Date with NyQuil

We're ushering 2007 in quietly in our home. There is a bottle of NyQuil in the next room that has my name on it, as I've developed a terrible head cold in addition to the aftereffects of my miscarriage and D&C.

When we were leaving the surgery center on Friday, the doctor gave us prescriptions for Midol and Vicodin. That worried me -- VICODIN! What kind of pain was I in for? For the first day or so, I felt almost no pain. But last night? BOY HOWDY did the cramps start in earnest. It was intensely painful, and I contemplated taking the Vicodin, but I didn't want to be knocked out for Chebbles' wake-up time. She really needs ME at 6am lately, rejecting all of Hub-D's efforts to comfort, change or feed her. So I stuck with the Midol and weathered the cramps, sitting on the toilet just like I did when I was in labor with her.

In other news, Chebbles has picked up funny habits and sayings from the neighbor kids, with whom she has been spending a lot of time while I recover. She's now performing an exaggerated shrug, complete with her palms raised to the sky, whenever I ask her a question: e.g., "Hey Chebs, where's Panda?" ... her head cocks back, and she gives a big shrug, Seinfeld-style. One of my Christian neighbors thinks she might be praising The Lord.

She's also REALLY into drawing. She's crazy about it. If she were on the show "Survivor" and she were offered the choice of a big meal at a spa OR a suitcase full of crayons, there would be no contest. She just wants to play with crayons 24 hours a day. She's supposed to just draw on paper, but the temptation to stray is just too strong sometimes. Today while I stood in our enclosed glass shower stall, trying yet again to wash the strange odors from my body, she leaned up against the glass from the outside and hollered "DRAAAAW" while slashing against the glass with an orange crayon stub. It was a nice comic relief.

Everything about Chebbles is a relief right now, primarily the fact she EXISTS. She is living proof that Hub-D and I are capable of conceiving a baby who lives past the 8th week of pregnancy. No rotten egg, she. And her spirits are great. She loves hanging out with me, and we learned "Ring Around the Rosie" yesterday (although someone keeps falling down when we get to the "ashes" part). She's eating more than she has in a long time and she's getting really into her appearance, insisting that we decorate her golden locks with pigtails and barrettes as often as possible.

We are buoyed by her glory, but sad nonetheless. It's as though Hub-D and I are tethered to her, a floating buoy, but we are underwater, bodies limp with grief, little bubbles emitting from our mouths as we cry into the blue water. She keeps us from sinking FURTHER and the tether lets us know where we are supposed to emerge when we are ready. But we're nowhere near that point. My uterus is still cramping like crazy, my belly still looks pregnant even if I suck it in, and we don't know what to talk about if not the new baby.

We used to talk about names, about plans, about dumb things like childcare starting in July, or where the new baby will sleep. Or whatever. And now?

"Can you reach the medicine cabinet for me?"

"OK."

"I think there is some NyQuil in there... Yeah there it is. Thank you."

Sad family tonight. Here's to a happier new year tomorrow.

Evac

I just keep thinking of the "snitch" from Harry Potter -- the winged golden ball they use in their "Quidditch" games. That's how I see my little baby right now -- the one who died inside me and left me yesterday. But instead of being caught, this little winged creature goes right up to the sun, higher and higher, like a balloon, and suddenly out of sight.

What will I do without that baby inside of me? I loved it so much and so hard, it was like a little worry stone, rubbed down with all of my nerves and illness. And now my belly is deflating without my little bun inside of it.

The D&C went well, medically speaking. I cried so hard when they were trying to put the IV in me -- my blood pressure was so low and I was so cold and tired and in a state of horror -- I had to be left alone for several minutes before they could continue putting in the IV. I felt it necessary to tell everyone I interacted with that my baby was dead. I didn't want anyone to think I was having an elective abortion, so they could know the full extent of my trauma. I DIDN'T WANT THIS.

The surgery center was, cruelly, in the back of the birthing center where Chebbles was born. This made me cry so hard as we walked in that I borrowed a box of Kleenex from the receptionist. I was relieved that they perform a lot of different surgeries there -- I wasn't in some long line-up of D&C patients, all of us raw and horrible together. No, there were cataract people and biopsy people and no one else was having a D&C that day.

As they wheeled me to the operating room, I passed a big chart on the wall -- operations that were scheduled for the day. My procedure had been hastily written below everyone else's -- having been scheduled the evening before. "D&C w/ evac." it said. "EVAC." Oh, the horror. Something specific was being removed.

I was completely knocked out for the procedure, but I kind of wish I knew what happened, on a basic level. These people were interacting with the most intimate part of my body, and performing the most horrible surgery I could imagine, removing my dead child. But I wasn't a part of it. It was a procedure, and I woke up an hour and a half later, and asked for graham crackers.

But they told Hub-D that it went well, there were no complications (shortly before the surgery, they brought up the possibility that they might puncture a hole in my uterus) and it's kind of strange how little I've bled since the D&C. During my pregnancy, I obsessed over the contents of my underpants every day. But there is so little discharge now that, were I still pregnant, I wouldn't be worried.

But I'm not pregnant. And on some level, the level that's pushing aside the whole part about "my baby died inside of me," it's a relief.

This pregnancy had been one long horror show, but I was really happy about it. I was really proud about the baby growing inside of me. And that HEARTBEAT, I saw its heart beating. It would be one thing if its heart had never started, but it did start, and I did see it, and that sweet little flutter was enough for me to anchor my hopes on, despite the bleeding episodes and my extreme morning sickness.

But I'm not sick anymore. I don't feel like vomiting every time I get in the car. I'm not obsessing about remembering my progesterone supplements, my baby aspirin and my folic acid. Who the hell cares anymore? The night before my D&C I drank a beer, and today I ate sushi and drank hot sake.

OK, truth be told, I don't really enjoy any of these things, and the relief of not being sick and not being paranoid and having some of my energy back is a nice thing, but I WANT MY BABY BACK INSTEAD.

I want Thursday's doctor's appointment not to have happened. I don't want to have looked at the monitor and have seen that my formerly firm little baby had grown fuzzy, limp, and stopped growing at 8.5 weeks. I don't want the doctor to have said, "I'm afraid I don't have good news for you." But she did.

And now, I think of things like the Christmas cards I sent. Emboldened by seeing the heartbeat, I told all manner of people that we were expecting a baby in July. And we're not now. I don't know when we're expecting a baby anymore. We had been expecting a baby in March, and that ended in miscarriage. And then we had been expecting a baby in July, and that baby died. So now what?

My emotions are going in about 200 different directions. I vacillate between sobbing and feeling "OK" for hours at a time.

I've been relishing my time with Chebbles, although I'm still tired and achy from the D&C. I'm not scared to pick her up or pull her in the wagon and give her 100% of my attention and energy. I'm better able to feed her, as I'm not disgusted by the kitchen anymore. She is loving it, she really has her mama back. She was laughing like a banshee when we played the "I'm Going to Get You with the Nasal Aspirator" game, which we haven't done for months.

So the good news is, I'm a mom, and I'm a better mom to Chebbles now that I'm not disgustingly sick. But I was also a mom to that little baby, and I carried it as far as it could go. I realize now that I was feeling a little better since the embryo had died, but I had attributed it to my use of Robitussin DM (which I started a week after it died, so I didn't kill it with the DM).

While we sat in the curtained pre-op room at the hospital, Hub-D held my hand and went over various travel options for us. We could go back to Hawaii, he said, or maybe we want to go to Florida. We could do anything now that I'm better, and we can travel now before we have a second baby. But I guess I just want to go back in time, and I want to be pregnant, and I want the pregnancy to stay. And I want the doctor's appointment to have gone differently, and I don't want to be trying to conceive again, with two terrifying miscarriages now under my belt.

The lab is going to test the tissue from my little embryo, in order to determine if there is some REASON that the baby died. I don't know if I want there to be a reason, to know if there is some genetica anomaly at play, to know that my eggs are shooting blanks.

And, depending on my wherewithal in the coming week, starting in the new year, I think I'm going to call a Reproductive Endocrinologist and make an appointment. I have to feel some measure of "control" over this situation, as much as I realize that's not quite possible. It's just not OK with me that this pregnancy ended, that I won't be heading to the birthing center in July and meeting a sweet little head full of new ideas and possibilities.

But in the meantime, before the new year starts and my determinations kicks in, there is so much sadness to survey. Basically, I have a mountain of grief to walk up and over and it's going to take a long, long time to do it. And now I'm just putting on my hiking shoes and looking at the map. I haven't even really put my feet on the trail, because I'm tired, and I'm sad, and I don't feel like moving all that much right now.

But regardless of my own inertia, that little baby is heading straight up to the sky on his or her little wings, and I'm going to miss the hell out of that kid.

The end (again)

Very sad news today -- "The Bun" has died. We went for an ultrasound today -- the usually-fun 10-week pregnancy kick-off doctor's appointment, only to find that the heartbeat had stopped, and the baby had stopped growing at 8.5 weeks.

I'm going in for a D&C tomorrow (where the pregnancy will be surgically ended), but am strangely treasuring tonight, the last night I'll hold this little body inside my body. I'm going to miss this little one so much, it's been a long and frightening journey, and this is NOT the end I envisioned for this pregnancy.

Instead of the natural childbirth and nursing I was planning, I'll be knocked out at 10 weeks and 4 days, and when I wake up, I won't be pregnant any more.

I still feel sick. I still have a big belly. There is no reason to think I'm not pregnant, except that the baby has died inside me, and tonight is our last night "together."

So damn sad, I don't even know where to begin.

In which Hub-D is deemed a threat to national security

Well, yesterday was an adventure!

I left the house for the first time in many weeks -- the sunshine hurt my bleary eyes as we dragged our suitcases and daughter to the car, heading off to the airport to come to Pittsburgh for the holidays.

When we arrived at the airport, we realized that many people are celebrating what's known as the "holiday season" and there are many people who want to fly "home" for these holidays, and these people tend to create enormous, snaking lines all over the airport in their quest for "holiday togetherness."

This had completely escaped Hub-D's and my notice -- the holidays, I mean. We have no Christmas tree or basic "cheer." We've purchased a few presents and sent some cards, but we haven't attended one Christmas party or decorated the house with anything but one wreath I bought months ago. Who's in the mood for Christmas when one is hurling repeatedly into the toilet while simultaneously fearing a miscarriage, all the while caring for a sick toddler?

So, we had forgotten. And we were punished.

At the airport, I found a Southwest employee and wheedled, "But our flight is in an HOUR and we'll miss it if we have to go to the back of the liiiiiiiine."

But I've watched the show "Airline" and I know the score. If you're too late and too stupid to remember that it's Christmas, you're out of luck. Go to the back of the line and, as the Southwest employee told me, "we'll book you on the next available flight."

On a day when every plane was overbooked out of Oakland, the "next available flight" had a kind of "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles" ring to it.

So Chebbles and I took our place at the end of the line while Hub-D parked, and Chebbles charmed people until they took pity on the pretty toddler with the pissy mom, and VERY NICELY ushered us to the front of the line.

By that point, Hub-D had joined us, and he handed over his ID optimistically. We started to kind of get hopeful... we MIGHT MAKE THIS FLIGHT! We might not be spending Christmas holed up in an Oakland hotel, pathetically standing by for flight after impossible flight!

Then the woman began shaking her head... "You must have a common name," she said to Hub-D. Apparently, my Republican husband's name is on the "DO NOT FLY" list. So he had to go to some airport PURGATORY, where they did SOMETHING to him. He won't talk about it yet, whatever it is they did to him... perhaps it involved a dog leash and women's underwear. We won't know until he's ready to open up about it.

Anyway, while he was detained by the TSA, Chebbles and I ran for the flight. I harbored fantasies of blocking the plane door until Hub-D could make his way through TSA hell and join us for these so-called "holidays" that everyone keeps talking about.

Chebbles and I coaxed our way through the security line, only to be vexed at the metal detector, where a very old, deaf gentleman was repeatedly setting off the detector, and the TSA employee was hollering into his ear, "Do you have any COINS in your POCKETS? IN YOUR POCKETS?!?" Chebbles and I waited... and waited... until someone finally took mercy on us and pulled the deaf guy aside, allowing us to plow through.

After they checked Chebbles' car seat for explosives, gently caressing her mucus-covered seat cushion with a little white pad and running it through a sophistocated machine, which, one may assume, is now permanently damaged from Chebbles' particular array of car seat substances... we were off to the gate.

I ran in my sock feet for the plane, knowing (again from the show "Airline") that they would close the doors five minutes before the flight -- we had three minutes. Chebbles wasn't even strapped into the seat as I rolled it through the airport in my sock feet, bent over my pregnant, barfy belly and plowing through the crowds. But we made it alive, and before the door closed!

I ran to the door with our sweaty little tickets, only to be firmly REBUFFED.

The flight was OVERSOLD. They had NO SEATS for us. We'd made the plane, but we were screwed anyway. "If you'd only checked in online," they said. (You CAN'T check in online when you have an infant fare seat because they need to verify that your baby is indeed a baby... but anyway.)

In the meantime, Hub-D came careening up, sweaty and traumatized... only to be greeted with my frowny, pukey face, "We're screwed. We have no seats."

The gate agents were really nice about it, and offered the seated passengers $200 plus a bunch of other perks if they would give up their seats. No dice... the other passengers knew that the "next available flight" was in January.

So we waited, like Mary, Joseph and the little baby Chebbles, huddled on the floor by the gate, hoping for a miracle or maybe a flying manger. And that's when it happened... someone who had checked in did not arrive at the gate, and it was time to close the doors. So there was ONE SEAT left -- and we GRABBED IT.

I kissed Hub-D goodbye, as he vowed to take the "next available flight," and I gate-checked Chebbles' (non-explosive-laden) car seat, and took her as a LAP CHILD -- occupying that one, amazing seat that had come free.

The seat was in the back, between two obviously disappointed passengers, who suddenly were trapped in a small space with a very stinky Panda, Chebbles, and me. I told the flight attendant that I thought I might throw up, so she gave me a big garbage bag and some AWESOME crackers. (They're called "Plane Crackers" and they are made in the shape of little planes, and I have never seen them before on a Southwest flight. I can only assume they are offered to barfy passengers only -- and they were DELICIOUS. I reluctantly shared a few with Chebbles, and snarfed a big bag of them before we even took off.)

So we made it, Chebbles and I, to Pittsburgh. Chebbles had a FANTASTIC TIME flying to Pittsburgh, making friends and coloring on my "Us Weekly" magazine. I, however, was a misshapen, disgusting puddle of tears by the time I spotted my stepbrother in the Pittsburgh airport.

My dad met us in baggage claim (where our bags failed to arrive, and still haven't arrived a day later...), and he put his arm around me and said he appreciated all of my effort to fly to visit him and Grandma D. for the holidays. And I grew these little fangs in my mouth as I stared straight ahead with glazed, rabid eyes and said, "Enjoy it, Dad. Enjoy it. Because, forever more, you are visiting US for the holidays."

(And guess who crawled into bed with me at 2am? Hub-D, who had actually caught the "next available flight!" My hero...)

Goo-B-Gone

There is SOMETHING about Robitussin DM that makes my morning sickness better.

See, my major problem is that my body produces a lot of GOO when I'm pregnant. I barf and spit goo all day long. (Doesn't pregnancy sound AWESOME?)

But when I came down with a sleep-prohibitive cough a few days ago, Hub-D phoned the OB and discovered that Robitussin DM is allegedly SAFE for pregnant ladies. So we got some, and I swallowed it (thank GOD it's in liquid form because I can't handle pills right now), and my cough was suppressed... and SO WAS THE GOO.

I woke up feeling so good that I was certain I was having a miscarriage. I have now gone almost 48 hours without throwing up. What's going on here?

There is no way the morning sickness is naturally abating, not at 9.5 weeks of pregnancy. And I guess it IS possible that something has gone terribly wrong with the pregnancy, and that's why I'm feeling better. But I think the likeliest scenario is that the Robitussin DM suppresses goo.

Well, whatever it is, I'll take it. My next OB appointment is on the 28th, and I'm counting the minutes, hoping SO HARD to hear that precious heartbeat, to confess my shameful Robitussin habit, and receive absolution.

And that's how I named this blog

We had an earthquake last night. It felt like our house suddenly lowered half an inch, and the picture frames rattled on the walls.

I held onto the sofa and called out to no one, "Earthquake!"

It's necessary to declare that an earthquake is occuring, I think. See, it always takes a moment or two for one's brain to wrap around the idea that the CRUST OF THE EARTH has just moved and taken you with it.

Earthquakes can be very different from one another. There are ROLLING earthquakes and JOSTLING earthquakes and up-n-down earthquakes (last night's) and roaring earthquakes, so no two are the same, and although we live in Earthquake Country, it's never the first thing that comes to mind.

Instead, I think things like:

"I wish my friends would stop pushing this sofa back and forth so I could get some sleep."

"Why is there a football team coming up our stairs?"

"That's SOME party."

The biggest bummer is to be in one's car when one of these earthquakes hits -- you miss it. The shocks in your car absorb the impact and you don't have a chance to get confused and then excited, then run for a doorjamb. You just keep driving in your car, then when you get to your destination, everyone tells you about the damn earthquake you missed.

OK, they are not fun when someone gets hurt. But the vast majority of these earthquakes just rustle things up, make our wall hangings askew, and remind us that we are participating in the Continental Drift in a fairly significant way. Oh, and we get to go enjoy our brief fame on the "Shake Map:"

Flowers in the Attic

I've been thinking about the story of "Flowers in the Attic" a lot recently, as I'm pretty sure my actions are quite reminiscent of the mother in that story.

For the uninitiated, a plot synopsis: A dopey mom drops her kids off with their evil grandmother, who locks them in the attic. Everyone gets more pasty and weird as they wait for their mother to win back the love of her wealthy father, who must not know of the existence of the "Flowers in the Attic."

Like every V.C. Andrews book, it's so far-fetched and super-pervy that it's HIGHLY COMPELLING reading, and mandatory for every teenage girl. I mean REALLY, a lady who has four children with her UNCLE locks her kids in a mansion where they start hooking up with each OTHER. I mean, folks.

Anyway, I was looking at Chebbles' increasingly pasty face today, and she looked JUST LIKE the Cory child from "Flowers in the Attic," increasingly despondent about her lack of activity -- a little flower trapped with her dopey knocked-up mother. I've even installed a second deadbolt on the front door to prevent any potential escapes.

She's so desperate for some contact with the outside world that, this morning, she broke out of the front door at 7am. It was 38 degrees outside, she was just in her purple jammies, but she had her keychain and she was OFF. After hearing the front door open, Hub-D found Chebbles heading toward the car. I guess she was going to drive somewhere.

I just have such a problem leaving the house. I am so barfy and weak, and I need to have extremely icy beverages at my disposal at all times. Plus, what if I miss "Law & Order?"

So, it's pathetic. And Chebbles has just about had it with me. Today, I dropped her off with a neighbor for awhile -- she's got four kids and Chebbles fit right in. When I came to pick her up, she was on a tricycle at the end of the driveway, wearing another kid's parka, just totally AT HOME. When she saw me get out of the car, she said, "Mama," then took off running in the other direction.

My little flower in the attic...

Ice

Is this the ICE that pulses through my veins as I let my child "cry it out?"? Or the ice down my spine during last night's 7,000th miscarriage scare (cramps, now subsided)? Perhaps the ice of Hub-D's extremities because I won't turn on the central heat at night?

No. Please remember that I have no emotional or physical reactions to normal stimuli anymore.

This post is about how awesome ICE CUBES are. There is not enough ice in the world for this pregnant lady. Ooooh, I can't fill my cup high enough with the glorious cubes. Hearing the ice maker in the freezer kick into gear gives me an auditory THRILL -- the new cubes falling down and the new cold water PULSING into the mold? Oooh, fantastic.

On the few occasions that I venture outside of my door, I want to know that my destination will include ICE availability. I have an upcoming plane trip, and all I really want to know is WILL THEY GIVE ME ICE? I mean, MORE ice than usual people get? Perhaps three or four cocktail cups filled with ice?

My drinks have to be COLD, akin to freshly melted glaciers. Chebbles is learning not to take sips from my cups because they give her instant toddler ice cream headaches, and I get pissy about it too, "Yeah kid," I say, as her face contorts, "That'll teach you to STAY AWAY from Mama's precious freezing soda."

In the days before I was pregnant (a.k.a. anytime before November) I despised cold drinks. Why chill your digestive system like that? Give me room temperature plain fizzy water any day.

OH GOD I almost vomited just writing that last sentence. WHO THE HELL WAS I!? Everyone knows that the only way to hydrate oneself is via highly sugared/colored drinks poured through ice cubes and imbibed through a straw.

Mm, speaking of which, I'm going to go make sure that Hub-D didn't make off with the last Fanta.

The waterworks

I cry at EVERYTHING now. Is it because I'm so sick and weak and tired all of the time? No, those would be tears of PITY, and I have a few more weeks of misery until the REAL pity kicks in.

No, these are extreme maternal tears, and I can shed them over any fictional child.

I read a "For Better or For Worse" COMIC STRIP which featured a sad child whose sister had just gone to college, and I wept. I cried so hard at that image of little April slumped in the back seat of the car that I started laughing at myself, then crying some more, then laughing at the same time.

My tears will spring up at progressively more idiotic moments. In an episode of "Law & Order," a mother was being arrested, and a social worker came at the same time to take custody of her son. It was a 3-second scene, all of the actors were paid well to be in this popular crime drama, but I will NEVER BE OK again.

Am I crying over any ACTUAL dramas in my OWN life? No. Do I get weepy about the fact my daughter has gone FERAL while I lie on the sofa, watching mindless television? No. Do I worry that my poor husband is working his fingers to the bone, entertaining our child and feeding me and keeping our house in order while running a company and wrangling our taxes? Not really.

But the POOR PEOPLE on the Lifetime Network must be GRIEVED. And the fetal elephant on the National Geographic Channel who cannot see when he is first born? I need to get really concerned about that.

The grocery store delivery guy just showed up while I was watching "My Life" with Michael Keaton and Nicole Kidman... it's some cheeseball drama where he's dying of cancer while his child is gestating. There I was, gnawing on crusts of pumpkin pie, lying on my left side (only position in which I do not feel like vomiting), crying like a BANSHEE while the cancer-stricken dude's son is born, and this JERKWAD rings my doorbell?

So, wiping my nose and tears, I went to the door and signed for the groceries, grabbing them and sending the man on his way. Does he not know there are fictional children to weep about???

SHHZT

I don't leave the house. I don't conduct rational conversations. I don't do much other than care for my child and watch every episode of "The Dog Whisperer" that I can catch on the National Geographic Channel.

Oh, and I'm still checking my underpants a lot. I'm so PARANOID. I dream that I miscarry constantly. I am 8 weeks 5 days pregnant now, and it's getting CLOSE to the "safe" time... which is 10 weeks or 12 weeks or whatever. Tell that to my FEARS, which interpret every clench of my abdomen as the Beginning of the End. And besides, I'm so ILL, it really seems to bode well for the survival of this embryo... but... see... (typing while checking underpants)...

Anyway, this brings me back to Cesar Milan, "The Dog Whisperer." How awesome is he? It is so satisfying how he walks into houses with out-of-control dogs -- dogs who bite or whine or pee or are otherwise annoying -- and converts them into AWESOME dogs. He basically doesn't take any SHIT from dogs, and they know it. As soon as a dog meets him and sniffs him, the dog knows that he can't get away with his idiotic behavior anymore.

Can he come to my house? No, we don't have a dog. We have me.

On a recent episode, Cesar cured a dog who ran in insane circles around his backyard -- she had created long muddy troughs throughout the yard, as she ran for hours in the exact same pattern. Basically, the dog had OCD. But Cesar pulled the plug on the behavior by providing effective discipline.

I'm the underpants-checking-dog, who has created muddy troughs between the sofas, beds and bathrooms in the house. I can't stop trekking between these locations, my mind racing with worry... what if I miscarry? And I told so many people I was pregnant in the damn Christmas cards! What was that cramp? Why am I not nauseated at this very moment? etc. etc....

I need "The Dog Whisperer" to stop me in my tracks, pinching my neck and making that "SHHHZT" noise he makes, sending me back, cowed, to my position on the sofa or bed. Maybe I should tape the above picture to the bathroom door.... "Don't even THINK about it. SHHHZT!"

The panda, it mocks me

Does anyone else have "can't find my child's beloved ____" panic attacks? There is almost nothing in the world that scares Hub-D and me like Panda going missing.

Chebbles latched on to Panda when she was four months old. She had, that very day, rejected her pacifier once and for all, and I was casting around her nursery, trying to find a nice stuffed toy for her to sleep with, something that didn't jingle or rattle. So I chucked him in the crib with her. "Here, this panda would like to snuggle with you."

It was one of those relationships that start out as a friendship. She liked Panda well enough, but only to smile at him and occasionally stroke his fur. Just in case, I bought a few faux Pandas as back-up. But, once she was surrounded by the lookalike Pandas, it seems that her love for her Original Panda blossomed into an out-and-out love affair. She was BETROTHED.

And she KNOWS Panda from all of the pretenders. She knows him from his smell, which, as I have outlined here, is reminiscent of an outhouse cafeteria, were there such a thing.

He is coated in so many layers of boogers and unidentified filth that there is NO REPLACEMENT for Panda. And she will not sleep without him. Which brings me to the HORRORS of last night.

Chebbles had a bunch of her little friends over last night for a few hours. After the gals left, it was time to put Chebbles to bed. So Hub-D and I began the bedtime routine... only to discover that Panda was firmly MISSING. We tore apart the house, room by room. All of Panda's previous hideouts (e.g., the master bathroom shower stall, the kitchen cabinets, the kitty litter) were plumbed and found wanting.

We started calling Chebbles' friends -- I even questioned a five-year-old, "Are you SURE you didn't see PANDA? That you didn't TAKE HIM HOME because he smells so AWESOME?" and although the five-year-old helpfully reported seeing Chebbles' POLAR BEAR, I quickly hung up -- that lead was useless.

By this point, Hub-D and I were ripping through bedding, and crawling around on our knees. I found myself calling for him. "Panda! Panda! Where ARE you?" I did this in kind of a sweet voice because I didn't want him to know how MAD I was that he was hiding.

After about 20 minutes of intense, burglar-like searching, Chebbles finally gave him up. He was tucked in the back of the family room, INSIDE her Barbie roller suitcase. What the hell???

Apparently, when all of her little friends arrived, Chebbles started feeling protective of Panda. I mean, it's one thing for them to screw with her beloved Ball Popper or her cats. It's quite another thing for other kids to horn in on PANDA. Would they hug him too tight? Would they mercifully CLEAN him? She wasn't going to take that risk.

So, at some point early in the evening, she had shut him away from prying eyes, snapping shut her Barbie suitcase and wheeling it to the distant corner of the family room. And after Hub-D and I had lost our minds and wrecked our house trying to find him last night, we discovered her curled up with him next to the opened suitcase, thumb in her mouth and ready for bed.

Damn, that Panda is going to drive me to the madhouse. Or at least the outhouse cafeteria.

Girl Zitty

I'm officially revising my prediction as to the gender of my unborn child. I think it's our Evelyn.

I am basing this revision on the sheer number and ferocity of pimples this pregnancy has suddenly caused. I believe the "Old Wives' Tale" that girls make you "ugly" before they are born, due to some sort of prenatal Elektra complex, and the kind of hormones that girls require for their development.

True, she's not craving grape popsicles and watermelon like her predecessor. For her it's root beer and hamburgers. But I don't think Hub-D's going to score his boy this time, and I think someone's in line to get a whole SLEW of pink Gymboree overalls.

And I'm open to any and all facial remedy suggestions, especially since I can't use my beloved Retin-A. If you need me, I'll be the one in the OB's office with the "Phantom of the Opera"-type mask.

Orange Marmalade in Honkey City

Do you know how WHITE my town was, growing up?

I lived in a suburb of Pittsburgh that was almost all people of Irish and Eastern European descent. Our suburb was initially populated by coal miners at a now-defunct local mine. Then it was covered with near-identical homes and populated with steel mill supervisors and the first wave of technology workers (e.g., my dad). It was literally founded by HONKEYS, in the traditional sense of the word -- so much so that a "HONKEY" statue was erected downtown to honor the original workers. (This statue proved so controversial that it quickly disappeared from its home at Point State Park. Does anyone else remember this statue? Did I dream it?)

The bottom line: I didn't meet a Jewish person my age until I went to college. I had no idea what to make of Jewish people. My three roommates (all blonde and Catholic)told me that someone was a "JAP" and I was surprised... she didn't LOOK Japanese to me.

I also did not meet a Hispanic person until college, where I told my new Hispanic housemate that I was physiologically incapable of properly pronouncing her last name.

I had only one close friend who was African American in high school. He was a steadfast member of our group of friends, and I never really absorbed that he was a different race than the rest of us. I met him in first grade, and EVERYONE seemed different-looking in first grade. I met my first redhead too, and my first real fat kid, and so who cared? His nickname was "Fuzz," on account of his fuzzy, inexplicable hair.

Fuzz's parents are still good friends with my dad, and they live at the end of a very treacherous and remote street in our town. They chose a location that would be far removed, and difficult to reach, to escape potential vandals.

Their fears were probably well founded. I remember when a black family moved into the grey house up the road from us, some parent said, "There goes the neighborhood." I liked the new family. They had an AQUARIUM. But I was informed that once a black person moves into your neighborhood, more were sure to follow. I was intrigued by this effect. How in the world does THAT happen? Will they all have aquariums? They moved after only a short time on our street.

Asians were a COMPLETE mystery. There was only one Asian girl in our high school. I think she was adopted from... China? I think?... by a couple of white parents. She HATED her slanted eyes. She got glasses that magnified her eyes, and talked about getting surgery to make her eyes bigger. She sat across from me in band, giving me ample opportunity to stare at her big thick glasses and think about how much she hated her eyes. And I envied her clothes. She had awesome dresses for band concerts.

But the blinding whiteness of our town has since faded. Particularly because of the super-fascinating Bangladeshi and Indian neighbors who started showing up. They came straight from their home countries to work in our formerly-honkey-dominated 'burb, and I was ALL FOR IT. My dad's company in particular had tons of people from Bangladesh and India -- both countries we NEVER, EVER discussed in school. What I knew about India I learned from "The Jewel in the Crown" on PBS.

Not all of the neighbors knew what to make of the influx of darker-skinned people. My friend C.'s mother would bitch about her Indian neighbors. When she didn't think we were listening, she would complain to her friends about the smell of "Hindu Crap" that emanated from the neighbor's house, and their weird, loud music. C. and I tape recorded one of her anti-Indian-neighbor rants, and we would play the tape back, and laugh and laugh. "Hindu Crap!?"

Our neighborhood gang of kids (yeah, including me) set off stink bombs on their doorstep.

That Indian family, I was to discover, was AWESOME and smart. Their daughter A. was my age, and the cleverest and most beautiful kid on the block. She taught me how to tie my shoes, she told me what an IQ was, and she went to India, coming back with awesome jewelry, a tan, and unbelievable stories. Her brother was saving up his money to get his name legally changed to something white-sounding. He was sick to DEATH of his Indian name.

I was so intrigued by A.'s marvelousness that I actually went into her house -- something that no other kid on my block had done, as far as I could tell. It was SO AWESOME in there, with fascinating art and her mom doing weird crafts. My only problem was, if I stayed a certain amount of time, I would inevitably be invited to eat with them, and their food was way too exotic for my untrained tongue. All the other neighbor moms distributed Ho-Ho's and white bread, Jif and jelly sandwiches. A.'s mom offered me a PB&J, but she used a stringy orange marmalade instead of sugary jelly, and I actually gagged on the sandwich. And the slightest taste of their Indian food made my mouth feel like it was on FIRE.

In retrospect -- MAN!!! I had access to all of this great Indian food right up the street from me my WHOLE CHILDHOOD. I had this beautiful, clever friend who, if Google is to be believed, has become a well-published pharmacist. But I avoided staying at her house for more than short stints, so afraid was I of a culinary challenge. And we drifted apart by high school, where she became remarkably popular and I became a band geek who stared at the Asian clarinet player.

The Indians and Bangladeshis continued to arrive. My dad's Bangladeshi coworker once spent an evening shyly explaining to me that he was about to take part in an arranged marriage, and had NEVER MET HIS FIANCEE BEFORE. Of course I had to get a load of the arranged bride as soon as she arrived, and she was so beautiful and seemingly not scared or turned off by my dad's coworker. My cat played with the delicate fringe on the end of her sari while she sat politely on our sofa and submitted to my examinations.

And I think about the old Honkey City, now that I live with Hub-D and Chebbles in a mostly-white neighborhood. Chebbles is exposed to people of all races at various points in her daily adventures. But really, it's pretty darn white. Is there anything inherently bad in living someplace with little real racial diversity? I can't say. I don't think people make the comments I used to hear... things like "There goes the neighborhood" or "Hindu Crap" -- do we?

I'm not sure what the solution is. The truth is, there are few areas in the world that are TRULY racially diverse. I found Portland, OR to be racially diverse, and the campus of Harvard looked like a Bennetton ad when I visited in the mid-90's. And maybe Casablanca, or New York City. But here we have mostly Hispanic neighborhoods, and mostly African American neighborhoods, as well as Asian-focused areas. And then we have the kind of place where we live. Part of the reason we moved here is that it reminded me so much of the suburb where I grew up. I wonder, is that a good thing?

Humbled

You know how I was on my high horse last week about how I'm SO GOOD at managing morning sickness this time, and how I MUST be having a boy because I'm not so sick this time, and I am SO COOL, etc. etc.?

I take it all back. I'm an idiot. I'm SO SICK I can't even see straight. Not even high definition versions of Law & Order make me happy. I'm so sick, I can't sleep. After dropping Hub-D off at the train today, I barfed the whole way home, weaving and stopping and hurling. Then, instead of feeling better, which one might expect after such an episode, I felt WORSE.

So thank the LORD that Nanny D was here today, and she fed and cared for Chebbles while I sat moaning in misery on the sofa, weeping as I watched "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" and I thought that NOT EVEN TY PENNINGTON could help me now.

Flowers for Algernon

Do you remember this story? If so, you may have a better idea of what my life is like right now.

"Flowers for Algernon" was foisted upon us when we were in seventh grade, along with a ream of other upsetting literature ("The Pearl," "The Monkey's Paw," "The Tell-Tale Heart") that made our puberty-related depression that much more bizarre.

The basic premise of "Flowers for Algernon" is that a retarded young man, Charlie, receives a special surgery that heightens his intelligence. Algernon is a mouse who received the same surgery. The surgery is a success, and Charlie gets more and more intelligent. He becomes smarter than everyone around him, and wows the scientific community, along with a few lucky ladies along the way.

Then, Algernon starts getting dumb. And the terrible prognosis is revealed... Charlie will shortly lose his newfound intelligence. So he locks himself away from the rest of the world so as not to subject them to his downfall.

THAT IS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE ME.

See, when I got pregnant with Chebbles, I noticed that I was gradually less and less able to complete the daily crosswords. They get progressively harder throughout the week, and Fridays had always been a challenge, but throughout the weeks of my pregnancy, I could no longer do Thursday, then Wednesday, then Tuesday. By the time Chebbles was born, I was lucky if I could get half of Monday completed.

I forgot important things. I never paid bills, I was so scatterbrained, and the only thing I wanted to do was watch reality television. Mostly "Adoption Stories."

But after Chebbles was born, I started to get my MOJO back! I began to understand others' conversations. I acquired new vocabulary words and began dabbling in crosswords again. Much of television no longer appealed to me, except for my old standbys, "Monk" and "Survivor." Everything else seemed so INANE and predictable, a waste of time in which I could be reading important literature or holding forth on various subjects with my smart-as-a-whip husband.

I felt like Charlie in the middle of "Flowers for Algernon" -- my brilliance was BLINDING, so smart was I. I undertook an ambitious home organization project, I created special holiday mailings for our family members. I remembered birthdays WELL in time to send thoughtful presents. I MADE TOYS from household objects for cripe's sake, and I crafted nutritious foods with SEAWEED for my child.

But now I'm pregnant again, and my newfound intelligence is going down the drain. It's more painful this time because I know what DUMB feels like, and I know how much I'll miss the SMART version of me. I know it will be a year before I understand multisyllabic words again. If you don't believe me, I submit for you the following examples of my new dumbness:

(1) The only word I can think to describe this effect is "dumbness."

(2) I am purposely recording "Jingle All the Way" with Arnold Schwarzenegger, because I think it will be funny.

(3) My ability to feed my daughter has deteriorated into tofu pups and peas. ("It's a Hard Knock Life...")

(4) A lot of "Us Weekly" is over my head.

So anyway, it's been nice knowing you. Unlike Charlie, I don't have the fortitude to separate myself from society and spare everyone the effects of my deterioration. Sorry.

Lies I have told: The "Annie" Edition

I was such a huge liar when I was little. Some kids pick their nose, some kids are bullies, some kids pee in jars under their bed, and I made up LIES.

I remember some of the lies. I told the neighbor kids that my mom had had a third baby, named Aaron, and he was asleep upstairs so they couldn't see him.

I told my sister that she was bordlerine retarded, but that Mom had fought to keep her "mainstreamed." (Ha ha ha ha... oh, sorry...)

The stream of lies flowed from my mouth from the time I entered school until about eighth grade. I had lived in Australia, for example. I knew all the lyrics to "Ebony and Ivory" (and I sang my fake lyrics with confidence).

I was careful to lie to people who might not be able to fact-check me. My friend A. bore the brunt of my lies, because she went to another school. Plus, I always suspected she was a COOLER than I was, so I used the lies to bolster my image with her.

The good news is that I did stop lying. The lies came to a halt when I met my friend L. in eighth grade, who was a MUCH better liar than I was. A group of friends can support only ONE compulsive liar, so I conceded the position to L., who promptly informed everyone that her sister had cancer, she'd written a children's book and was beaten with some regularity by her dad.

The even BETTER news is that A. is still my friend! (I'm out of touch with L., who allegedly became a radiologist and moved to Florida...)

A. and I met when we were nine, and she weathered the years of LIES like a trooper, only occasionally calling me out on it. Because I know she reads this blog, I will say that she wasn't perfect either, and *I KNOW YOU STOLE MY YELLOW MASCARA, A.* (Yellow mascara? Yes. It was the eighties. And don't ask me if you want to see it. As far as I know A. still has it.)

Anyway, A. has a wonderful memory, unfortunately for me, and yesterday, when she called to cheer me up in the throes of my vomitous morning sickness, she reminded me of one of my bigger whoppers: that I had played ANNIE in a local theater production.

Apparently, I had woven quite a tale for A. regarding my theater debut, including some interesting changes in the plot which had landed Annie in JAIL for a stint during the musical.

I am still laughing about my great "Annie" fantasy. But ultimately I think it was totally understandable.

See, I believe there is NO ONE ON EARTH who loved the movie "Annie" quite as much as I did. I saw it in the theater five times, which is the maximum allowable times you can get your mom to take you to see any one movie, I believe.

I got the record of "Annie" and I memorized every nuance of every song, and performed them with aplomb around my house (but quietly, so as not to wake my fictional baby brother). In my imagination, I would be tapped to play to role of Annie many times, or at least one of the more attractive orphan girls.

To my extreme delight, our school music teacher chose "It's a Hard Knock Life" for a musical performance in front of our parents. She told us to dress like orphans in the 1920's, and taught several of us girls a little dance. It was my dream come TRUE! I would be dancing and singing Annie songs in front of an audience!

My mom carefully thought about orphan girls in the 1920's, and learned that, in general, they wore long-sleeved, shapeless black frocks with aprons. So she (bless her heart) sewed such an costume for me, which I wore proudly, until I got to the school for our performance. There, I discovered that the IDIOT CHILDREN in my class had not done one WHIT of research regarding orphan girls in the 1920's, and were, in fact, simply wearing FRILLY APRONS over their party dresses for our performance.

So there I was, looking for all the world like a WITCH, taller than most of them and trying to maneuver in my hot black REALISTIC orphan costume, while they pivoted on polished Mary Janes and talked about what a friggin' hard knock life they had. AS IF, bee-atches!

The only thing to do at that point was to recount the story in a much more glamorous light to my friend A., who had not seen the performance. I could weave in elements of the truth, but instead cast myself in the lead role, appropriately attired, deftly managing interesting plot twists. Yeah, I was "Annie in Jail." Any questions?

Morning Sickness Advice

It's a bad day. It's another bay day in a string of bad days. But you know what? It's not as bad as last time. When I was pregnant with Chebbles there were really moments that I wanted to die, I was so sick. And I'm still UGLY-SICK, very weak, and vomiting with some regularity, but it's not as bad as it was last time.

I attribute this blessing of SLIGHTLY less morning sickness to three things. First, I think I'm having a boy. Second, I'm not trying to haul my carcass into work every day. And third, I got the hang of things.

Therefore, I thought I might post my few bits of advice for other women who might be experiencing this HELL, so that they might benefit from the tips I picked up last time.

(1) Let no one tell you LIES. Accept that the morning sickness might not end at 12 weeks. It very well MAY end then, but if you keep telling yourself to just LIVE for that magical 12 week mark, you will be doubly-disgusted by your condition. Although my illness let up slightly at 5 months, I threw up until the end of the pregnancy.

(2) Ginger is overrated. My mother and mother-in-law very nicely sent me tons of ginger products when I was pregnant last time. Ginger tea. Ginger candy. Ugh. I'm going to stop the list there because it still makes me sick to my stomach. Don't worry about ginger so much.

(3) Protein helps. Everyone keeps haranguing you about crackers, but it's really protein, in any form in which you can handle it, that can ease up your symptoms. The reason you're sicker in the morning is because you haven't had anything to eat all night, and if you can get some protein in you at some point, that (for me) alleviates the symptoms faster.

(4) Don't eat ANYTHING because you THINK you should. Only eat things that you TRULY are hungry for. Because you will barf the thing you FORCED yourself to eat, and you will NEVER be able to eat that thing again. Even after my first pregnancy, I still couldn't eat vegetable samosas, because I'd FORCED myself to eat a samosa when I was pregnant. Even typing that makes me ILL. That also goes for PRENATAL VITAMINS. If you can stomach and swallow prenatal vitamins, then GOOD FOR YOU! I can't. No FREAKING WAY. Take anything chewable instead. I take two Flintstone's a day. I still get my Folic Acid, and I don't HATE MY LIFE having to swallow that pill.

(5) Ice is your friend. Before I go to sleep, I put a huge glass of ice on the nighstand with a little bit of soda in it (I can't drink pure water... even the sight of it makes me gag). I also use brightly colored straws in my huge cups of ice, so I can easily take a few sips of blessedly COOOOOLD water in the middle of the night.

(6) Cut back on dairy. (It helps keep that horrible phlegm ball in the back of your throat at bay. If you know what I'm talking about, then you are truly in the depths of hell with me here.)

(7) Certain nuts are AWESOME, and certain nuts are GROSS. Almonds are a HUGE life saver for some reason. Almonds have protein and they taste sweet and they keep the super-bad feelings at bay. Sunflower seeds are also COOL. But peanuts and walnuts? Whenever I eat these, I get sick about an hour later, like clockwork.

(8) Cater to your whims ABOVE ALL. My latest needs have included PUDDING, root beer floats, tuna casserole and cheesburgers. ALL of these things have dairy in them, and tuna is not necessarily a good idea during pregnancy, and the cheeseburger was NOT made from organic meat but WHATEVER. Who gives a CRAP, ultimately? If you really crave something, you will feel better if you eat it. And that's all that matters.

(9) Brushing your teeth is optional. I am SO SORRY, Hub-D, who has to kiss me. But if it makes you gag to brush your teeth, just do it whenever you CAN. If you force yourself to brush your teeth on your usual schedule, you will just vomit anyway, which has got to be WORSE for your teeth anyway. I've also used Chebbles' fruity baby toothpaste, which seems a little better.

(10) Don't even try to go grocery shopping. Who are we kidding? I've found that I'm not even able to do online grocery shopping, here in the thick of my morning sickness. The panoply of food offerings in the store or online make me VERY ILL. So instead, I make lists and hand them off to anyone I can find. You've GOT to be VERY SPECIFIC on these lists, though, because the worst thing in the world is to crave sunflower seeds and receive said seeds IN THE SHELL.

OK, just writing about this subject has made me very ill, AND now I find I'm craving cheddar-cheese-coated popcorn (SmartFood, specifically).

I hope these tips haven't grossed out any pregnant ladies, and might help in some small way!

Bridging

Has there been ANY ceremony in my life that has equaled the glory of my Brownie Bridging Ceremony? (OTHER than my wedding day?)

Really, that Bridging Ceremony was SO awesome, I think about it every year at this time. It happened on December 3, and as I sat, shivering with the IMPORT of that magical day back in the last 1970's, on Mrs. B.'s living room floor, clutching those brown and yellow wings, I KNEW I would remember that date for the REST OF MY LIFE.

I remember the taste of the cookies and the first real Friendship Circle we formed on the other side of the bridge. I guess it was a cardboard bridge, but it was nonetheless CHOCK full of Girl Scout Magic that day. I had DONE my time in Brownies, wearing the humiliating brown beret, making crafts in the gym after school, learning ALL THAT STUFF you have to learn as a Brownie...

It was not unlike the Marines, as I recall. They tear you down as a little girl and rebuild you as a BROWNIE, so you can qualify to SOMEDAY wear the coveted GREEN uniform of the Junior Girl Scout. We had to learn the history of Juliette Gordon Low and the totally juicy Brownie LORE, then learn to boldly thrum three fingers into the air as we recited: "On my honor, I will try to serve God, my country, and to live by the Girl Scout Law." (They've since added some bullshitty line about "helping people" but that's totally IMPLIED by the ORIGINAL oath, in my opinion. Why do they have to muck around with these things?)

Our Brownie Leaders were really tough about these things, constantly threatening that we WOULD NOT BRIDGE if we continued HORSING AROUND and if we did not MASTER the million things we had to have under our little stretchy brown belts by December 3. So I guess we buckled down, or maybe Mrs. B. had put so much work into the cardboard BRIDGE by December 3, they thought they'd just go ahead with the Bridging Ceremony despite our inadequacies.

Either way, we showed up Brownies on that fateful day, led by our moms and, I believe, some actual Girl Scouts, and crossed the magical, sparkly Bridge one by one, stopping in the middle to do some recitations and to accept, with great humility, the responsibilities encumbent upon us now.

Oh how GLORIOUS that day was. The possibilities seemed ENDLESS at the other end of the bridge. We would be able to earn real Girl Scout BADGES and go CAMPING, and we got a new GREEN handbook to detail all of the new rites that lay before us.

And there were cookies, and a lot of my friends, and I did it, man, I did it.

Its own drummer

The Bun's got a beat!

I just returned from another check-up at the OB-GYN office, and it was pretty thrilling to see The Bun's heartbeat for the first time. He/she's got a little rabbity beat going on, as he/she floats next to the yolk sac, growing his/her arm buds and flexing his/her spine.

This was a highly rewarding event after the horrid spotting during weeks 4 and 5, and the latest full-body nausea. I feel like I really am going to be a mom again, looking at that little pulse.

It was astounding how much the gestational sac has grown over the last two weeks, and my raspberry-sized embryo really does seem to be working its ass off in there, growing to a honking seven week size.

It did strike me, when I was pregnant with Chebbles, that no matter how much agony or anxiety I experienced, she was always TOTALLY FINE. If I had to subsist on purple popsicles and watermelon slices, weeping and watching hours of late-night television, she didn't give a crap. She was having a great little party in there, and came out so fully-baked and marvelous-looking. If my anxiety had any effect on her, you really couldn't tell. She SHOULD have come out with a knitted brow and grey hair, but not our Chebbles.

Looks like her little sister/brother is following in her footsteps... "Worry all you want, Mama, 'cause we're A-OK."

In that spirit, I've also decided to schedule a nuchal fold translucency test rather than go with the more invasive (and more conclusive) CVS test. After the spotting incidents, I don't have the nerve for a test that runs a .5% chance of miscarriage. No thanks. Because I don't think we'd abort a "faulty" fetus anyway. It's just for my nerves, which, thank goodness, no one in this family gives much credence.

Montessori and Burger Excursions

In my nauseated haze, I observed a potential preschool with Chebbles today. It's a "Montessori" school, which, as far as I can tell, is Italian for "Pick up your toys."

I'm all FOR IT!

Chebbles dug it a LOT, putting about 90% of the classroom's "work" (which is Montessori for toys) in her mouth in the space of a half-hour's observation. She demonstrated for her potential classmates the methods and advantages of chewing on crayons.

I was impressed by the "pick up your toys" aspect of the kids' "work." When they chose a toy to play with, the teacher embraced their choice, putting out a tray or rug for them to play with. Then when they were done with it, they had to PUT IT ALL AWAY before they could go traipsing off to another activity.

Maybe they have Adult Montessori Education for people like me. I'm so crappy at putting away my "work" -- I'm looking at a pile of Christmas crap that is sitting precisely where I put it on my office floor on December 26, 2005. I totally failed my Christmas "work" last year, that's for sure.

This preschool has a waiting list, so I'm going to bustle my way onto it Soviet-Union-Style... persistently and heartlessly. I want to get Chebbles settled into a good preschool (or in her case, a pre-preschool) before The Bun is born. I don't want it to seem like a sudden change upon the advent of the baby, or some kind of Child Jail for ousted big sisters.

I think she has already gotten the hang of putting stuff back. When she pulled the plug out of the bath tonight, she purposely handed it to me: "Mother, I have concluded my washing. Shall we move on to a new work?"

So yeah, this new school could be expensive, but you can't put a price on a child PICKING UP HER TOYS, particularly when one is ghastly ill and ever larger with pregnancy.

Speaking of abdominal expansion, I have learned that I NEED to have a hamburger EVERY SINGLE DAY, or I will pay the price. The Wrath of The Bun is a horrid thing. It has to be WELL DONE, with no onions, and a lot of ketchup. Fries are a good addition, although not necessary, as is a big fat milkshake.

Today I trundled Chebbles back into the car and drove 15 miles each way through rush hour traffic in order to visit our region's only In-N-Out burger. It was SO worth it. They gave Chebbles a bunch of stickers and an In-N-Out paper hat, which I forced her to wear. After trying to make it look "cool" by modeling it myself, I jammed it onto her big head and immediately distracted her with a french fry.

Oh the GLORY of it all: eating an In-N-Out burger with that special interesting sauce PLUS ketchup, watching the staff hustle to fill the drive-thru orders while Chebbles wore a white paper cap and repeatedly motioned toward my strawberry milkshake. OF COURSE I gave her some, because she has learned to say, "PEEEES" while smiling coercively.

Nice "work," Chebs. Now clean off our table.

Wash your starfruit

A note from Chebbles to toddlers travelling in Kauai: You've just GOT to wash your starfruit. I don't care if it's windy, and you're cold and wet, so it's "INCONVENIENT" for you to wash your starfruit. Just wash it, dammit.

And you might be under the impression that you can stop washing your starfruit after you've eaten a portion of it. AU CONTRAIRE. That is when you especially need to wash your starfruit. Repeatedly, and between each bite.

Don't come crying to me if you come down with lepto or some fruit-borne parasite because you haven't properly washed your starfruit, because I told you what you needed to do. WASH YOUR STARFRUIT, people.

What's Hawaiian for "Doula?"

Dude, in Kauai, if you happened to be pregnant with a potential future king, you had to give birth HERE, between these two lava stones that were rolled here just for this purpose.

According to our Ultimate Kauai Guidebook, a woman would rest her back against one of the stones and set her feet against the other big stone, and give birth right there in front of God and everyone.

The good news is that you didn't have a bunch of random interns or other riff-raff observing the birth, because the ancient Kauaians were wise enough to sacrifice a dog and lay it under an enormous stone to signify that it's KAPU, a SACRED place, and you could be sacrificed yourself if you hung around there uninvited.

The expectant mother would stay in a nearby hut to await the blessed event, then presumably haul herself out to the rocks when it was "time."

I guess it was probably comforting to be in a position where so many queens or princesses had given birth before you -- more comforting than hanging out in the sterilized hospital where everyone is wondering HOW they can best intervene in your birthing process. Instead, you're leaning against lava rocks under the pretty Kauai sky, just kind of doing your thing.

The other interesting aspect of this birthing area was the little lava rock shelf where the umbilical cord would be placed after the birth of the child. If a rat should come and steal it away (ewwwww), it signals that the child will be a thief or a tax collector. Otherwise, you're all good.

I didn't take any chances with rats and Chebbles' cord. I had it packed and shipped off to the Cord Blood people, in case we suddenly find ourselves in the land of Buck Rogers, and it becomes medically useful.

Maybe I'll co-opt the Birthing Stone and its environs for the birth of The Bun. It can't be so hard to rent it, no? I know it's KAPU and everything, but c'mon, wouldn't that be AWESOME?

Food Jerk

I'll have to hold off posting the entries that require photos for now (Blogger is malfunctioning), and suffice with a general update which is I am now 6w5d pregnant, and The Bun is now the size of a LENTIL. And speaking of lentils, I am turning into a Food Jerk.

I remember being in the hospital after Chebbles' birth, and having my first post-birth meal. I looked at the food and felt... nothing. For the previous nine months, I had been SO OBSESSED with food -- either avoiding the smell of it, or seeking out very specific foods, then eating approximately one million FAN-freaking-TASTIC Fuddrucker cheeseburgers -- but as soon as Chebbles left my body, the love affair was over. Food was something to be eaten, possibly enjoyed, and that's it.

That grand affair is well underway with The Bun. The kitchen has turned into a mine field of possible GRODY things interspersed with absolutely DELICIOUS things. And I'm a Food Jerk now. That is, if someone eats something I had been intending to eat, I turn into a VERY VERY angry person, spitting while I hiss things like, "You took that food from THE BABY."

Yesterday, I had briefly walked away from some spinach I was eating, and when I returned, I found my mother and daughter enjoying a few bites of it. A voice best described as SATANIC came erupting from me: "I AM STILL EATING THAT.... hssssss....your god cannot help you now.... hssssssss"... They wisely fled the scene, and I finished the spinach in a few bites, looking angrily side-to-side as I did so, in case anyone else dared come near.

Also, if I'm craving something in particular, and some APPROXIMATION of the desired food is offered to me, I get really MAD. In the car in Kauai, when I was feeling very sick, Hub-D said he'd get me some Triscuits. I got really excited. TRISCUITS! A pregnant lady's DREAM CRACKER! And he scurried into our condo and came out with the yellow box, handing it to me proudly. And I looked at the box and threw it to the floor of the car... "UGH!!!! These are BLACK PEPPER TRISCUITS! How could you DO this to me? .....hssssss!!!!"

So I'm definitely pregnant, The Bun is a lentil and now I'm craving strawberry ice cream.... hssssssssss....

House of Vomit

Ugh, I'm so annoyed that I missed posting a few days in November, and I missed qualifying for the amazing prizes... I've shamed the Yoda logo on my page...

Maybe I can get a note from my doctor.

We're back in California, after a long, super-nauseated trip from Lihue to Honolulu to San Francisco to the East Bay... it was definitely worth being away, as I didn't feel SO sick in Hawaii. I was distracted by the sea and the palm trees and the geckos. Now I'm back in my house. The House of Vomit.

What in the world am I going to do when I'm Chebbles' sole caretaker again, when Grandma goes home and Hub-D goes back to work? I hope she'll forgive the next few months of just sitting in the living room, reading book... after book... after book.

I didn't realize until now what an active mom I had been. We went on jogs and to the park and romped around the backyard with so much energy and enthusiasm. And now that she's really able to run FAST, I'm lurking in the bathrooms of our house, wishing there were a fast-forward button through the first trimester of pregnancy.

I'm harboring a fantasy that, in my second trimester, I will RALLY and suddenly be able to run around with her again. In this fantasy, my nausea will abate and I will be this perky pregnant lady, going down the slide at the park, whooping it up with my toddler.

This fantasy has no basis in historical reality, as I was pretty much a crippled grouch throughout my pregnancy with Chebbles. But let me dream for now, OK?