A fond farewell for now...

We depart on Friday afternoon, but before then there's just so much that has to be accomplished. Having never traveled with the added responsibility of being a parent, I wasn't prepared for all the planning--large and small--that this trip would entail.

Wills were signed, in triplicate, this morning. Tomorrow I undergo the blood and urine tests necessary for life insurance (since leaving The Really Big Company, I'd had no coverage). Nine days worth of diapers, wipes, cereal, formula, distilled water, and pureed veggies, fruits, and meats, have been dropped off at my parent's. The house needs to be cleaned for the house/dog/cat sitter. And The Banker and I need to double and triple check our packing list--then actually pack--to make sure nothing important is left behind. Peru is not the sort of place were you can run into a Quick Trip at midnight for any last-minute necessity.

But with all the physical preparations, I've been neglecting mentally preparing for this trip. It wasn't till I was on the plane to Australia that it fully dawned on me that I was going to be away from my loved ones for almost a year. Postponed panicking is how I cope. But this time it's different--I need to come to terms with what this adventure means. I will be away from Becca for nine long days. Even when I run to the store alone, it sort of feels like I'm missing a limb.

Can I handle this? Can my parents handle this? I know they've successfully accomplished this three times over, but it's exhausting, and they're not young pups anymore. Are we fit enough for this excursion? Will everything be okay?

If you're the praying type, I'd appreciate a few for a safe and enjoyable adventure and a few more that Becca will be safe and happy with my parents. If you're not the praying type, crossed fingers would do. Until we meet again--farewell!

So much to do...

I have so much I could be writing about. Like how Becca now leans out of other people's grasp and stretches her arms out to me, as if to say, "No, thank you kindly, but it's this lady I want," and how incredibly awesome that feels.

Or how I'm having a hard time coming to terms with my "new" after-baby body, and regardless of the miles jogged and salads consumed, my body is now different. As in rounder and less firm, (or in the case of my chest, shrinking and languishing), with an extra 10 pounds my frame refuses to give up, all of which makes me feel really crappy about myself.

Or how we're down to the wire on this Peru trip and there's so much to be done--lists made, shopping accomplished, bags packed, people prepped, guilt checked, body made fit.

But there's really no time to write about any of this, so I'll just update with some pictures of the Little Miss. Because all things aside, this ride is happening so dang fast. She's grown so much and is clearly her own little person now, full of likes, dislikes, and a stubborn streak the size of Texas. Love you, baby girl!

Don't "f" with the schedule

The Banker learned a hard lesson last night. The only problem is that I also had to suffer through the tutorial.

See, yesterday evening I was in the garage working on a painting project with a friend. The Banker was assigned care of Becca for the hour, hour and a half. Nothing extraordinary was demanded: Simply finish feeding her, amuse her, change her.

We'd barely cracked open the paint can when The Banker popped his head into the garage and announced that Becca was asleep. "But it's only 6:30 or 7," I said. "If she falls asleep now, she'll never sleep through the night."

"No," he responded in his ultimate wisdom. "She had a busy day visiting my mom, and she's just tired. It'll be fine."

Despite my repeated concerns, The Banker said that Becca was really quite alright. And she was. Until 10:30 rolled around and she was suddenly and irrevocably awake. And thus she remained until well past midnight. Any time she was put in her crib she'd scream with such fervor that she'd start gagging and coughing. (We have a stubborn child, I'm told. Gee, ya think so?!)

At one point in this exhausting trial, I whipped around and growled at The Banker, "I'm the Mom. I know her schedule. I know what she needs. When I tell you something, LISTEN, and don't "F" with the schedule!"

Becca finally exhausted herself in the wee hours of the night...and awoke in the wee hours of the morning. And now? Now she's sleeping through her feeding. Because someone "f"ed with her schedule.

Yup, she's alllll mine

Yesterday I had to lug Little Bits to a doctor's appointment. We had to wait some 40 minutes, and Becca did what Becca does when she gets bored--she blows raspberries. Which is really just a nice way of saying that she makes farting noises with her lips and spits. A LOT. I mean, she was soaking herself, and I could feel the spray from two feet away.

Of course, the waiting room was full and the ridiculous noise kept people laughing. I couldn't get her to stop--the sippy cup, binky, and teethers held no appeal. Finally when my name was called, I hauled her into the back and said, "Everyone in the waiting room will be a lot drier once we get back here."

The entire room erupted in laughter. What can I say? My kid's got talent.

Sometimes this seems maddeningly true...

"A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments, soccer games, romances, best friends, location of friend's houses, favorite foods, secret fears and hopes and dreams. A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house." --Unknown

Simply Wow

Becca turned six months over the weekend, and I'm left wondering where the time has gone. You know the saying that time flies? Well, that goes double--no triple time--when kids are involved. Everyone says it, but wow, are they right.

She sitting up by herself. She has four teeth coming in simultaneously all in a row. She grabs everything and anything, and it all goes straight into the mouth. She yabbers constantly. The Banker and I swear we've heard "Mom" and "Hi."

I'm working on a short list of some of my favorite characteristics Becca has shown these past few months, just so I don't forget. Like the way she feels the breeze and throws her arms out, opens her hands, and sighs so contently into the wind. Or the way she takes everything in, stretching her neck, jutting out her chin and arching her eyebrows as she tracks something across the room. Or how she kisses--or at least I think it's kissing--open mouthed, with lots of slobber. Then again, maybe she's practicing to be a vampire for Halloween.

Tomorrow's her six-month check-up, so we'll get her latest stats. Little Bits, I'm just so constantly in awe of you!

An Aside

Last night I ran into a beautiful person
in an unexpected place,
and she gave me an explanation
I was not owed.

She shared with me a trouble—
But perhaps that’s not accurate...
A trial? A challenge?
I don’t know the details,
(and they’re none of my business)
so my response last night
might have been all wrong.

So if “I’m sorry” didn’t fit,
then I want to say:
“Things will be okay.
There’s so much strength
in your delicate stature.
People are pulling for you.
You’re a beautiful person,
and I want to wish you the best.”

Entirely Too Much Information

Well, it's official. Becca has completely transitioned to the bottle (along with cereal, fruit, and veggies)...and now I'm completely and totally uncomfortable. I guess I didn't understand how dang uncomfortable weaning would be. I mean, it's a don't-breathe-on-me-Oh-my-gosh-I-think-I'm-going-to-keel-over kind of hurt. I told The Banker this is what elephantitis looks like it feels like.

As an avid reader of dooce.com, I remember Heather B. Armstrong extolling the virtues of cabbage leaves in just this situation. And since exercise bras and rum weren't cutting it, I had The Banker stop by the store and pick up a head of cabbage on his way home.

And I can't believe I'm admitting this, but as I sit and type, IT'S WORKING. I have cabbage leaves in my bra and it's actually helping. I don't have the guts to take them to work with me tomorrow, but let me tell you, I'm putting those suckers on as soon as I get home. And if I'm really insane, I'll wear them to a party we're supposed to attend tomorrow night. I would smell like cole slaw, but I'd be comfortable.

And for those of you wishing you could bleach your brain after reading this post--I did warn you. The title of the post said Entirely Too Much Information.

First Trip to the Zoo...

Now and then

I used to have natural blonde hair…but then I experienced pregnancy hormones.
I used to have a (relatively) flat stomach…but then I got pregnant.
I used to think I was tough…but then I gave birth.
I used to think I knew what it was to be tired…but then I had a newborn.
I used to think I knew what love was…but then I had Rebecca.

Musings

Am finishing up (hopefully) my final week of part-time work at The Really Big Company. The project may extend into next week, but golly gee, I kinda hope not. My small taste of working and motherhood has made this much clear to me: I don't know how working moms do it. You all have my respect and utter awe, because this is TOUGH. I'm frazzled. The house is in shambles. The Banker is on edge. Becca is constipated. The dogs and cat are pissed. How do you women do this? You are incredibly disciplined and your talents need to be sung from the roof tops. There should be a national appreciation day JUST FOR YOU.

In other tough news, can I just say that this weaning thing is dang uncomfortable?!? So blessedly welcomed, but really difficult nonetheless. Part of me is going to miss this stage, the way Becca clings to me and makes happy chugging noises, the way that this one thing can make all right for her even in her worst of moods. But it's time. My body was slowly giving up before I even made the decision to start this process. Still, this is just one more sign that my newborn isn't so much of a newborn anymore. More like an adorable, vocal, stubborn little person. I don't know how it happened--and so fast!--but it's happened. What a ride.

Close up

Little starfish hands spread wide to gently touch my cheek,
her skin so achingly soft.
Lashes arch above the deepest innocence,
eyes seal grey one minute, hazel the next.
The most perfect rosebud lips
emit heavenly sighs and sweet giggles.

Just for Fun

Star Wars Horoscope for Libra

You are on a lifelong pursuit of justice and determined to succeed. You convey the art of persuasion through force. You always display your supreme intelligence. You have a great talent in obtaining balance between yourself and your surroundings. Star wars character you are most like: Obi Wan Kenobie

What Is Your Star Wars Horoscope?

You are Betty Grable

The ulitmate girl next door You're the perfect girl for most guys Pretty yet approachable. Beautiful yet real.

What Famous Pinup Are You?

My parenting skills

I typically take most of what The Banker’s family has to say with a rather large grain of salt. While I care for each and every one of them, I don’t have a great deal in common with most of his family members. (For that matter, often neither does The Banker!)

So when The Banker’s older brother insinuated in an e-mail that we were selfish parents, I initially brushed the comment off. After all, he’s an annoying, talkative know-it-all, whose wife dresses him funny and won’t let him have a dog.

But somehow the jibe rooted into some corner of my brain and it’s begun to ferment, growing in acidity and becoming harder and harder to ignore. I’ve tried to be many things in my short tenure as a parent, but selfish sure as hell isn’t one of them. It’s an insult that cuts to the heart of most any parent—that they put their own well being before that of their child.

The source of the comment was The Banker and my pending vacation to hike up to Machu Picchu. With the recent earthquake in Peru, The Banker’s family is in an uproar. (For the record, they are disdainful of foreign countries, most notably ones that don’t speak English or reside in the “safety” of Europe.)

The trip is only a shadow of the adventure we’d planned before I’d discovered I was pregnant, but I cannot express how much I’m looking forward to this excursion. It will be a breathe of fresh air, offering beautiful sights, a peek into an entirely different culture, not to mention some much-needed time for just The Banker and me. Becoming parents, while incredibly rewarding, is also hard on a marriage—it’s sometimes exhausting and isolating. (Why people would ever have children to “save” a marriage is beyond me! The lack of sleep, private time, quality communication, and more can take a toll.) But now I’m saddled with the idea that this trip, with its small, small “dangers,” qualifies me as selfish.

I made the hard decision to give up working (short of special projects and freelance writing), to spend every day with my daughter, raising her myself and trying not to let the monotony drive me mad. With only one income, we’ve learned to live on a much tighter budget. The occasional treats I granted myself (facials, horseback riding), are now a distant memory. Not feeling that 10 months was long enough to give up my body, I’ve spent an additional six months nursing Becca—a good portion of that going lactose-free. I try to put only the healthiest of foods in my body and hers, try to provide a home that’s safe, clean, inviting, fun, and friendly.

But it’s not enough. The Banker and I have been labeled as selfish parents, and while part of me thinks this is just damn ridiculous, the other part of me wonders if maybe there’s some truth to that insult.

Best ever

Sometimes when Becca hasn't seen me for a few hours--say first thing in the morning or after I've left her with one of her grandmothers for a bit--she gives me this look: Her brows lift, her eyes get wide and her mouth opens in the biggest, most ecstatic smile. Then, she hunches her shoulders, squints her eyes, shoves her fist in her mouth, and turns her body away as if she can't contain herself. Okay, it's crap to explain, but let me tell you, it's awesome to know that I get that reaction.

More procrastinating...

The Simpsonized Me...

Feast or famine

Only a month ago I was whining about not having enough freelance work. Okay, stupid, now don't complain about getting what you asked for. I currently have four articles due before the month's end, which is a decent load for me to handle.

But then out of the blue, The Really Big Company called. There's a special project they'd like my help with over the next three weeks, for about 15 hours a week. Hooray! Much needed money and mind stimulation. But how in the heck am I going to get all this accomplished?

And more importantly, how is Becca going to do with her grandmas for five hours a day? And why in the world am I procrastinating here when I should be getting a jump on those articles?! Argh!

Becca's First Foray into Veggies

I put both containers in front of her: Gerber's organic carrots and Gerber's organic green beans. She reached toward the unnaturally bright orange concoction.

"Okay, baby girl. It was your choice. Carrots it is."

And with that, we moved from cereal to vegetables. And Becca's reaction? First there was the cringe:

And then there was the spitting:

And finally there was the royal flippin' mess, followed by crying:

So, Becca prefers the sweet carbohydrates. No news there--she's clearly my daughter. We'll try again tomorrow, with what I hope will be better results.

Congratulations, baby girl. Welcome to the world of veggies! I know, they suck. But after you get these things down, we'll move onto the fun stuff. Like ice cream. Chocolate and peanut butter. And wine.

Modest Me

It's official. When did I get so old?

A friend of mine had asked if I wanted to attend the Modest Mouse concert last night. Having, in my life B.C., been quite the concert-goer, I said yes. (Aerosmith, Green Day--their first big tour, Van Halen, Tom Petty, Nine Inch Nails...it barely mattered the type of music, I just attended.) And The Banker gladly gave me the night off, in turnabout for his day of golf a few weeks ago.

The concert was outside in 280% humidity and a balmy 80 degrees--at 8 p.m. It felt like I'd dressed myself in a wet wool sweater, despite my t-shirt, capris, and flip-flops. Maybe the insufferable heat caused so many young'uns to run about half naked. But it doesn't explain the teetering high heels. I mean, ladies, there's no place to sit down. In this heat. On the sweltering blacktop. For four hours.

But the clear answer to this insane climate is to mount each other in public, right? Yes, clearly gratuitous signs of PDA will stem off the rolling beads of sweat and the general stink of a thousand people slowly boiling.

And while I acknowledge that Modest Mouse caters to the alternative crowd, I was still caught off guard by generally attractive people with huge pegs in their ears, so as to stretch them out to attain the look of some African tribe in National Geographic. I wanted to take these people aside and assure them that with time, things will sag of their own accord--no mutilation required!

See how I sound like a grumpy old lady? Once upon a time, I was in a mosh pit. I crowd surfed. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and made myself ill. I had that look of entitlement, that screw-you exterior. So why begrudge the next generation their time? Maybe it's a bit of jealousy mixed with hindsight's ever-clear view. Whatever it is, the evening left me feeling damn old. And the concert was just so-so. The band didn't play one of my favorite songs and struggled with feedback issues the entire evening.

The only upside? I was carded for beer and some young gentleman kindly offered me his bong. Even though I turned him down, it was still nice to be asked. Because you wouldn't offer your pot to someone who looked like your mom, would you? So maybe I'm not quite that old. Just yet.

Ridiculous

I know it's absurd. Honestly, I do. But ever since I finished the final installment of Harry Potter last night at the exhausting hour of 1:30, I've suffered from the deepest melancholy. Funny how a book can so pull me into it's world, so utterly blot out what goes on outside. And today of all days, I needed the escape.

The Jeep's window, which refused to work yesterday led to a discovery of a fuel line leak. Over $500 to fix that sucker. And then the call from "The Prick" at my old insurance company, from when I worked at The Really Big Company. It seems there's a state law that The Banker and I had never heard of that specifies that since The Banker's birthday was before mine and since he was employed at the time of Becca's birth, state law demanded that his insurance company provide primary coverage for Peanut and mine secondary. WTF?

Since my coverage was better than The Banker's, we'd opted to cover Becca under my insurance. When we decided I'd remain at home, we switched Becca and myself to The Banker's coverage. But now my old insurance company is trying to duck out of paying Becca's bills, due to this unheard of "state law." Essentially, the old insurance company is going to haggle with The Banker's insurance company over every cent it paid out since Becca's birth. But Becca wasn't covered under his insurance! And who do you think will be responsible for the charges that both companies refuse to cover?

I HATE insurance companies. And I hate that I can't turn to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get my mind off all this shit. It looks like I'll be turning to Little Children--the latest book club choice--for a much-needed vacation from all this. 'Cause I seriously, seriously need a break right about now.

Taste of the town

Peanut has been tackling cereal for almost two weeks now, first rice and then barley. It's times like these where having four hands would be helpful: one to hold the spoon, two to hold each of Becca's hands--keeping them from her mouth--and the final hand to swoop in with a wet paper towel when her hands inexplicably escape my grasp and rush to her full mouth.

Still, it's so amusing to watch her, especially now that she sorta hums during the feeding and opens her mouth wide for the spoon like a guppy. Or a piranha (which is how she used to view nursing).

This past weekend Sister #1 and her husband were in town, and while the boys golfed, she spent the day with the Screaming Siren and me. She was busy snapping pictures as I gave Becca her afternoon snack of rice cereal to send to Sister #2, who's in Paraguay at the moment. In the midst of the feeding, curiosity got the better of me, and I tried a tiny morsel of the cereal.

"It's sweet," I say in surprise. "I don't know if it's the rice cereal or the breast milk I mix it with..."

Sister #1 comes over and takes the spoon from me, and before I can even utter an "Uhhhg" she tries a bit also. Slack jawed I look at her.

"What's in this?" she suddenly asks, eyes wary. Umm, were you not here, say TWO SECONDS AGO?!?!

And then it clicks. Her eyes bulge, face drains of color, and she runs to the bathroom retching. And like any good sister, I explode into laughter.

YES!!!

I had a suspicion all along, but now it's official:


I'm a Gryffindor!

A change in view

The other weekend my parents, The Banker, and Becca and I crammed into our car and drove to visit my dad's parents in Bella Vista. My grandparents had only seen Becca once since her birth and were anxious to see her again. With my Grammy fighting cancer and heart problems and my PopPop losing ground to Alzheimer's, we'd urged them not to make the drive to see us but to be patient and we'd make a weekend trip to visit. Finally we found the time in every one's packed schedules to make the trip.

I was on pins and needles about the whole thing. An infant in the car for HOW long? Hours at the grandparents' house? Dinner at a restaurant? And then a stay at a hotel? And a visit to my grandparents' church so they could show off their great-granddaughter? There were so many ways this could have gone badly.

But it didn't.

Becca was a champ, thoroughly behaving herself in a fashion she never does at home. She was happy, patient, and cute as a button. Why she can't pull out that attitude more for us, I'll never know. But the important thing is that the visit went incredibly well and meant the world to my grandparents.

I think the trip may have been harder on me than on Peanut. Stressful and tiring, yes. But it was more than that. My grandparents talked about moving into an assisted living facility, a decision whose time has truly come. But it forces me to look again at what I've been trying to avoid seeing---that my grandparents are old and aren't as invincible as a child thinks they are.

What's more is that my Grammy said that once they move what they'll need into the facility (whenever they get around to finding one), the grand kids need to come and pick out what they want from the house before it all goes in an estate sale. When I was young, there was nothing like going to my grandparents' house. There were so many cool nick-knacks, countless collectibles, and an assortment of tchotchkes. (Both my grandparents are serious collectors...er, hoarders.)

But somewhere, somehow, the allure of my grandparents' house started to diminish. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but all their trinkets started to look, well, junky. And on this latest visit, as I looked around, I was hard pressed to find much that I would willingly haggle over between the other grand kids. It made me sad, how the sparkle of that house had dulled. I really wish I could go back and have that feeling again--that surge of excitement and wonder as I looked around at all their stuff--instead of the sinking feeling of much work ahead and a lot of sad, abandoned items at an estate sale.

Where did it go?

There are days like today when I miss the girl I was so much that it's a palpable ache and temporarily debilitating.

Who moved my cheese?

And milk? And all the rest of the gloriously lactose-laden foods? Becca's pediatrician has recommended I go lactose free to see if it will improve Becca's fussy periods--given the fact that they should have naturally subsided now that she's almost four months old.

The good news? She seems to have improved somewhat. The bad news? There are so many items off my diet, it's ridiculous. Back before children (B.C.), I could subsist on wine, cheese, and bread alone. Now that two of those have been taken away, I've begun to grow a bit grouchy.

But then you look at this and think, "Yeah, I could do this for a few months more."

Then again...

So I'm going to follow Trudi's advice on this one. I don't know who Trudi is, but maybe she's right. I need to vent. I need to confess. And I need to forgive myself. Because last night, a decision I made left Becca terribly ill.

I'm having a tough time balancing two of the requirements of my body: a source of food for Becca and the need to regain my old figure and get into shape for the upcoming hike up to Machu Picchu that The Banker and I are planning to take (again). If I work out too vigorously and consume too little (which is easy to do given how dang hectic my days seem to be), I don't produce enough milk for Becca. To boot, she currently suffers from a nasty case of acid reflux--the cause for our earlier emergency room visit and the reason she's now on Prilosec--so in general our evenings can be very rough. Read: much crying, achy tummies, and the rest.

Last night Becca was fussing during a feeding and crying while I tried to burp her--an indication she hadn't enough to eat. Since I had no milk thawed and seemed to be spent myself, I gave her two ounces of ready-made formula, which she'd had during her first couple of weeks to supplement her diet until my milk came in.

Within two hours she was vomiting up the formula. Once those two ounces had been expelled, angry yellow bile bubbled up, even while she slept, racking her poor little frame. We telephoned the on-call doctor and were told to freeze a teaspoon of regular Coca-Cola and give her a teaspoon. Apparently, it has anti-nausea qualities. After that stays down we were to try giving her an ounce or two of Pedialite.

I was less than thrilled to give a three-month-old soda, but the Coke came right back up, along with more bile than you could imagine an infant's stomach could hold. She was limp, exhausted. And it was my fault.

The Banker decided to go with his gut and gave Becca a little syringe worth of Pedialite slowly, slowly over an hour. It stayed down. Then we mixed some of the liquid with breast milk and let her sip on it a little at a time. Finally, success!

We've had three good feedings since last night, but the guilt lingers. This parenting gig is so damn hard. No one ever tells you that your best intentions can have the most disastrous implications. I feel totally out of my league time and time again. How did my parents make this look so easy?

On the fence...

So I'd high hopes that I could chronicle the ups and downs of this new phase in my life: the challenge of switching a cubicle for a burp rag, the oddities of breastfeeding, the new-found empathy for my mom...in other words, the joys and headaches of parenting. But I haven't really accomplished any of that. I rarely manage to post anymore and am wondering if there's a point to continuing with this blog. I was crappy at keeping a diary as a child and am not faring any better now.

That emergency trip to the hospital? Nope, failed to share that. The trauma of our first night away from Becca? Nothing on that, either. Maybe it's because I'm worn to the bone most days. Or perhaps it's because there are countless blogs that capture this chaotic lifestyle better than I ever could. I dunno. Whatever it is, I think I need to find some more energy and a drive to keep typing, because otherwise the dust and cobwebs will soon take over this tiny spot on the web.

A Lifestyle Change

So I called the really big company I work for and told my boss I wouldn't be returning. And maybe that makes me certifiably insane. After all, this really big company pays really well, has incredible benefits, and only accepts a tiny percentage of applicants. People work for years to get into that place!

The Banker and I'd discussed the potential for me to go back part-time (and my boss was sort of looking into it, in a really ineffective way), but it didn't make much sense financially. Sure, I'd be bringing home double what I could make in freelance in a month, but was that worth missing out on all of Becca's little amazing moments? Like when she started to try to put her binky back in her mouth all by herself? Or how she smiles so sweetly after blowing out her diaper? This is the good stuff, folks!

My boss and I are trying to find out if there's any work I can do from home or if I can come in and work on special projects. But in the meantime, I've got to do something I'm really, really crappy at doing. I've got to put myself out there and find some decent freelance gigs. And pronto. Zippy, my beloved 350Z, isn't selling as quickly as we'd hoped. And my brain is kinda turning to mush. So I need to establish this balance between mom and writer and editor. And see if I can bring in a few bucks along the way. Because this decision is going to require a major lifestyle change.

Where nowhere seems safe

One of our local malls was the scene of a "shooting rampage" today that killed three and wounded a handful of others. It's the mall where The Banker and I used to go and see movies while we dated in high school. And it's the very mall where we took Becca just last weekend for a quick trip into Target. We almost went there again yesterday for diapers, but she started to get cranky and we cut our trip short. It's so disheartening that no place seems safe anymore.

Rule of Nature #6

When you feel like crap and want nothing more than an hour or two of sleep, it will be the one day your infant refuses to nap. And for kicks and grins, the weather will suddenly get cold and all your pets will act like shitheads.

Work + Baby = ?

I'm taking Peanut into work today to show her off to all the lovely ladies I work with in cubicle land. Today is fitting for several reasons: it's Becca's sixth week out and about and it's also the final day of my paid maternity leave.

While visiting The Really Big Company, I hope to catch up with my new boss and steal a minute of his time, or at least set up a time to come in next week and speak with him. I'm going to dare to inquire about any part-time opportunities...yet again. If there are no openings, I'll give my two week's notice. Or at least I think I will. Maybe.

What am I doing?!? People work for years to get into The Really Big Company and I've found success there. On the other hand, I don't think I could leave our Peanut to be raised by strangers all week long. And I know The Banker would prefer for me to remain home, though he's in no way pressuring me one way or the other. Would I go out of my mind, or could I find enough freelance to keep me engaged should I stay home?

This is one of those major life decisions, and I wish I had an easy answer.

Rule of Nature #32

When you first attempt to take your colicky infant out to dinner, she will scream like a banshee and you will run into not one but two people you knew from high school...all while looking like crap and babbling incoherently from a lack of sleep.

A Lifetime in Review

I know I haven't posted anything about Becca's birth yet. Part of that is due to the demands of having a newborn at home and part of it is because I'm still trying to process the whole event. Portions of March 8th feel vaguely dreamlike and it's odd looking at pictures of the day. So I'll try to break it down as best I can, for my own memory as well as for the story I can relay to Becca one day.

The Banker and I checked into the hospital at 7 a.m. and soon after the doctor came in to break my water. Things turned funny when I realized the doctor was breaking my water on top of a pad that's identical to the potty training pads we use for our dog, Ginger. I looked at The Banker and we couldn't help but laugh out loud, much to the amusement of the doctor and nurse. As one wee-wee pad after another was soaked, we giggled about how Ginger had nothin' on me.

I was hooked up to a bit of Pitocin because Becca wasn't engaged far enough into my pelvis. In the back of my mind I kept worrying that I'd have to have a Cesarean, but we tried not to talk about the possibility. My mom showed up first as I slowly dilated from a 4 to 5. The contractions started small and gradually grew incredibly intense. My mom and The Banker stood on either side of me as I writhed in pain on the bed.

Unfortunately The Banker kept telling me when the contractions we coming in addition to when they were peaking and subsiding. I snapped twice at him that I knew when the contractions were coming, thank you very much. When he began to utter those fated words again, even my mom told him to shut up. After that, he was careful just to tell me when the contractions were fading.

By the time I was dilated to a 7, the contractions were peaking off the monitor--giving new meaning to "off the charts." I felt like I was being split in two and was struggling to maintain my metered breathing. The nurse said it would be the best time to have an epidural, especially given that things could roll into a last-minute Cesarean. I caved, even though I feared having the epidural. Part of me was disappointed--I wasn't tough enough to struggle through labor unaided.

But the epidural was an almost-instantaneous, incredible relief. The only thing that bothered me was that my legs felt tingly and while I could move them, I hated not having full control over myself.

By that time my dad and sisters had arrived and my utter relief spread to everyone in the room, lightening the mood considerably. Everyone felt more at ease, and we laughed and joked and watched TV (including the Oklahoma game for my dad) as the monitor became a constant map of peaks and valleys.

It's funny that during most of this time, I was more concerned with everyone else's wellbeing. I asked what the family wanted to watch, offered them snacks we'd packed, sent them off to lunch at around noon, and constantly apologized that this process was taking so long and was so boring. I think I was trying to keep my mind off of my own fears. I function that way: Denying that something big is going to happen until it actually occurs. While I plan and prepare appropriately, I guard my emotions by not fully comprehending what will happen until it actually does.

This lasted until I began to feel the contractions through the epidural, a sign that the Pitocin had really ratcheted up the labor pains (in addition to making my face and body swell) and that things were beginning to progress. It wasn't long before the nurse informed the room it was time to push and everyone but The Banker went to the waiting room.

I felt like each push got me nowhere, though the nurse kept encouraging me to continue. About a half hour in, the epidural began to wear off and I could only push so long before I would smack into a wall of pain and lose my breath. The nurse told me to quit pushing and she called in another anesthesiologist. This doctor was different than the first and as he swaggered into the room he informed me that what he had may not help me and that maybe I needed "to tough it out and just push through it." If I'd been able to talk, I would have shared some choice words with the idiot, but it's just as well that all I could do was weakly nod.

Thankfully the doctor was wrong, and the pain medication was able to take just enough of the edge off that I was able to continue to push. The pushing was so exhausting, and I uttered to the Banker that I didn't think I could do this. But almost an hour into it, the doctor said she could see the head. The Banker stood (safely) by my head, encouraging me to keep going and to keep my chin tucked to my chest. Much of what followed seemed surreal--suddenly the doctor and nurse let out a cheer and the doctor told The Banker the sex of the baby. "We've got a Becca," he beamed.

It's funny that after nine months of wanting a girl I was too exhausted to fully register the news. I'd been right all along but couldn't even utter a triumphant "yes!" The doctor put Becca on my chest and I looked at this little creature with bewilderment. I remember thinking how perfect she looked before the nurses whisked her away to be cleaned up and weighed. And as the doctor stitched me up and The Banker shouted out how big Becca was, I lay there and thought that, just like that, we were parents. Wow.

More Becca

Yeah, we're already camera happy. But can you blame us?

P.S. Thanks for the warm wishes everyone has sent via e-mail and more! It means so much to The Banker and me. I promise more musings later about lack of sleep, stumbling exhaustion, stress over no poopy diapers and more. This parenthood thing is one tough but incredible ride.

Welcoming Not-So-Little Rebecca

At 4:56 p.m. on March 8, 2007 we finally welcomed Rebecca Marie into the world! Weighing in at an impressive 9 lbs., 4 oz. and 21 inches in length, Becca was quite the big girl. Mom will never be the same. And that's a good thing.

Bed rest

So in the ongoing saga of NOTHING HAPPENING, I've been put on bed rest. My blood pressure was a tad high at yesterday's doctor's appointment and my overall discomfort convinced the doc that walking four blocks from the garage to my desk and sitting there for much too long was not in my best interest. Mmm. Afternoon naps! Reading! Oh, yes, and that dang freelance project.

It seems that while I'm ready in almost every way to go into labor, the baby's not engaged far enough into my pelvis to start contractions. So we wait--at least until the 8th when the doctor will break my water. The concern is that if the baby doesn't move far enough into my pelvis before or during labor it will force an emergency c-section. So cross your fingers the baby drops down far enough to cause me the significant discomfort that is contractions. Yeah, silly to be saying, "bring on the pain," but that's exactly what's needed right now. Let's please get this thing going!

And...still nothing

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I've walked, cleaned, nested. You name it, and if it's a safe wives' tale for inducing labor, I've done it. But no more contractions--no sign the The Peanut is going to make his or her grand entrace anytime soon.

And I soooo don't want to have to return to work on Monday morning. Sigh.

Where things are starting to happen

Okay, so I'm only 37 weeks and 3 days along. But it seems I'm also dilated to 3 centimeters. The doctor has said she'll break my water the morning of March 8th--if I make it that long.

My holistic chiropractor "read" my body over a week ago and thought I'd go between the 23rd and the following week. The Banker thought she was full of it, but it turns out she may have known what she was talking about.

So will I languish at 3 centimeters for week after uncomfortable week? Or will this 7-plus pound baby spring for a February birthday rather than a March one? Stay tuned...

Where are the warm fuzzies?

So the really big company I work for just underwent a major internal overhaul. Each employee had an individual meeting yesterday, but it wasn't until this morning that an e-mail was sent out detailing all the changes.

I guess I must have been pretty naive. I thought workers would just be shifted about, allocating the talent to the company's current needs. I didn't see the demotions and forced retirements coming. Happy Valentine's Day indeed. And considering the company I work for, the irony is that much greater.

I've been assigned a new line of work within the company--work that I should be thrilled about. It's highly visible, it's creative, and it’s a strong position. But I'm working for the woman who outted my pregnancy against my will at a staff meeting. And while she was incredibly friendly today, I can't help but be wary.

All of this coincides with Tuesday's trip to the doctor. The baby has dropped, suddenly I'm measuring big, and things are beginning to soften--all of which indicate this labor thing could start sooner rather than later.

Talk about being in limbo. When will I go into labor? When will my job transition take place? Will my odds of part-time work improve any? And will I want this new position when it's all said and done?

It's been awhile...

...I know. Life has been so crazy over the past few weeks that it's taken what little energy I have left to stay atop of things. First I was hospitalized overnight for fear of appendicitis (no worries--pain and white blood cell levels dissipated the next day), and then construction work began on the kitchen as The Banker's nesting instincts kicked into full gear. I don't know how many of you have experienced a serious bit of construction in a house you were abiding in--but for those of you not in-the-know, let me tell you, it sucks. Nothing but headaches, constant messes, setbacks, and new expenses cropped up as the project stretched into a full two weeks. Just yesterday we kicked the final worker out, still leaving us with considerable cleaning and touch-up work.

But the kitchen looks much better (as does the bathroom off the kitchen and the new carpeting in the office). Over the next few days we're going to attempt to put everything back in order. Then the serious waiting begins. Five weeks and counting. Baby is in the exit position but has yet to drop. At least the construction kept our focus off the timeline! After we've completed the clean-up, nothing will keep me from agonizing over the “when.” I'm huge, bloated, and about ready to get this thing started. I can't believe I'm saying I'm ready for that kind of craziness. But I guess I am. I think. I hope.

So tired of being tired

It's nearing 2 a.m. and I'm ridiculously awake. Welcome to third trimester, my gal. Between the heartburn, constant waves of heat, and the energy and alertness it takes to maneuver rolling over, an uninterrupted night's sleep has become the faintest warm memory. It would be fine if I had the freedom for daily naps, but with that whole working thing, I only really have the chance to catnap during the weekends, and sometimes not even then.

And the fact that I'm the size of a small house has really started to wear on me. While in Santa Fe, we were visiting one of my favorite galleries when a woman working there tried to make small talk. Or rather large talk about my expanding size.

Lady from Gallery: "You must be due any day now!"
Me: "Well, I know it may look that way, but I'm actually not due until March..."
Lady from Gallery: "WHAT'S IN THERE? MORE THAN ONE?"
Kindly jumping in is Sister #2, who by this point in the trip has heard far too many of these comments and is sympathetic: "It's just one really large Irish baby in a small torso."
Lady from Gallery: "But you're just HUUUUUUUUGE!"

Huge became the catchword for the remainder of the trip. I'm huge. My skin is stretching, scarring, and itching. I don't remember the last time I could turn to get a decent glimpse of my ass--not that I imagine I want to see it at this point, anyway. I have seven-and-a-half more weeks of this and I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to be able to make it. The old me feels forever lost and this new me is just fat and tired. So very, very tired and HUGE.

Where decisions may be made for me

So a major announcement came down at the really big company yesterday, one that may mean fewer options for me once the baby comes. Nothing like someone making a decision for you, huh?

My boss, an incredible woman with the rare ability to nurture the people around her, was permanently moved within the company. I've lost someone who would have gone to bat for me in my hopes for part-time work, someone with true empathy for my situation, due in part to her three little ones at home. In her place comes a guy with no managerial experience in this part of the company. I've met him a handful of times, and he's always been funny and fabulous. But he's not a family man and doesn't know me well enough to risk anything on my behalf. So my already slim odds of an alternative work schedule are now almost non-existent.

I'm not sure exactly where that leaves me, aside from probably having one less option to choose from. I'm going to see how this motherhood thing feels once it arrives and keep an eye out for part-time work elsewhere. It's strange not to have a plan, but it's the only situation that seems to fit at the moment.

A little bit of everything

I've been gone for awhile, but a good part of that has been out of my control. Now where exactly to begin?

First, thank you to all who weighed in with advice on how to handle the whole work/life balance debate. The decision has--for the moment--been put on the backburner. With my workplace undergoing a major internal overhaul, The Banker and I thought it best to wait and see. There's a good chance my position and responsibilities will change in the next month, so we're in a holding pattern.

I meant to post a "Happy Holidays!" message but somehow never found the time. The entire holiday season seemed to follow in this pattern: too much to do and too little time.

Christmas was a mixed bag. The Banker's family changed their schedule at the last moment, so that it no longer meshed with my family's plans. After four years of precariously balancing the needs of both families, we were thrown off. And it didn't bode well. Needless to say, Christmas morning no one was happy, tears were shed, and much guilt was endured. (And did I mention the present the baby got me? Huge purple stretch marks that appeared between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. Sigh.) I pray next year that The Banker and I can start our own traditions and truly enjoy ourselves for once.

The rest of the day improved, thankfully, and everyone ended up in better spirits. And I got to spend some quality time with my grandparents, which is so important and rare. They live out of town, and my PopPop is 92 with Alzheimer’s beginning to take its toll. My Grammy is younger, but she's enduring constant rounds of chemo to keep cancer at bay. They're incredible people who mean the world to me and each Christmas is truly precious.

The day after Christmas, The Banker and I and my parents and Sister #2 headed off to Santa Fe, where my parents are breaking ground on their retirement home. The vacation started out great--beautiful art galleries, incredible food, amazing scenery. The day before we were to leave, thick snow began to fall. And fall. And fall. Before we were to fly out of Albuquerque, there were 26 inches on the ground. The highway and airport closed, forcing us to stay in Santa Fe another day. Amazingly though, we managed to get the last five tickets on the last flight heading home the next day--the last open flight for the following three days given the backlog from the snowstorm.

The next day we got the car unstuck and headed into Albuquerque and waited in the airport, all day. Flights were taking off and all looked good, until a wall of fog rolled in an hour before our flight was to depart. No flights in or out, and the airport shut down, again. We scrambled to find a hotel room and rental car and spent New Year's in a Holiday Inn Express that was overtaxed by passengers stranded by the snowstorm and fog. I was asleep by 10 for our 5 a.m. wake-up call...at which point the five of us crammed into a little car and drove 16 hours home.

I took that next day off of work--an extra day of "vacation," but much needed due to my exhaustion, and apparent case of the 24-hour stomach flu that has been circulating. So I'm tired, still vaguely sick, and just thankful the holidays are over with. 'Cause the next couple of months will be busy ones. I'm now at 30 weeks and counting and there's much to do before the little one arrives. Things are about to get very exciting.

Where we get...nowhere

After months of isolation from her team, my boss finally was re-assigned to her previous post...on Fridays. The poor thing is still expected to run a million task forces the rest of the week. So this is good news. Sort of.

At the very least, it enabled me to make a lunch date with her this week (from an invitation sent two months ago) to discuss my options after the baby. We started out talking about how the team had been in her absence, how she was doing, how I was faring, and so on. Then she told me I'd been promoted. All good, even great, things.

But then I asked about the potential for part-time work. Here the clear communication began to falter. My boss honestly explained that the company was undergoing some very large changes and that there was no telling if there'd be any open part-time positions (already quite rare) in six month's time.

The good news is that she didn't deny me outright because of my lack of tenure. The bad news is that I've no clear direction in which to move. I still don't know what I'm going to do, which makes it nearly impossible to go about finding daycare. And all the quality establishments and decent nannies have long waiting lists.

Will I be employed in 2007? Will I be at home?

It's funny that I'd find myself in this position. I'm a Type-A personality, a planner. I applied to one high school. One college. One graduate program. I set my sights and I move. But for the first time I have no plan. And it's scary. What does this mean for me?

Surprisingly, it hasn't sent me into a total panic. But it sits darkly curled up in the back of my mind whispering. And I feel more than a little lost in this place.

Holiday spirit? Or pity?

I woke this morning at 2:45 for a typical bathroom break. As baby gets bigger, my bladder has less room to spare. But instead of slipping back into sleep like normal, I found myself wide awake. For hours. I tried every position and relaxing thought but nothing worked. I only scraped together maybe another hour-and-a-half of sleep.

So this morning I stopped by Starbucks for a much-needed cup of decaf. I hoped that just that smidgen of caffeine would help keep my eyes open a little longer. One decaf non-fat peppermint mocha later, I began backing up the Jeep. Then, THUD. A little black Camry had parked illegally behind me, and I hadn't given it wide enough berth.

I pulled back into my parking spot and got out to look at the damage. A paint scratch on the Camry, with the Jeep sporting a crack in the paint on the bumper. Shit. Shit. Shit. I found a sheet of paper and wrote down my insurance information, waiting for the car's owner to return.

Someone must have gone into Starbucks and mentioned the fender-bender, because a cute young girl popped her head out and eyed her car.

"Is that your black car?" I asked. "Because I just bumped it. I'm so, so sorry--I scratched some of your paint. With this silly stomach I can barely turn around and I didn't give your car enough room. I've written out all my insurance information. I'm so sorry!"

Maintaining the most pleasant demeanor, she walked over to look at her bumper. "Don't worry about it!" she said. "It's nothing!"

"No. There’s a scratch and it's all my fault. Please, I've all my information, please take it."

"You've bigger things to worry about," she responded, motioning to my bulging belly. She smiled, shook her head at my offered paper, and turned around and walked back into Starbucks.

Stunned, I got into my car and began to cry. God bless that sweet girl. Whether holiday spirit or pity on how pathetic I must have appeared, she gave me a break on a day when I really needed it. May we all keep that attitude this season!

Just another holiday weekend

Was at the Emergency Vet's till 11:30 last night because there was blood in Cassie's urine. It seems she has a very nasty UTI and we need to be on the lookout for kidney stones. Poor thing. And poor me, who almost fell asleep in the waiting room.

Then we slug it home only to find a beheaded mouse in our office. Ketchum, it appears, has been doing his job.

So a $200 vet bill and mice. The Banker looked at me and in uncharacteristic calm laughed, "If it's not one thing, it's another."

We've been focusing on the saying: Plenty to think about, nothing to worry about. Maybe it's slowly taking hold?

So ill-prepared

Friday marked the 24th week of pregnancy, or six full months. And everyone in the family agrees that the time has gone by so quickly. I agree and disagree with this assessment--in many ways it's gone fast but there's still so much time to go.

And I'm going to need every bit of those four months. The Banker and I haven't had any success finding a nursery set--every set we love and ask to order has been discontinued. It seems the end of the year is the time for companies to dump their designs in preparation for the rollout of new design lines. Except those new lines don't roll out until late January--even later for some companies--which doesn't leave the requisite two months for ordering and shipping that we'd need. So we're torn between settling for a set that can get here before March or waiting to see what the new designs have to offer, even if it means a delivery date far after the little one arrives. (Which is not as drastic as it sounds, since the first few months the baby will be in our room in a pack-and-play or bassinet.)

And the whole registry thing? Nope. Not done that, either. Registering for baby items is a far cry from registering for a wedding. When you marry, you like the looks of something, you zap it into the registry. But baby items come with all sorts of inherent responsibilities and fears. Is it safe? Is it of the highest quality? Will it help in the baby's development? Is it necessary? And the ever-important: Will the baby even like it or will it only serve to piss off that little one?

To be honest, I'm not even sure where to begin. I've talked with a few moms and purchased a book, but still doubt I'm ready to enter the mammoth halls of Babies R Us. So I welcome any advice on the can't-miss items that simply must be on our registry. Please. I don't think I can avoid this anymore!

Hmmm...

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern. A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock. A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything. No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

Stupid people

In my (relatively) short tenure as a pregnant woman, I've been repeatedly shocked by what people feel they can say or do to those who're expecting or have newborns.

Just yesterday The Banker and I were in the doctor's waiting room (for 45 minutes!!) and I watched as a young mom settled in a chair with her newborn in a carrier at her feet. An older, tackily attired woman across the way began to make conversation with the young mom, peppering her with questions that ranged from, "What's her name?" and "How old is she?" to more personal assaults that included, "Will you be returning to work or do you get to stay at home?"

The young woman looked exhausted--she had an infant, who wouldn't be?--but she weathered the onslaught kindly. The questioning continued for well over half an hour. At one point the older woman got up from her seat across the way and sat down in the seat next to the new mom, even though there was a diaper bag there.

And then I heard the line of questioning that almost made me scream. I didn't quite catch the first question, but the mom's response was unmistakable: "Her father and I broke up when I was six months along." That stupid cow! I couldn't believe she'd asked such an incredibly personal question. But rather than be ashamed, she continued on, asking, "Has he been in contact with the baby?" I watched the mom shake her head in an exhausted "no."

I wanted to jump in. I wanted to save the new mom from the terrible questions, but I didn't want to make a scene and further embarrass her. So I did nothing but sit there and fume. I imagined throttling the big-haired idiot in her too-tight culottes.

While I've never had to endure such extended torture, I've been on the receiving end of several idiotic comments from coworkers.
Are you sure you're only that far along? You look bigger than that.
Wow! How can you possibly get any larger?
Whoa! Those things have gotten really big!

Don't know exactly what to say to a new mom or mom-to-be? Here's a clue for the clueless:
* Don't mention my size. Tell me I look good, even if I'm not going to believe you.
* Don't ask if I'm coming back to work. I don't know yet and that's no shortage of stress for me. Plus, it's probably none of your damn business.
* Don't ask if I'm breastfeeding. Unless I whip out a nipple and offer you a drink, consider that a private matter.
* Don't assume there's a partner involved unless I mention one. Single parenting is tough enough without nosey assholes.
* Say POSITIVE things about me, the child, the world at large. There's enough stress and fear going around--don't spread more shit.
* If you're a stranger, don't ask 20 questions. In fact, limit yourself to two. Then back off. New moms are probably appreciating the short-lived calm. Don't fuck it up.
* If you're a stranger, don't touch me or new little ones without express written permission, a drug test, and a 10-day waiting period.

I realize that people most often have the best of intentions. I really do. But some common courtesy, respect for personal space, and thinking before speaking isn't too much to ask. Or at least, I hope not!

Secrets, secrets

One of my nearest and dearest friends has been hiding a secret from me.

For twelve long weeks.

Yup, it seems that my best friend is expecting her second child and is only a mere two months behind me in terms of due dates. Her big day? May 13, or Mother's Day. How she managed to keep the secret so long, I'll never know. She already has a red-headed munchkin who's not even 2 yet. And I thought my hands were going to be full!

So even though she's not a blog reader, I just have to say, Congrats Jess!!

Halloween Party

One of The Banker's many charities hosted a Halloween party tonight. As it turns out, they don't make costumes for pregnant ladies. The outfits at the store consisted of naughty nurses, slutty cats, naughty nymphs, and so on. Since I won't be showing my midriff this year, nor will I be tempting trick-or-treaters with a glimpse of my behind, I had to improvise. So this was my costume:



The get-up was a huge success, with many of the 2,200 party goers exclaiming how much they enjoyed it. Complete strangers asked to take my photo, and one drunken co-ed ran up and excitedly rubbed my belly and yelled how cute I was--much to my shock--before racing off.

A drawback? After hours of wearing the green mud mask, my skin has the slightest tinge of green in some areas. Just in time for the little trick-or-treaters!

Some icky business

When I was in college and working at the local paper, one of the crappy jobs I had was to write obituaries. It was really awful stuff, something that made me feel uncomfortable, sad, and depressed. Even today, I hate reading the obit section and rarely do so. So it was with some trepidation that I logged on to have my own obit written for me. And here's what I got:

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Sick and tired

White spots on the back of the throat. Throbbing sinuses. Snotty nose. Sheer exhaustion. I was all ready to post about our level II sonogram complete with baby sitting cross-legged (seems he/she wants his/her gender to remain a mystery as well!), but now have no energy to do so. And there's so little I can take to run the infection out of my body. I pray this little bit of misery is over soon!

Where I've been...

I know! It's pathetic. I missed my blog-aversary post, my birthday post, and I've been uselessly quiet for awhile. So where've I been?

I've been to the doctor after a scare and was rewarded with the most detailed sonogram pictures to date: a living, beating soul within. Bent legs and a thumb aimed right to a tiny mouth. And the jarring, wonderful realization that there's a baby in there.

I enjoyed a quiet birthday, though subdued may be a better description. Such a different type of year and such a different type of celebration! And I wasn't in denial about my age change this year. I feel older.

I organized and hosted a neighborhood block party. When The Banker and I first moved into our neighborhood four years ago (before leaving within months for Chicago), a lovely older woman had a breakfast to introduce us to our neighbors. The dear woman has since moved on, so no one really had marked the coming of new faces to the block. Deciding to change that, I gathered a dozen or so neighbors for a fun potluck. By all accounts, I think it was a success.

And amidst this busyness, I've been trying not to feel overwhelmed by my options. Will I be able to work part-time for my company, or will I have to find an alternative work schedule somewhere else? What classes will I need to cram into my third trimester? And where to begin with all the choices in car seats, cribs, and strollers? To birth naturally or succumb to the allure of pain management?

I've been thinking about how nice a vacation would be, even though it's only been a month since we returned from England. There just doesn't seem to be enough time or energy to tackle all these issues.

The romance of pregnancy

With just days to go before my birthday, I felt the oddest sensation--much like a marble rolling just slightly back and forth for a mere second or two at the lowest point of my bulging belly. Now the question remains: Was it the baby moving or gas?

Sigh. Pregnancy is really sexy, huh? ;-)

Sad, but true

I've never before understood when people would sigh and sheepishly say, "I totally forgot it was my birthday." I mean, as a kid, you knew the months, days, and hours until your big day--the one spot out of the year where things truly revolved around you. You'd hinted at all the presents you wanted, decided on a party and guests, and even specified what kind of cake would be adorned with candles.

But as you got older, the celebration changed a bit. Fewer cartoon characters and more beverages. And yes, no party favors, unless it was one helluva hangover. But nonetheless, you were well aware of your birthday's place in the calendar, and festivities were appropriately planned.

Somehow this year was different. When The Banker mentioned my birthday next week I was caught off guard. I'd actually forgotten. How did this happen? It seems life has been so hectic, that the dates have slipped by unnoticed. Instead I'm focusing on things farther out. There's the Oct. 10th date--the date of my next big sonogram. And I'm waiting, desperately waiting, for the first movement I can feel. Now THAT would be a birthday gift! And of course, the can't-get-here-too-soon date that is March 10, or thereabouts, when the little one makes his or her big entrance. (Yeah, we've opted for surprise over painting the room blue or pink.)

By comparison, when people ask for gift ideas, the list is pathetically limited. No clothes. What fun is that when your frame is ever-expanding (too much for my mere four months, if you listen to my mom, who tells anyone who cares to listen)? No fun night out with drinks and friends. No energy and obviously, no drinking. Books are always a good choice, but few find that exciting. And the house needs work: a new dishwasher, oven and range, countertops. But that's a bit much to ask.

I guess part of me misses the excitement that birthdays held when I was younger. But I suppose my future is more about making sure that birthdays and holidays are memorable for a new generation. And that's not so bad. Although a drink sure would be nice. =o)

This and that

So where exactly did my vacation calm go? Yep, that holiday buzz has been replaced with the frantic pace of life. So where to begin?

Well, for starters Sister #1 and her husband made good on their pipedream of leaving town and abruptly did so yesterday. My sister quit her hotel job, her husband his teaching gig, and within the week the house was filled with boxes and general panic. I'm thrilled for them both--the two years The Banker and I spent out of town were wonderful, full of adventure and self-discovery--but we're sad to see them go. They were great fun to spend time with and it leaves me as the sole remaining daughter in town. What a loaded position that is!

Also, I began doing some digging at work into maternity benefits...and alternative work schedules. The Banker and I'd decided that after my three months of leave, I'd ideally go back part-time. Except the really big company I work for, while promising flexibility and employee-friendliness, apparently has some strict criteria for alternative work schedules. Specifically, tenure requirements I don't meet. It would help if I had a manager to go to bat for me, but my manager was just reassigned to another division and isn't due to return till I'm on leave. And the interim manager? She doesn't know me from Adam and even better, she's so close to retirement that she doesn't give a shit.

So where does that leave me? I still have a few people to talk to, in about two month's time, to determine if I really can't take on an alternative schedule. And then The Banker and I talk budgets, job options, and lifestyles. And I try to figure out what I want to do with my life. No biggie, right?

And to finish out the this-ing and that-ing, here are some more (requested) pics from our vacation...that blessed time that already seems so long ago.


Tower Bridge


Roman Baths in...appropriately enough, Bath


A view of pubs and towering castle in Scotland

Home again, home again

London was incredible. Bath, Lacock, and Stone Henge were beautiful. And Edinburgh was wet. Overall, it all was so invigorating, so refreshing, so much fun. It was really difficult to come home, though, and I begged The Banker for more time. Actually, I begged for a permanent change of address. Ever sensible, he made sure we made the flight.

But here's just some of what we saw:







I was so blown away by how rich the history was, everywhere we went. And the people were so kind, so accomodating. And even better? I felt great the entire trip. More later when I get caught up some more on my sleep, laundry, and such.

Two Days and Counting...

That's right, just two more full work days and then vacation begins! I feel like a kid at Christmastime. It can't come soon enough, and I know it will be over all-too-quickly. Few things make me out-and-out giddy, but travel is at the top of the list. (Followed by trips to zoos, amusement parks, a good adventure, furry creatures, nature walks, great wine and food, and a damn good book. Childish, huh?)

We managed to get tickets to see a Comedy of Errors at the Globe and Avenue Q while we're there. A day trip to Edinburgh and Stone Henge are also planned. Cross your fingers that all goes well--no travel headaches, stressful world events, or health issues.

I'm packing my crystalized ginger (thanks, MM!) and pray that a clear head, boundless energy, and a calm stomach accompany me on the journey. Here we go!!

Changes

There are so many changes this new, unexpected state has wrought on my body and my life in general. Today I start my 11th week, but I'm already firmly in maternity clothes. If you were passing me on the street you'd think I'd either totally let myself go, or I done got myself knocked up. My once-flat stomach is firmly, undeniably pooched. My gawd, I'm going to be a whale. After years of careful weight monitoring, watching the scale creep upward is truly difficult.

And my chest, never meager to begin with, has rocketed past the Ds into what I call the Es. For flippin' ENORMOUS. I feel like Dolly Parton, and every time a male head swivels, I feel dirty--instinctively putting my hand to my stomach as if to shield the baby's eyes from disgusting men. The Banker, not mincing words, has even taken to shaking his head. "They're huge," he sighs. "I'm not gonna lie."

And I can't even look at a piece of meat or fish without every ounce of me quivering in repulsion. Red Lobster commercials send me into fits. I want carbohydrates, thank you, and a never-ending supply. Bagels, pasta, mashed potatoes, yes, yes, and more. The organic produce I paid out the ass for? That's the sort of thing I vomit all over myself when I'm about two minutes from work, forcing a 15-minute drive home in my own spew to clean up and change.

Oh, and yes, that kick-ass trip to Peru planned for two years? That has to go by the wayside. I'm admittedly crushed. Despite my joy over our surprise, my family and friends knew what that adventure meant to me. We've promised ourselves to re-book the trip in a few years. If the travel company ever returns our funds, which is what that insurance thing was supposed to be all about.

The Banker and I did agree to take a sloppy seconds trip. We booked our tickets about two weeks ago...to London. I think the universe is laughing at me, denying my travel-starved body any sort of vacation. We’re slated to leave on Aug. 31st and are in wait-and-see mode. If there's another terrorist attack or plan uncovered, we'll eat the money and cancel. And I think I'll begin to climb the walls in frustration. That or eat a pound of mashed potatoes.

A tentative return

The Banker and I met at the doctor's today, medical records in hand, both a bit nervous. We'd reason to be. We were meeting my new doctor for the first time. And we were anxiously awaiting some answer, some sense that everything was going to be okay.

The new doctor was friendly, young, knowledgeable and very approachable. She went through the litany of precautions and concerns and admitted that it may be too early to find what we were looking for. Nevertheless, she took the electronic equipment and began circling it over my belly.

Then there it was. Finally. A rapid-fire heartbeat. 168 beats a minute. The doctor grew animated and couldn't help gushing, "So strong! This means your chance of miscarriage drops to one to two percent."

After the weeks of stress, illness, pain, and panic-inducing spotting, she gave us the hope we'd been waiting for. That this new little one may be sticking around for the long haul.

My Absence

It's been awhile, I know. I just haven't exactly known how to approach my blog given the latest set of circumstances. My life was turned upside down over the holiday weekend, and I'm spending the better part of my time accepting and trying to nurture this change. I don't yet know if it's permanent. I do know that if it is, it will forever alter my life. So I'm not ready to write about it. It's too new, too uncertain. But I'll be back, I promise. I just need a little bit of time, and if you have them to spare, some happy thoughts and prayers that all goes well.

Where things don't go according to plan...

Well...let's see. Since my Dad is in Canada fishing, he sent his most trusted colleague out to look at the house to give it a once-over before we made an offer. He thought the roof needed work, spotted mold in the basement (as did The Banker), and said that the house was shifting a bit (as does any house--but perhaps a bit more than normal for a home only 20 years old). He said he thought the house was overpriced and would need some work.

Then, The Banker pulled some comparison sales in the neighborhood as well and determined the selling price was too high. So we offered $40,000 below the asking price, no contingencies. The Banker said the owner seemed insulted at our offer (he designed the house and did much of the work himself...which explained why some of the crown moldings weren't flush, etc.).

So we're just letting our offer hang there, awkwardly twisting in the muggy air. So we'll have to see. The owner WAS asking too much. And because of how the house was situated on the property, it couldn't really be expanded, should we need more space. So the questions still linger. Isn't the house a little TOO close to the property line? Is it too small? Is there a better house out there? Or are we being too conservative in our offer? Will we regret playing hardball? The doubts have begun to creep in...

It happened!

It was accidental, a total lark. But we knew almost instantly. As soon as we were alone, The Banker turned to me and said, "We're going to do this, aren't we?" He didn't need my enthusiastic "Yes!" for an answer. I think my face said it all.

This country home sits on the side of a four-acre lot and boasts three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, a great kitchen, huge living room, and small basement. The bedrooms are large and the bathrooms amazing. The house has more curb appeal than any we've seen in our months of looking. It sits back from the road, encircled by a white fence, with a frontyard full of trees. The back of the house has a small cedar deck and a pool (vinyl but inground. The jury is out on this selling point because pools can be dangerous for littles ones and dogs). The small pool is lined with bushes and plants and has a small terrace. The backyard spreads out from there, firmly fenced--but with so much green space!--leading to a small metal barn with four stalls, a corral, and then two acres of pasture land. It's so beautiful. The pasture is cut short, currently a chipping green for the owner. Needless to say, The Banker loves this ammenity!

So we're going to make an offer. The owner today insinuated there'd been several calls about the property. The Banker insists the owner is asking too much. We'll see how he responds to our number and go from there. My stomach is in knots because this thing could get yanked from beneath us. (Yes, I know, then it wasn't meant to be. But still. When has that ever made the difference?!)

And then there are the other questions. It's a long drive downtown...what about my commute? It's only 15 minutes from my parents' home, but isn't it like a different world? What will this mean to our longterm plans?

But I can't answer those questions. Instead, I keep coming back to how it felt out there last night, looking out onto the rolling green under towering clouds. I felt peace.

Remedy for a foul mood

Friday night I found my remedy for an exhausting two straight weeks of work and family demands: sushi and sake with best friends. Friday evening, still reeling from Thursday's dinner disaster, The Banker and I met our closest friends for sushi to celebrate my best friend's birthday and The Banker's. The conversation and laughter flowed as quickly as the alcohol and delicious rolls. It was just the pick up my spirit needed. It really is an amazing thing when someone knows you so thoroughly inside and out that nothing goes unsaid--even if you've said nothing at all.

Saturday night brought another of The Banker's work functions, and Sunday has been spent at various Father's Day celebrations. So while I'm not exactly ready for the beginning of another work week, I'm a little less frayed around the edges. And this week only holds a handful of obligations, which means that I can get caught up on some freelance work and maybe some reading as well. Maybe. =-)

Random musings

There are days when I'm overcome with the desire to quit. To pick up, pack lightly, and leave. To discard the obligations, responsibilities, and orders that sometimes hang very heavy on my frame. There are times I want so much to leave it all behind, to feel refreshed by new adventure and brought alive by freedom.

Last night was one of those nights. We had dinner with The Banker's family and the CFO of our city's Arch Dioceses at one of the nicest restaurants in town. It was one of those meals where people talk, tossing about huge sums, big names, and banal banter. The Banker's brother and his wife, most specifically the sister-in-law, lorded over the conversation, pulling the CFO and his wife into their web of six degrees of separation. Always adept at social climbing, last night the two were in their element. Whenever The Banker or I tried to pipe in on any subject, the sister-in-law intervened, talking louder, re-focusing the conversation, and regaining her court.

Not that I cared much to talk to these people. We had little in common. They didn't travel, didn't know anyone we knew, and really only wanted to focus on their grandchildren. Little ones was a topic the sister-in-law was keen on; she could brag about her son and share the woes of all his allergies and other maladies.

One of the few times I got a word in edgewise was terribly painful. It went as such:
CFO--"Have you read Marley and Me? It made me cry!"
Me--"I've been meaning to read it. Do you have any dogs?"
CFO--"No, I really don't have a taste for animals."

What the hell?? The wonderful food was hard to swallow, the expensive wine tasted sour. And I caught myself thinking, "Why am I doing this? Why am I here? And why do I spend so much of my precious time at miserable events such as these when all they serve to do is crush my resolve, my soul, a little bit more?"

It's times like these when I wonder what part of my genetic code, my upbringing, has ingrained the "sit there and just smile until this hell has passed" mentality. This sense of responsibility and proper decorum so chafe at the other part of me, the tiniest bit of gypsy spirit, which while kept tightly under wraps most of the time, occasionally swells up and cries out in pain. It's then the fake smiles and bullshit conversations hurt the most. It's then that I find myself so disappointed for playing into all of this, for lacking the strength to say "No," to scream "Shut the fuck up!" to shout "Who the fuck cares?!"

She nags at me, spreading discontent, questioning what happened to that other path, the one filled with a different sort of life. She prods me to pick up that passport, discard the responsibilities I pretend to enjoy, and do something, anything, different. I do want to break out of this rut, but all those other enticing options don't entail adulthood, compromise, martyrdom. And as the age 30 hovers on the horizon, and I slug it out at work and watch The Banker trying so hard to carve out his place in the business world, I think I should probably silence this little voice. Because being a gypsy is not compatible with adulthood. And this is now my life.

A WTF Wedding Weekend

So this weekend was totally bizarre. The Banker and I get into Arlington Heights on Friday in time to pick up his tuxedo, find the hotel, take a ten-minute nap, and get ready for the rehearsal. And that's where things really got messed up.

It seems the groom-to-be was in rare form on Thursday night, so intoxicated he could barely stand. And in the process of this "fun," had his wallet, full of credit cards and $1,000 cash, stolen by A STRIPPER. So he cancels all the credit cards, unbeknownst to the bride-to-be, who's at the spa with her bridesmaids. Imagine her surprise when she exits the peace and calm of a day at the spa to find that all her credit cards are denied. So she's late for the rehearsal, and tensions are understandably a little high.

The rehearsal drags on until finally we get clearance to head to the rehearsal dinner. There the bride-to-be admits to me that there is so much yet to be done--including place cards, parting gifts, various decorations, etc. So I say, "Well, since the boys are going out tonight, I'm totally at your disposal."

"WHAT?!?!"

Yep, the poor gal had no idea that the men had another night of debauchery planned, even though the groom-to-be had already had SEVEN bachelor parties, including one to VEGAS and COSTA RICA. She storms over to her beloved and they have a low and heated conversation...thanks to yours truly. The guy is entirely huffy and rude to his future wife. And I'm thinking if he were mine, I'd kill him.

So since the boys are heading out, I follow the bride-to-be back to the hotel and help hold her things while she tries to check in. With no credit cards. That bridal suite and the two shuttles needed to transport the wedding guests from the hotel to the church to the rececption and back to the hotel? Yeah, that needs to be held with a credit card. Apparently my credit card, because there are no others available.

Finally the night ends as the clock is closing in on one a.m., after having helped various bridesmaids complete all the final tasks for Saturday's wedding. The men? They were out drinking.

But for all the craziness on Friday, the wedding actually went off without a hitch. I couldn't wait to get the hell out of town on Sunday, though. The Banker and I regretted to the couple's offer of brunch in their condo, and at 6 a.m., mouth still feeling full of cotton from too much vodka, we began the drive home.

And it feels damn good to be home. And with a husband who doesn't have a gambling addiction, problems with strippers and credit cards, and a total crap attitude.

A weekend in the Windy City

In an odd twist, before we left the city The Banker was asked to be in the wedding of a colleague from the, well, bank. It struck me as particularly strange because the people I chose to stand by me at the altar were my sisters and my best friend, whom I'd known for almost a decade. The Banker had known this guy for a year and change. But heh, who am I to judge?

So we're driving up to Chicago this Friday, or the outskirts, to be exact. We'd originally planned on driving to save money; it didn't make sense to fly and then rent a car. But that was before gas became the equivalent of liquid gold.

And while I'm always up for a good meal and dancing, I have to admit that I'd rather spend the weekend in town. Between the four freelance stories I'm juggling, the need to get a Father's Day gift and a birthday gift, a general need for some downtime, coupled with the dread of the long drive and weekend of strangers, I'm kinda in a sour mood about the pending nuptials.

So I need to pull my head out of my ass a bit. I need to find something to re-energize myself with. I need the energy of a child who's just been given a shot of expresso and a new puppy. Now how can I get that bottled up?

Finally, the lies and secrets are finished

It's been a long six months of sneaking, lying, and secret pay-offs, and finally, it's finished. The Banker returned home from a long day of golfing and opened the fridge in search of a cold beer and he found it: his (very) early birthday gift.

He'd wanted this brand of watch since we married, but the price Tag was such that it wasn't a rational purchase. But last January I called the family's jeweler and asked if I could put something on layaway. I'd just received a little chunk of change in the form of a freelance payment that could begin to whittle down the price tag.

The Banker is ever-vigilant about our bank accounts, so I knew I had to fund this surprise entirely on the side. So for the last five months I've been secretly whittling. Selling old CDs and DVDs. Racing home to get the mail and fish out any freelance checks that might be waiting there. Taking every crap writing job that came my way. Squirreling away ever odd $20 that would otherwise pay for lunches and odds and ends.

And I've felt bad about being so deceitful. Our thorough screwing by Uncle Sam came after I'd put the watch on layaway, so despite the fact we needed my extra funds, I had to forge ahead. But it was all worth it. The Banker is thrilled beyond words and proudly wearing his new bit of bling. And now those extra checks can begin to go toward our upcoming trip. And I can quit being so sneaky.

Maybe.

Day Off

I took today off so I could sleep in a bit, work on some freelance, and get a pedicure and my hair "did" with the sisters for tonight's gala event. (And maybe head to the chiropractors. Curse you, lowerback!)

Yup, tonight is one of my favorite charity events: Jazzoo. A creative blacktie, everyone decends upon the local zoo to mill about the hundreds of tents filled with offerings from the city's best restaurants. Three stages beckon with a variety of bands and the night will, hopefully, be clear, late, and a great amount of fun. The girls and I are having feathers put in our up-dos, since birds of a feather...