! Up until then, no one had said anything. I guess it makes sense since the baby is almost the size of a bell pepper, but I feel like I've been popping out for about 2 weeks, so I was surprised at the amount of attention I got in one day.
People also feel pretty comfortable asking questions. I think my favorite question of all times is "Were you trying?" Now, call me old-fashioned, but I think it's bizarre that people feel OK asking me this question. Let's pretend we weren't trying. Then what? I see the options being limited to breaking down crying and saying, "Nooo, and I'm sooo scared!" or by responding "Nope, we just got drunk one night..."
On the other hand, it's weird to admit that, yup, we wanted to this to happen, so we did what is necessary to make it happen. Like....don't imagine that, people. That's not something you need to think about. Especially you, Trader Joe's employee. Or you, woman who works in the office next door. Or really, anyone.
Here's what I do like: Being told I'm glowing, being told how amazing it's going to be, and exclamations of "Ooooh, look at you!" and "You're starting to show!" All of that is OK. I also had a woman ask me if I had morning sickness, and when I said that I didn't anymore, she exclaimed, "BITCH!" and then started giggling and apologizing. I guess she had a lot of morning sickness with her babies. That, I didn't mind either. It was kind of delightful.
Anyway, that's what's going on in my uterus and my brain this week. Hope you're all doing well, too!
xo
People also feel pretty comfortable asking questions. I think my favorite question of all times is "Were you trying?" Now, call me old-fashioned, but I think it's bizarre that people feel OK asking me this question. Let's pretend we weren't trying. Then what? I see the options being limited to breaking down crying and saying, "Nooo, and I'm sooo scared!" or by responding "Nope, we just got drunk one night..."
On the other hand, it's weird to admit that, yup, we wanted to this to happen, so we did what is necessary to make it happen. Like....don't imagine that, people. That's not something you need to think about. Especially you, Trader Joe's employee. Or you, woman who works in the office next door. Or really, anyone.
Here's what I do like: Being told I'm glowing, being told how amazing it's going to be, and exclamations of "Ooooh, look at you!" and "You're starting to show!" All of that is OK. I also had a woman ask me if I had morning sickness, and when I said that I didn't anymore, she exclaimed, "BITCH!" and then started giggling and apologizing. I guess she had a lot of morning sickness with her babies. That, I didn't mind either. It was kind of delightful.
Anyway, that's what's going on in my uterus and my brain this week. Hope you're all doing well, too!
xo
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Avocado
Since I found out I was pregnant back in March, I've been looking ahead at my summer schedule and imagining what I'll look like during different events. For example, there was a wedding about 11 weeks into my pregnancy. I had imagined I'd be huge by then and would need some sort of maternity dress by then. I did not.
Last weekend was Rock the Garden, an outdoor concert at the Walker Art Center. I had imagined I would need to be wearing some sort of special maternity summer outfit for the day. I did not. I wore a normal outfit (and rain boots, since it sprinkled all day).
We're going to see the Black Keys on July 3rd. I had imagined needing to have a special maternity band shirt made. I will NOT need a special maternity band shirt, the way things are going.
And while I'm not exactly looking forward to getting huge, I would like a more 'maternity-like' belly. Right now, it just looks like I've been letting myself take a few extra trips to the Chinese buffet for extra won tons and orange chicken. Or maybe I've just been on the couch watching soaps and eating barbecue potato chips out of the bag for a month. Or perhaps I've been on a 14-day cruise, hitting the midnight buffet every night. It's possible I have recently discovered the local Krispy Kreme gives away their day-olds before 8AM every day and it's right on my way to work. In any case, I don't look pregnant.
And yet, I have an avocado-sized baby nestled in there (which is currently pressing into some important nerves and causing my leg to tingle all day). I mean, I have a moving, living, growing baby in there--one with a heartbeat and a mouth that opens and closes and all that good stuff--and no one would know. I mean, everyone knows now because I'm writing it in here, and this is an internationally-read blog (haha!).
But strangers on the street don't know. Wait staff still offer me wine when I'm out to eat. No one has offered me their bus seat. (This may have something to do with the fact that I haven't been on a bus since getting knocked up, but still. You get the point.)
It's not that I want the attention, really. It's more that I'm SO excited about this and I want everyone to know about it now! So...tell your friends. Feel free to say something like, "Oh, her? Yeah, she's not just gaining a mess of weight. She's just going to be a mom."
Last weekend was Rock the Garden, an outdoor concert at the Walker Art Center. I had imagined I would need to be wearing some sort of special maternity summer outfit for the day. I did not. I wore a normal outfit (and rain boots, since it sprinkled all day).
We're going to see the Black Keys on July 3rd. I had imagined needing to have a special maternity band shirt made. I will NOT need a special maternity band shirt, the way things are going.
And while I'm not exactly looking forward to getting huge, I would like a more 'maternity-like' belly. Right now, it just looks like I've been letting myself take a few extra trips to the Chinese buffet for extra won tons and orange chicken. Or maybe I've just been on the couch watching soaps and eating barbecue potato chips out of the bag for a month. Or perhaps I've been on a 14-day cruise, hitting the midnight buffet every night. It's possible I have recently discovered the local Krispy Kreme gives away their day-olds before 8AM every day and it's right on my way to work. In any case, I don't look pregnant.
And yet, I have an avocado-sized baby nestled in there (which is currently pressing into some important nerves and causing my leg to tingle all day). I mean, I have a moving, living, growing baby in there--one with a heartbeat and a mouth that opens and closes and all that good stuff--and no one would know. I mean, everyone knows now because I'm writing it in here, and this is an internationally-read blog (haha!).
But strangers on the street don't know. Wait staff still offer me wine when I'm out to eat. No one has offered me their bus seat. (This may have something to do with the fact that I haven't been on a bus since getting knocked up, but still. You get the point.)
It's not that I want the attention, really. It's more that I'm SO excited about this and I want everyone to know about it now! So...tell your friends. Feel free to say something like, "Oh, her? Yeah, she's not just gaining a mess of weight. She's just going to be a mom."
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