Here comes the Chebbles

Chebbles is fascinated with brides. She loves taking the white curtains in her room and making a "gown" for herself. I keep hoping she'll tell me she's marrying a real person, so I can record her prediction for posterity, and play the video at her rehearsal dinner for her real wedding 30 years from now... But, she's coy on the subject, perferring inanimate objects.

Additional background for this video -- I was coming into her room with the camera in one hand and some orange slices in the other, hence her little song of greeting ("Goodbye to the oranges"). And she's looking into the mirror at the other side of the room.

When I'm 40

As of this writing, I'm 36. And I'm deeply into what might be termed the "gestational" period of my life.

Basically, we would like to have three kids (or four, in our dreamiest dreams). We've got one running around, and a second one on the way. And yesterday Dr. W. gave me the OK, as long as I can get my iron levels back up, to start trying for number 3 later next year.

So I am The Gestator right now. That's the primary skill I lend to our family efforts, other than kissing boo-boos and feeding people.

But regardless of the amount of kids we are able to conceive and successfully gestate (no small accomplishment, considering our "spotty" history -- forgive the pun), the whole operation comes to a HALT on New Year's Day 2011.

Why? Because any child conceived after that time would be born after I'm 40, and for us (and I recognize this is not a universal deadline) that's the end of the line. According to our straight-shooting general practitioner, Dr. G., once a woman turns 40, her chances of conceiving a child with Down's Syndrome start to skyrocket. Sure, anyone can conceive a child with genetic defects, but over 40, I'd be asking for trouble.

This is coupled with my inability to terminate a pregnancy. If I were a more practical person, perhaps, I'd be able to stomach the idea of terminating a pregnancy that was troubled, doomed, or a little off in some way. But I can't. I thought I could. When I was pregnant with Chebbles, I kept that possibility firmly lodged in my mind: if I found out there was a serious problem with the pregnancy, I would terminate.

But when I went in for the nuchal fold translucency test with this pregnancy (pregnancy number four of our marriage, for those who are keeping score), I was surprised by my conclusion, shortly before the test, that like Madonna in "Papa Don't Preach" -- "I've made up my mind, I'm keeping my baby! Yeah, I'm gonna keep my baby."

So if termination isn't an option, then shutting down the factory before our genetic accident rate spikes seems like the best option.

And to tell the truth, I love having a deadline.

I enjoy working to deadlines, even if it means that we won't get our dreamed-of brood of Chebbles look-a-likes. And even more than that, I enjoy thinking about that marvelous time, the year I turn 40, and ALL THE SHIT I'M GOING TO GET DONE.

Once I'm not trying to conceive, I'll be able to get back on Loestrin, my darling birth control pill, that all-but-obliterates my PMS symptoms, as well as my period.

Oh, and there is SO MUCH MORE I'm going to do, once this chapter of my life is closed.

* I'm going to run a marathon. Not speedily, mind you, but I've been dreaming of doing this for a long time, and I'm going to do it. I love to think about all of the training runs I can do along the beautiful trails in our area. And when I say I've been "dreaming" of it, I literally dream about running, night after night, while I'm stuck here in the house. So, mmmmm, yes, the pleasure of it.

* I'm going to get Botox in my forehead. I know this is shallow, but after Chebbles was born and the fat in my face deflated, I discovered a brand new set of wrinkles (damn that natural childbirth!) that make me look like I'm permanently mad. My dermatologist gently acknowledged them as well, and has promised to shoot me up with some good old Botox once I'm 40.

* I will teach my children to ski. Skiing has always been the most satisfying sport for me. Back in my wild 20's, I could be found on the slopes of Tahoe or Utah, whooping it up down the slopes at top speed, shushing past itinerant snowboarders and breaking my tailbone in all of the excitement. Skiing isn't something a gestator can do. But once I'm 40, I'm bundling up my kid(s) and we're headed to the mountains.

* I'm going to volunteer. Remember how Princess Diana schlepped her princely sons to soup kitchens? That's just the beginning, my friends. Chebbles, and any siblings she might have, will be trotting around town with therapy dogs and Meals on Wheels and every damn thing I can do to help pay back all of the marvelous things that people have done for ME during this shady chapter of my life. Those kids are going to pay it forward, I tell you.

* I will acquiesce to the acquisition of a dog. Currently, the dog question rests in the sex of our next baby. I've told Hub-D that if we conceive another girl after this, we will get him a big, male dog, and maybe name him "Shep." But regardless, when I'm 40, we're going to get a dog who will help me on my long runs.

I am so looking forward to these indulgences! I'm looking forward to being one of those moms from "Family Fun" magazine who writes in with clever ideas and photos of her children produly wearing homemade hats. I'm looking forward to throwing away my OV-Watch and just randomly jumping my hubby. I'm looking forward to HAVING MY BODY BACK and doing whatever I want with it.

And maybe once I've run the marathon, I'll get a boob job. Because you know, the sky's the limit.

The Chebs throws me a bone

This morning, Chebbles woke up at 6am and started hollering for me.

Hub-D scooped her up from her crib and carried her straight to our bedroom, where she hunkered down next to me in her pink PJ's and sloshy diaper, and took a deep breath of relief.

"Mama," she said, "I love you too much."

"Oh Chebbles," I told her, "You're two. That's your job. You can't love your mama too much."

(I was thinking, as I said this, that there are some people I can think of that DO love their mothers too much, but I figured I'd keep this conversation to the basics. Plus I was trying not to pee my pants in my morning coughing haze.)

She repeated it, "I love you too much," then snuggled down next to me, with Mimi at her side.

"Well then, I love you too much, too," I told her.

Later, as I drove Hub-D to the BART station, I told him that, no matter what happens to me from here on out, I have that moment, and I am happy.

Stay of execution

Today was supposed to be Stanley's last day on Earth.

Stanley is our crabby three-legged tabby -- I rescued him from a shelter six years ago, when he was deemed "old" but feisty.

Until I got pregnant with Chebbles, Stan was MY MAN, and we would spoon at night and have long, scintillating conversations that vexed Hub-D to no end.

Then I got pregnant, and Stan was PISSED. He literally pissed all over my shoes, repeatedly and with clear malice. He also stopped eating.

Theories abounded as to why Stanley stopped eating, but in retrospect, it was because he was mad as hell about my pregnancy. He wasted away throughout the nine months, and there were several times that we thought he was on the "way out."

That was more than two years ago, and Stanley is still hanging in. We put him on some Prednisolone -- the vet's theory was that he had liver cancer (in lieu of any other diagnosable condition), and that we could make him more comfortable and peppy with Prednisolone in his "final days."

On the drugs, he started eating, yeah, but kept shooting me dirty looks. Chebbles made him madder as she got mobile, but he still cuddled and lurked around the garden and seemed happy enough.

But then he gradually moved in with our next-door neighbor, J.. Hub-D jokes that it was Stanley's blind luck that he found the ONLY OTHER PERSON in the East Bay who would put up with him (the constant yowling, the food rejection, the seething anger), and she just happened to live next door to us. Who knew that two crazy cat ladies would end up living next door to each other?

When we returned from Paris this June, it was Stan who knew I was pregnant first. I know this because he NEVER SET FOOT IN OUR HOUSE AGAIN. None of his three legs have voluntarily entered our premises since I came home knocked up again. (Interestingly, my two miscarried pregnancies did not effect him this way...)

Stan moved in with J. and ceased to acknowledge my presence, unless I was attempting to sneak through the bushes and give him his Prednisolone... you know, so he could stay alive. He prided himself on darting away from any and all of my ministrations.

But the neighbor kept calling us about Stanley... all the damn time. When she ran low on his favorite foods, she'd call, and ask for reimbursement for any money she'd spent on him, and asking us to make a cat food shopping trip for her. And when Stan seemed "down" or when he threw up, we'd get a call, telling us in no uncertain terms that we were irresponsible to let our crabby-ass three-legged tabby languish like this.

(Of course, if she stopped cooing over him and feeding him and petting him all the time, the dude probably would have angrily stumped home to us and remained our problem... but anyway...)

I finally asked a friend of a friend for a favor -- she is a veterinarian and she offered to look at Stanley, then offered to take him to the vet school for blood tests -- all free of charge. (This was an important point, as Hub-D, having literally spent thousands of dollars trying to diagnose/please this cat, has put down a "not one more penny" edict.)

And this very nice and helpful veterinarian friend said, "It's TIME."

Stan, as it turns out, has only 10% use of his kidneys at this point, he has an infection somewhere in his body (resulting in a high white blood count), and he has a really crappy quality of life.

So I made "plans" to have him put to sleep in the calmest, nicest way possible. I've suspected that it was Stan's time for awhile now, so it was a relief to know that the veterianian community agreed.

And the neighbor FREAKED OUT. After a couple days of silence, while we waited for "The Big Sleep Day" to arrive, she asked me, with no small amount of desperation, if I wouldn't re-consider.

Her daughter had purchased a SWEATER for Stanley, and they feel he has a good quality of life -- I just don't SEE how happy he can be. Then she offered to take him on 100% -- all his food, medicine, vet bills, everything -- they would be responsible for everything.

So what was I going to say? I acquiesced. I still feel that the right thing to do is put this poor miserable cat out of his misery, but I can't supercede her wishes, when they are so strong, emotional, and desperate.

She's a crazier cat lady than I, but just barely. And now, Stanley is ALL HERS.

Pissin' and Moanin'

I just gave Chebbles a speech about how she had to DECIDE to be happy, and that no one was going to MAKE her happy. But as for me, I've made the decision to complain about everything:

* I'm still sick!

* I'm still peeing my pants!

* I barfed a whole bunch this morning, while Chebbles rooted me on.

* I dreamed there was cranberry sauce in my underpants. (You know you're having a high anxiety pregnancy during the holidays when...)

* I accidentally read a copy of Martha Stewart magazine, and am struck by how NON-PERFECT my lifestyle is. I bet SHE never gets cranberry sauce in her underpants.

* Now Chebbles is sick too, but SHE gets to take cough medicine and nothing makes HER pee. And she's wearing diapers, so it would be NO PROBLEM for her.

* My lightheadedness has returned. It's as though my body has found a way to circumvent the iron supplements I've been taking, and remain anemic in spite of me.

* My mom is going home today, not to return until after the new baby is born. Boo hoo! Now it's just ME staring at CHEBBLES, thinking of desperate activities that don't involve me getting off the sofa.

I KNOW I have a lot of blessings to contemplate, and I'm lucky in so very many ways. But don't talk to me about that crap while I'm pissing on the bathroom rug, yakking up everything I've ever eaten and coughing like I've got one, black diseased lung.

Enough with the pee

Every time I cough, I pee.

Every time I laugh, I pee.

And every time I laugh, I start to cough, which exacerbates the pee situation.

I came down with some kind of bronchial infection this week. Luckily, Dr. W. is not shy about handing out the antibiotics to pregnant women who sound (and probably look) like beached seals, rolling around, coughing and miserable and peeing their pants.

But I'm still coughing a little. And this means a change of underwear/pants about 5 times a day. I've resorted to just kind of drying out my pants rather than washing them -- cycling them through every other day.

No, I can't wear a panty liner, but thanks for asking. It's totally ineffective. And Depends undergarments are just a step I'm not willing to take at this juncture.

But this brings me to this morning. I went out to Whole Foods in my PJ's. It was open at 8am, and I figured there would be a minimum of aggressive hippies jockeying in the aisles, so that I could calmly contemplate palm oil Crisco substitutes.

I threw a sweater over my PJ's (the boobs are almost as out of control as my bladder), and drove up to the store.

As I pulled into the parking lot, two things happened:

(1) I coughed. And peed right through my pants.

(2) My neighbor J. pulled his car right by mine, and called out, "Hi Neighbor!"

In these kind of situations, I think the best approach is to OWN IT.

Yes, I'm in my PJ's, with disheveled hair and piss running down my legs. And I'm totally BEAUTIFUL anyway!

J., luckily, is somewhat oblivious, and instead of offering to drive me to the hospital or anything, he regaled me with the story of a sewer leak he spotted on his run this morning.

Perhaps he's a lot more sophistocated than I thought, and the story about the sewer leak was a subtle acknowledgement about my the sewer leak in my own body.

Anyway, I'm ready to stop peeing my pants.

AT&T Hijinx

I'm fascinated as to what's going with AT&T. They seem to be having something as a breakdown as they attempt to interact with me, and rather than trying to get involved and fix their problems, I'm pulling up a lawn chair, putting up my swelling feet and enjoying the show.

This is what happened...

A few weeks ago, a Comcast installer showed up at my door. Comcast is closing down landline service in my area, and they had offered me a sweet deal to switch their "Internet Phone" service. Although I'm usually pretty Amish about all things technological, I couldn't pass up $20/month for unlimited phone calls.

Unfortunately, the installer was a complete ass. He had thick hoop earrings in either ear (they added to my irritation as he shook his head "no" throughout our conversation, with those earrings bobbing around). He said, "Tell me where I can find a cable jack and a phone jack in the same room in your house," and I was completely stumped.

No one had told me this this was a prerequisite. And it froze my brain. I sat down briefly on the sofa (I might mention, I had a terrified 2-year-old attached to my chest throughout this interaction. The earrings must have spooked her.) and I said, "Let me see now... the former owner had cable but we didn't, so perhaps he has some jacks in the master bedroom? But I don't want the main phone to be in the master bedroom, so do we have any other options?"

And Mr. Earrings said, "Listen, I have nine other houses to do this morning, so you need to decide right now where this phone should go. Where is there CABLE and PHONE in the SAME ROOM?"

He obviously wasn't used to dealing with pregnant ladies.

"Let's just forget the whole thing. I'm cancelling Comcast. We're DONE," I said, showing him the door.

He made me sign something that verified he'd actually shown up (there was something very menacing about this guy, other than the earrings), and he screeched his installation van down the street.

The only other game in town, phone-wise, is AT&T. So I looked up their rates online, found a deal for $40/month for unlimited calls, and submitted all of their forms, acquiescing to using their service. Screw Comcast! Woo-hoo!

I had about a week of elation following my new relationship with AT&T, before I received this e-mail:


"DEAR ILANA S HAIRSTON:

THIS IS TO INFORM YOU THAT WE HAVE RECEIVED YOUR ON-LINE ORDER FOR TN
xxxxxx LOCATED AT xxxxx, xxxx CA xxxxx.
WE HAVE SENT THE PAPERWORK TO YOUR CURRENT PHONE PROVIDER ASKING FOR A
TENTATIVE DUE DATE 0F 11-29-2007. ONCE WE HEAR BACK FROM YOUR CURRENT
PROVIDER, WE WILL CALL YOU TO CONFIRM THE DUE DATE. IF ANY OF THE ABOVE
INFORMATION IS INCORRECT OR IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS PLEASE CALL US @
1-800-955-4296.

THANK YOU
AT&T CUSTOMER SERVICE

PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND TO THIS EMAIL-THIS BOX IS NOT MANNED"


OK, as most of you know, my name is not Ilana Hairston. I'm interested as to who she actually IS, but it's not me.

All of the rest of the information was accurate, so I called AT&T and said, "Hey, you guys are great, can't wait to get my phone, but my name isn't Ilana Hairston."

And the woman on the phone got really squirrely with me. "You shouldn't have gotten that e-mail," she said. "There is NO WAY to order phone service from the internet from AT&T, that's a bug."

"But I did order it!" I told Ms. Squirrel. "I'm just not Ilana Hairston."

"The whole e-mail is in error," she told me. "I can sign you up for service right now, if you have 30 minutes to go through the process. You see, we must independently confirm that you want to switch from Comcast and that's impossible over the internet."

"But, it says it's starting on the 29th, it's just that I'm not Ilana Hairston..."

"MA'AM, LIKE I TOLD YOU. THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE."

So I bid her adieu, hung up, and thought, hm... if that's true, I wonder what will happen on the 29th?

Today, I got a call from a chipper AT&T representative, saying that I'm scheduled to have my landline switched on the 29th, and call if I have any problems. She didn't call me "Ilana" or anything, on her message. So I'm starting to burn with curiosity and suspense.

Yes, this is what passes for drama around my home these days!

Up with prudes

Why do women in college have to hook up so much?

The New York Times has sympathetically condemned the rising cost of birth control pills on college campuses nationwide, saying that women are going to resort to the "morning after pill" and other methods if the rates continue to skyrocket.

I have a radical idea as to how women can save that $50/month. Stop hooking up. Focus on your studies, on your friendships, on your moral development. Sure, go ahead, date guys, but look for the classy ones who aren't focused on only "one thing." You'll feel about 1000% better about yourself at the end of your college career. And be richer too!

As with most of my unpopular moral stances, I am bolstered by my own mountain of regret. At the University of Michigan, it was just "understood" among my fellow freshmen: Everyone's "doing it" -- get on the bandwagon! And I idiotically jumped right on.

Why did we need to treat ourselves with so little respect? Why did we let ourselves GO so completely? Why did we take all of the magic out of physical intimacy? I now understand that it truly becomes meaningless when you start to give it away. (Attention to my daughters! Are you listening to your mama here?)

Also, herpes was rampant at University of Michigan. (Is it a coincidence that the UM Medical School has so much research on the subject?) I know a LOT of people who got herpes at UM. Hell, if I were herpes, I'd spend ALL MY TIME at the Big 10 Schools, looking for hook-ups. (I'd also be quite a attractive shade of blue, if the photo above of the virus is accurate.)

To this day, when I receive photo Christmas cards from certain sorority sisters, I think, "What a beautiful family... Wonder how her herpes is doing?"

If it had only been popular to stay chaste during college! They could have saved themselves from this permanent disease. What an incredible gift it would have been to their husbands, later in life, well after college, to say, "Nope, you're the first," instead of, "There's something I need to tell you."

That's another thing that bothers me about the clamor over birth control pill expenses -- they're not going to protect these young women from STD's, even for $50 a month. I don't care if you've got a steady boyfriend. So did I.

OK, I can already hear your objections to this position, particularly that mine is NOT a liberated way of thinking. You might say that women should have freedom and choices and the right to do whatever they want once they leave home (or, shudder, before they do).

I would argue that it is much more liberated to keep one's legs closed throughout college. It is a completely legitimate choice for women to toss their birth control pills and tell their paramours that unpaid whoredom has shuttered its doors.

And I can't imagine what I would have done with the freedom from sexual expectations during college. I would have gotten a hell of a lot more studying done, that's for sure. And instead of staying up late at night stewing together over male indescretions, we all could have been mulling Proust!

I also wonder if I would have met a marvelous man like Hub-D MUCH EARLIER, had I shown more respect for myself from the get-go. Why did I have to wait until I was over 30 for the self-respect lightbulb to go on over my head?


So I hereby volunteer to head up next year's UM freshman orientation, and tell them all point-blank and to their faces what I would give SO MUCH to have heard when I was their age: That peer pressure is not just about drinking beer and smoking pot -- it's about your bodies, and the choices you make with them. Stay out of dudes' beds and park those bodies in the library, ladies. See if you don't learn a thing or two during your tenure in these hallowed halls. And while you're at it, send $50/month to Rwandan subsistence farmers...

Wannabe Animal Lover

I really want to be a vegetarian, especially one of the heroic ones who campaign against meat and save turkeys on Thanksgiving.

Except for the whole part where I like meat, and it makes my body feel really good.

For awhile, I was a vegetarian. I studiously ate whole proteins and I really got into it. We even had a vegetarian Thanksgiving, due to my gustatorial proclivities.

Then I started kind of withering away. I know that it was my own fault, and I should be perfectly capable of feeding myself without killing animals for it. But damn, man, my kingdom for a hamburger.

In other news, I just finished "The Handmaid's Tale" which was really marvy. Margaret Atwood transforms Cambridge into a futuristic horror, where motherhood is a fetishized rarity. Shockingly, I wasn't bugged by the content at all. There are stillbirths and miscarriages and murders and rapes, and I blithely read it all, so transfixed was I by the narrative.

Except when I got to the part about killing the cat. I'd forgotten that one detail. In order to effectively make their escape, the couple kills their cat. That one hit home, and I had to skim through it, and I'm STILL bugged by it.

This must be related to Stanley's death, which is nigh. On Tuesday, he's scheduled to shuffle off this mortal coil, due to kidney failure and general ongoing misery. Perhaps that's why I'm feeling so morose about the turkey's death -- I'm corrolating the two.

And on that note, Happy Thanksgiving!

Cyn

Here in California, there are a lot of road signs that say "Cyn."

For example, we have some friends who live off of the exit that reads: "American Cyn" and last weekend, I drove up "Topanga Cyn Road."

I always thought that this word was a nod to our UK roots. I figured that "Cyn" was a Cornish or Welsh phrase for something romantic, like a dip in the road, a weeping willow or some other lovely landmark.

I struggled with how to pronounce it, and I settled on something like "kine" -- so I'd give people directions, saying, "Get off the American 'kine' Exit and make a left."

No one stopped me.

Those people are not my friends.

"CYN" MEANS "CANYON."

It's a friggin' abbreviation for "canyon."

Well, it just seems ridiculous, because "canyon" is NOT a long word. Would it have killed the signmakers to stick on three more letters, sparing me LO THESE MANY YEARS of ignorant humiliation?

So I'm posting this here, so you all can make fun of me. And for those who secretly didn't know what "Cyn" stood for, this is a public service announcement for you.

And then the tantrums... stopped

I had resigned myself to 16 more years of insane headbanging rage from my firstborn. I had charted a course through life that included earplugs (for me) and helmets (for her).

And then they stopped. They stopped altogether. Chebbles hasn't had a grand mal tantrum for two weeks.

Sure, she gets angry sometimes. But then, after about 5-10 minutes of pissing and moaning, she comes to me for a HUG (also completely weird and unprecedented) and tells me, "I'm happy now, Mama," and I say, "Oh good," and we go on with whatever we were doing.

What the HECK? I'm not complaining, of course, I'm just mystified by this radical turn of events.

Did the Hollwood writers stop writing her tantrum scripts due to their strike? So now she doesn't get her lines ("No Mama. No Mama. No Mama. No Mama. etc.") and can't possibly have a tantrum without the right verbiage?

Or perhaps it's related to the Broadway stagehand strike -- no drama in New York City? Then Local Toddler Union 1 is going to prohibit drama in our home.

Her complete tantrum stoppage coincides just a little too neatly with these labor issues, so one must wonder...

La Cheb wows potential new school

I'm happy to report that the interview with Chebbles' potential new preschool went beautifully. There was only one "touch and go" moment, which was averted when a bunch of cute kindergartners came parading into view for La Cheb.

She's now in a place for 2-year-olds, and we're looking for the best place for a "real" preschool -- where she'll go in September. She's lucky to have a September birthday, so she can do three years of preschool if she wants. She can become a preschool ADDICT.

This place we saw today is beyond terrific, and we were both impressed by the academic programs they have in place. The other schools we've seen, including the one she's in now, pale in comparison. We're talking about 4-year-olds who are actively discussing Gauguin.

Now we just have to cross our fingers. We'll find out in March if we've made "the cut."

I cannot BELIEVE that the race for preschools is so severe. She's already got two dozen kids on the waiting list in front of her. We just hope for some attrition.

And, having given my last scraps of energy to the preschool visit, I'm going to collapse into crappy-mom-dom for the rest of the day, allowing Chebbles to play with knives and antiques, so long as she doesn't pester me.

Back from the Babymoon

Hub-D and I just returned from our weekend in Los Angeles. I delighted in telling everyone it was our BABYMOON. That's kind of an irritating word, and I enjoyed repeating it to drunkards in the hotel elevator and other people who really didn't give a damn.

I spent most of it either lying down or propped up and stuffing my face. But it was really nice not to share my husband or my weekend with my adorable daughter, and GEE WHIZ did she look beautiful and perfect when I walked in the door after being away from her for 48 hours. It's just possible that we BOTH needed a break from each other.

Tomorrow it's back to the grind. We have an "interview" with another preschool. I'm going to try to (a) bathe myself, and (b) trim Chebbles' talons for the occasion. No guarantees on the success of either proposition, but they both my help our chances in getting into this terrific school. This is one of those preschool that are "feeders" to a prestigious private school. So it's another chance for Chebbles to etch her academic success in stone... unlike the "Montessori Bead Incident" which we'd all like to forget.

Anyway, we're back and refreshed, thanks to the ministrations of Hub-D's parents. It was kind of fun to get attention for being a pregnant mom versus being Chebbles' mom, which usually usurps any gestationally related attention.

Announcements without faces

I'm starting to contemplate birth announcements for the new baby.

This is a step I thought I'd never take -- I love babies and I love paper products -- but actually perusing birth announcements was something I have pointedly avoided throughout this pregnancy.

I didn't want to choose a "favorite" design, only to have something bad happen to the baby and then, forevermore, that design would signify failure, death and heartbreak.

So the fact I'm starting to think about designs and wording is astounding.

I like the above design from Crane's -- because this baby is SUPPOSED to be born somewhere around Valentine's Day, I might as get all mooshy about it and include a big red heart. (Oooh, and we could do red heart stickers on the outside too...)

But one thing I object to about birth announcements -- and I recognize I'm in the minority on this one -- are the ones with pictures of the newborn baby on them.

I felt the same way before Chebbles was born.

We mothers are genetically programmed to LOVE our gnarly little chublets as soon as they are born. We are instantly charmed by their old man faces, belly button scabs and eye boogers. But do we REALLY want this to be our children's first impressions to society at large? Do we not owe it to our kids to wait until they have blossomed into gorgeous little four-month-olds before we start broadcasting their photos throughout our community?

I'm not saying newborns are ugly. As it turns out, I tend to produce fantastically attractive newborns. But there is something kind of private about newborns, it's as though they're still kind of an internal organ in some ways.

I'm just saying, I'm not doing formal photos until this kid sits up, gets fat, and can smile.

Puttering in PJ's

I can't sleep, yet again. What is it about pregnancy that makes me wake up in the early morning hours, and immediately sets my brain on overdrive?

This morning I decided to stop trying to fall asleep and just finish my Christmas shopping online and putter around the house here at 5am. Oh, and eat. I always wake up craving SOMETHING and this morning it was peas. I ripped apart the vegetable compartment of the freezer, only to find a surplus of green beans but no peas. Dammit!

Hub-D and I are leaving today for a weekend trip to Los Angeles -- I have a baby shower to attend (they endured years of trying, multiple IVF's and a miscarriage -- but now, SUCCESS!) and it's our last chance to get away, just the two of us, before the new baby is born.

I do feel bad about leaving Chebbles for two nights. She has been extremely sweet lately. Somehow this is coincident with the arrival of her 2-year molars. Now that they have pushed through (two of them have, at least), she is so much less short tempered. No head banging for more than a week! Her bruises have healed! How can I leave my adorable little champ and get on an airplane without her -- for the first time since we conceived her?

Well, easy. I have a lot of "Us Magazine" to catch up on. Oh, and sleep. Let's not forget about sleep.

What's going on with the goats?

My dad and I were at something of a gift-giving stand-off several years ago -- he had blown off my birthday, and I was BITTER at him. Plus he was of a mindset that his daughters valued material objects too much. So, in a kind of reverse Gift-of-the-Magi maneuver, we unknowingly bought GOATS from Heifer International for each other that year. Well, we bought goats for people who really needed them, then we each had the pleasure of sending each other a card about it.

This was about ten years ago, and MY has the livestock-as-gifts-for-other-people market taken off since. Giving gifts of livestock is no longer for embittered daughters and pedantic fathers!

Hub-D's family has gotten quite involved with a Rwandan charity called Solace Ministries, to the point where Chebbles' Gogo has now gone TWICE to Rwanda. While there the last time, she partook in the goat delivery process, and was very inspired by the genocide survivors' reactions to the goat deliveries.

So this Christmas, they are understandably going nuts, trying to get as many goats to as many Rwandans as possible. Since they cost $30 through Solace Ministries (and $120 through Heifer International... apparently their overhead is much greater, they're kind of a fancier organization), a goat has become this season's handy stocking stuffer.

Below is the note my in-laws have sent out to request money for the campaign, and I'm sharing it with you. The contact e-mail for goat gift-giving instructions, if any of you should care to join the flock is "kain (at) cox (dot) net."

Note: The photos from this post were taken by Gogo on her last trip to Rwanda. These aren't paid actors or anything... They just look so darn happy...

****************

Dear Family and Friends,

To say that the gift of a goat is transforming is no exaggeration. A goat costs only $30. Imagine the impact, should we be able to provide 500 goats for Solace Ministries in Rwanda to distribute among widows and orphan heads of households!

We have traveled to Rwanda to work with survivors of the 1994 genocide. The survivors have endured loss of family, torture, rape, and hunger. We marvel how resilient and courageous Rwandans are, but they need and deserve our help. We have developed a close working relationship with Solace Ministries in Rwanda which has distributed both cows and goats donated by our church. The staff of Solace is well connected and thus able to purchase healthy goats for a fraction of the cost of large NGOs. We witnessed the joy and gratification of the recipients. Several remarked that the gift gave them hope. Hope for only $30!

The goat you give will go to a household that barely survives by subsistence farming. Your gift is an efficient and effective way of lifting a family out of poverty. The goat literally starts a small business. Goats can produce offspring two times a year, having one or two kids each pregnancy. The young goats can be bred, sold, or given to another family member or friend. They also produce rich fertilizer which helps their farming.

To receive instructions as to how to give a goat, please contact "kain (at) cox (dot) net" before December 5.

Kate's blog

Proving that it IS possible for people to gestate babies to full term, successfully give birth to them and remain coherent (my skepticism regarding this process lingers), my friend Kate has not only birthed a gorgeous girl child, but she's launched a weekly blog on Health.com chronicling her extremely exciting pregnancy.

Kate's story gets rather harrowing, so it's nice to know that there is a happy ending. Seeing this picture of her with her child and *knowing that everything turns out OK* is paramount for paranoids like me.

It's funny how everyone keeps saying, "But it's ALL worth it, it's all SO worth it." Yes, I know it's worth it, but let's all just feel free to acknowledge: SOMETIMES IT DOESN'T FEEL WORTH IT. Sometimes it feels like a pointless pain in the ass, all of this reproductive drama. Especially when it doesn't result in a child. And sometimes, even when it does.

Another friend has just announced her pregnancy. She's seven weeks along, and she's a dual-miscarriage-survivor just like the very most beautiful and intelligent among us. And I wonder... how am I going to stand the suspense of the next three weeks? Will her baby make it from the one-chambered heart to the four-chambered heart? Can someone just TELL ME THE ENDING so I can relax?

So thank you, Kate, for telling us the ending. And now we can all sit back with our popcorn and enjoy the drama, knowing that it all turns out OK.

97 days

Babycenter.com now sends me little updates about my pregnancy. I think they thought they were being helpful when they e-mailed me: "Just 97 days to go!" -- CHRIST does that sounds like an eternity right now.

You'd think I am impatient because I would like to end the nausea, the dizzy spells, the physical infirmities, the scary contractions. But no, after being pregnant on and off since June 2006, I am simply aching for a big, fat full-term baby to be resting in my arms. I've done my time, I've had my pregnancy-plane-crashes and I just want to get to my destination, for goodness' sake.

There are little signs of hope -- yesterday Chebbles leaned on my boob and I squirted milk onto my T-shirt. Hey, I guess they still work! And someday perhaps another person will find sustenance there.

But 97 days, man. 97 days. I'll just have to stake out a series of small goals and rewards between now and then, so that I don't go bonkers. I see Chebbles walking around the house with her dolls wrapped up in little blankets, and it's not fair that EVEN SHE gets to hold babies right now.

February 18, speed to me!

Beach berries

Why do I even endeavor to take Chebbles to expansive, sandy beaches? Today we drove to Monterey to see our cousins and Chebbles was SO EXCITED the whole way down, talking about seeing her beloved C. and A. and *going to the beach*.

Then all she did once we got there was take a brief look at the gallivanting sea lions, then find a fascinating bunch of seaweed, and sit on a rock and pop open the "beach berries" for the rest of our time there.

I'm just going to import this seaweed to our kiddie pool next time.

"Mimi is fluffy!"

I laundered Mimi this morning.

Chebbles has no idea. I swept him secretly from her crib and chucked him into a bowl of boiling water and OxyClean, then into a loungerie bag and through the delicate cycle.

It had to be done. Even non-pregnant people were complaining about the stench of Mimi, and the booger accumulations on the tips of each of his paws were verging on inexcusable.

I brought up the idea of laundering Mimi with Chebbles yesterday and she was adamantly opposed to it. So after additional bullying from some of the neighborhood moms last night, I screwed up my courage and... stole my kid's favorite stuffed animal, subjected him to boiling water and detergent, and you know what?

She likes his new fluffy appearance. And has already dedicated herself to rebuilding the snot layers on those poor little paws.

School daze

We want Chebbles to gain admission to the *perfect preschool* for her. I recognize that this is am impossible dream, a "perfect preschool." Even the best preschool (one that lets her fingerpaint and pursue archaeology simultaneously) will probably give her head lice at some point. But we feel we have the opportunity here to provide Chebbles with the first steps toward a terrific education, so she can NEVER BLAME US if her life goes astray.

To that end, we've narrowed down the list to a couple Montessori schools (her current school and the dream country school) and a couple of private schools that will "nurture her intellect" (their words) until she's in Eighth Grade.

We took the tour of one school yesterday (the one where I nearly passed out -- why did I have to be wearing a name tag while I swooned?), and now it's time to complete her application.

I'm throwing my whole addled brain into the questions they pose on the application -- I want my answers to accurately reflect Chebbles' capabilities and challenges, but I also want the admissions directors to be bowled over by our family's enthusiasm for their school.

Or perhaps I should opt for total honesty...


Please describe your child’s current school experience.

Other kids just tend to PISS HER OFF, with few exceptions. We're pretty sure her teacher doesn't know her all that well (in our parent/teacher conference, she described Chebbles as "cute," which we knew) and we only stuck her in that school because I thought I was going to die if I didn't get a break from mothering during pregnancy.

Please describe your child’s after school activities.

She takes off all of her clothes and tries to take a crap in my office. Then she locates any hidden scissors, Sharpies, or stickers and "decorates" the rest of the house while I clean up the crap from my office floor.

Please describe your child's regular household responsibilities.

She is our Feline Annoyance Officer in our home, and she enjoys finding things she doesn't like (her new pants, for example) and throwing them away.

What activities does your child most enjoy?

Taking toys from other kids who look like they might be having fun. Or crying when other kids take toys from her. Plus eating mangoes.

What tasks/situations does your child find challenging?

* Getting out of the car when everyone else is getting out of the car.
* Being told "no."
* Wanting to bang her head on the hardwood floor despite her parents' moving her tantruming body to carpeted areas.
* Having her hair washed once a month.

Is there anything else you would like us to know about your child?

She thinks we're such square, irritating militants, we're pretty sure she's staging a Bhutto-esque rally for power behind the barbed wire of her baby gates.

I want to be sedated

Holy crap, I almost forgot to post today. I'm now having a new, interesting pregnancy issue, which is that I feel like I'm going to pass out.

We went to tour a new preschool for Chebbles, and I almost blacked out on the floor of their cafeteria. Hello! So, I spent most of today lying down and getting my circulation back to normal.

I'm still paranoid about this pregnancy every moment. Tonight at about 10pm, I felt something kind of "shift" in there. What the heck was it? The baby's still moving, but now I'm convinced that the baby is, yet again, in imminent peril, and we will be forced to mourn yet another baby. Then last night, I started getting worred that the baby would be born very prematurely -- based on nothing but a "hunch." Egads, can someone turn my brain off?

I maintain my fantasy that I be put into an enforced coma until my due date.

Glee of saving trees

I used to love the influx of catalogs into our home. The previous residents must have been bedridden shopaholics, based on the sheer quantity of catalogs they continued to receive after they moved out. And after the birth of Chebbles, I couldn't handle any more sophistocated reading than the "Soft Surroundings" catalog.

So I'd stack up the catalogs on my nightstand and devour them as Chebbles nursed in the middle of the night. "Oooh, tunics!" I'd say, and fold over the pages of particularly tempting items.

But now, as part of my heartless sweep through our home, I'm ridding ourselves of anything I consider extraneous (how did I accumulate so much fruit tea? I don't like fruit tea...), and catalogs are under extreme scrutiny. I'm cancelling every last catalog that dares enter our home. (This has amounted to more than two dozen catalogs at this point.)

There are some companies that I do shop from -- e.g., Red Envelope, as they always have cool stuff in fancy boxes, and they donate 5% of the purchase price to Chebbles' college fund -- but I don't need their paper catalog anymore. I can always find better things -- sale items, special promotions -- on their website anyway.

So all hail the new Catalog Choice website! I'm now using them to cancel everything. They keep track of the catalogs I've cancelled, and if I continue to receive a catalog 10 weeks from the time I cancelled it, I can report them as "IN VIOLATION" of my do-not-receive dictate. Ooooh, I can't wait.

No -ak

Chebbles learned about the Fisher-Price ABC's game from her pal Z., and it's been a regular fixture in her life ever since.

She loves to clamber onto Hub-D's lap in the morning for a good round of animal alphabet fun, with ONE notable exception.

See, every letter has an animated animal attached to it -- "U" is for "Urial" (a kind of goat) and "J" is for "Jaguar" -- and the animals make cute little sounds as they jump onto the page.

For some reason, the "Y" is for "Yak" terrifies the CRAP out of Chebbles. She obsesses over the Yak, and repeatedly declares her fear of the Yak throughout her enjoyment of the game, and randomly throughout the day. The Yak is the dark shadow that hangs over her alphabetized wonderland.

Her fear of the Yak extends so far that she doesn't like when I made the deep, grumbling "Moo" of the Yak myself. We can just be in the car, and I'll belt out a good "Moo" and she'll say, "NO, Mama, NO -AK"

(Note: Chebbles cannot pronounce the letter "Y." This adds a certain comic appeal to getting her to say, "No -ak!" Similarly, she says "-es" instead of "Yes" and asks for tastes of Hub-D's "-ogurt" in the morning.)

The Yak has infiltrated her such that she is now somewhat afraid of the letter "Y" anywhere she should spot it. Sure, she can identify it from a mile away, and just prays that no one "clicks" on it and summons her hated Yak.

Was she a Mongolian in a previous life, traumatized by stampeding Yaks? One can only speculate, and "Moo" at inappropriate moments.

The Revenge of the Rump-Divots

Hub-D and I went mattress shopping last year, and we went through THREE mattresses before we found one that was "OK."

We then paid through the nose for the "OK" mattress and resigned ourselves to a lifetime of mediocre sleeping.

We had tried a Sleep Number bed, which I liked but Hub-D couldn't stand, particularly the big crazy ridge that separated us in the middle of the bed. We then tried a mattress similar to the one we first slept on (which now resides in the guest room, its only crime being that it's a queen-sized), and then returned that one when we found it to be too fluffy and we were both beseiged by bad backs.

Then the "OK" (Sealy Peachtree Meadows) bed began to sag. It sagged precisely where our rear ends sleep on either side of the bed. And a new ridge popped up in the middle of the bed, between the rump-divots.

Irritatingly, although I weigh much less than Hub-D, my divot is deeper and more treacherous than his. As a result, I am NOT WELCOME on Hub-D's side of the bed. He is afraid that my snoozing ways are going to further compress his own rump-divot, and even early morning hugs are eschewed for fear that the valley will become insurmountable.

Finally, I called Mattress Discounters. "Dudes!" I said, "We paid out the SNOOT for this mattress and it's ruining our lives!"

Our dreamy guest room mattress has NARY a rump-divot, despite having hosted us since we started dating in 2001. But this crappy new mattress has become a host of peaks and rump-divots, to the point where I wake up in the morning clinging to the edge of the mattress for support, so I don't roll back into the ever-increasing rump-divot.

So they sent out a mattress inspector. That's all this dude does -- he goes around town measuring rump-divots for mattress owners such as myself. And despite the fact I was very nice to him, and let him tell me a whole horrible huge story about an attempted kidnapping in Pakistan, he measured our rump-divots to be "within tolerable range."

Say, Mr. Mattress Inspector... not to be too forward, but do YOU care to sleep on this ridged, divoted nightmare?

Apparently, Sealy will replace the mattresses if the rump-divots are more than one-and-a-half inches. And our deepest divot is one-and-an-eighth.

What the crap do we do now? Toss an almost-new divoted mattress? Jump on the mattress for several weeks then call the mattress inspector back?

Do you love your bed? Where did you get it? Can we sleep over?

Flying the coop

There is a lot of hubbub in our house today, as my "nesting" urge has reached an all-time high. We are fastening every piece of furniture to the wall*, filling the cracks in our cement porch, constructing shelves to hold the possessions of Chebbles & Sis, cleaning out the car, re-arranging all of the foodstuffs in the pantry and replacing the insulation on the back of the stove to eliminate the last traces of mouse pee.

I haven't had any more repeated contractions in the last couple days, so I have a resultant surge of ENERGY. Those contractions were sapping me -- both physically and emotionally. I had a big, long cramp yesterday afternoon, but Chebs and I jumped into the (98 degree) hot tub right away -- Dr. W.'s prescription for stopping the contractions always seems to work!

It's nice not to live in terror of early labor at every moment, and it's so satisfying to get stuff done everywhere throughout the house, with the help of our handyman.

I'm also planning one last crazy getaway without The Chebs. I've been invited to attend a baby shower in Los Angeles in a few weeks, and Hub-D's parents have graciously agreed to babysit so Hub-D and I can be crazy childless people one last time, flying down for a couple of days.

I love my daughter very, very much -- but the thought of boarding a plane without her fills me with so much JOY, this urge is not to be ignored. We'll be gone about 48 hours, and with the ministrations of her doting grandparents, she'll barely notice, I hope and pray. No one tell Dr. Laura I'm doing this, OK?

* Oh, and, why are we fastening every piece of furniture to the wall? Because when I'm not giving myself huge panic attacks about the safety of my womb, I debate the morality of having small children in a house that SHAKES and SHIMMIES, filled with heavy, unsecured bookcases and dressers. Did anyone else feel that big fat temblor last week? Egads!

La Cheb tackles the tramp today

Hub-D, Our Hero

This is what Otto and I do. We eat some meat, watch some Netflix offerings, and crash anywhere convenient.

So imagine Otto's surprise last night when he sauntered through the kitchen at 4am and saw a MOUSE emerge from beneath the stove. It must have scuttled right in front of him.

So before he knew what he was doing, he just grabbed it. And he brought it straight to me, waking me up as if to say, "What the heck should we do NOW?"

I sat straight up in bed and hollered, "HUB-D! For CHRIST'S SAKE! HELP US!"...

Hub-D's first question, as he saw the mouse, free from Otto's jaws and lurking beneath our bed alone, was, "Did it eat Otto?"

No, Otto was lazily lurking around at the perimeter of the room, wondering when and where he might return to sleep. And the mouse was freaked the heck out. I retreated to the living room, listening to the sounds of violence and frustration from the bedroom. The mouse fought valiantly for its life. It leaped into the closet and beneath the bed, and survived a body slam against the bedroom wall, apparently without incident.

Finally, both the mouse and Otto ran out the door to the bedroom, outside into the night. I have no doubt that the mouse got away, and that Otto left the house just to find a peaceful place to curl up for the night.

Hub-D was great throughout this incident, being roused at 4am in order to eradicate a mouse that our chubby cat was incapable of slaying. Hub-D's only desire is that he'd had a video of ME discovering the mouse in our bedroom. He says it would be called, "Pregnant Lady Finds a Mouse" and it would have been a HUGE HIT on YouTube.

Smell my pee

Prince and Otto should be very embarrassed. These are cats who routinely catch giant rats throughout our neighborhood, in addition to birds, lizards and horseflies. But here, in their HOUSE, they are allowing a family of field mice to live in our stove.

I wouldn't be so mad about the mice if it weren't for the smell of their pee, which is extreme. It has permeated through the insulation on the back of the stove and it "flares up" whenever I use the stove.

I can't decide what to do about getting rid of the mice. I've been advised by several sage sources that I should just KILL the mice with snap traps ASAP. But that seems so mean. Couldn't I get humane traps and release them down near the stream, where they can run free and wild and piss somewhere else?

Yesterday, our housekeeper pulled out the bottom shelf of the stove and we found all our bakeware to be covered in mouse droppings. EGADS. So the bottom shelf is permanently removed now, affording Prince and Otto unfettered access to the home of the mice at the back of the stove.

When Prince came in this morning, I directed him to the stove. He sniffed around it with some interest, then looked at me and asked for his "Whiskas" -- thank you very much. And Otto has gamely sniffed around the vents at the top of the stove, then resumed his regularly scheduled program of napping on my gut.

Perhaps I shouldn't feed the cats for a few days, and trap them indoors. "Sing for your supper, boys," I'll admonish them, directing them to the heated piss odor emanating from my kitchen.

MMM

Now that I'm obviously pregnant, I remember how much pregnant ladies used to piss me off.

When I had lost the two babies and then was trying to conceive for so long, preggers were like an irritant, like a whiff of ammonia that might bring a brief spate of tears to my eyes. I wondered what made those ladies so special that they got to successfully gestate new people, and I DIDN'T.

Anyway, now that I'm one of those people, I wish I had some way of showing some solidarity with women who are feeling shitty about pregnancy.

I wish I could tell women who feel the way I felt...

"You may want to go where I'm going, but you don't want to be where I've been."

The path to this pregnancy has been littered with heartbreak and tears and it's NOT OVER. Of COURSE I'm thrilled to be pregnant with a healthy baby girl, and of COURSE it was all "worth it" but Jesus Christ, my friends, you don't know the whole story.

****

In other news, I've got some initial designs for the "cooler" pregnancy loss logo I'm trying to create. I wanted to add some letters to it, and it seemed most obvious to use a little phrase that has circulated in my head since my second pregnancy loss: "Miscarriage Made me a Mom."

See, after I lost both of last year's pregnancies, I felt swept into a somewhat futile whirlwind of motherly energy. There was only so much love and attention I could heap on Chebbles without becoming cloying, and I just had all this excess LOVE that was no longer attached to a real baby.

So for me, miscarriage made me a mom. And I liked to think that this also meant that the baby was a REAL baby for me -- that pregnancy meant something, I was the MOM of that little lost person.

So anyway, the only PROBLEM with my little slogan, "Miscarriage Made me a Mom," is that it's abbreviated MMM. Therefore, the logo designs now might be mistaken for Campbell's Soup ads.

We're back to the drawing board. Once I figure out this MMM dilemma (or do you guys have any suggestions?), I'll share some of the images with you all.

I picked the wrong month to have to post every day...

The contractions have settled down, which is marvelous. I'm seeing Dr. W. at 2:15 today, and I'm hoping he will tell me beautiful tales of my long and non-effaced cervix.

But more importantly, Chebbles had the BEST... HALLOWEEN... EVER! Hub-D came home early to take her trick-or-treating, and she was a champ. The whole notion of collecting candy from the neighbors was a huge hit with La Chabelle.

I was waiting on the porch when she got home. I was handing out candy (big full-sized bars for cute kids, miniature Snickers for the sullen teens), and soon after she returned, I accidentally used the word "cookie." (What can I say? I crave them!)

But you know what happens in this house when someone says THE WORD ("cookie")... Chebbles tickled me with all due expediency. Or she tickled her little sister, really. Well, regardless, someone said THE WORD and someone got TICKLED but a good time was had by all.