Counting my blessings, coming up short

I'm thinking about 2007 as we bid it adieu, and although I KEEP trying to look at the bright side of things, I'm still crabby about it.

What's my problem?

For goodness' sake, I went to PARIS with my handsome husband, where I got pregnant with our perfect Baby V, who has only about 7-8 weeks left to gestate before introducing herself to us (en Francais?).

I also met some fantastic new friends who have illuminated my life (and this blog!) in countless ways.

Chebbles turned two, and became even more brilliant and fabulous throughout the year...

For example, today I was sitting with her while she ate her dinner, and I was perusing some health-related books, looking for homeopathic solutions to Hub-D's ear infection, and I said to her, off-handedly, "Yeah, Daddy's not feeling well right now."

"Where is he?" she asked. I told her he was in the guest room and she said, "Mama, may I be excused to go see Daddy?"

I excused her, and she made a beeline for her father, coming quietly into the room where he lay and asking, "Daddy, may I rub your feet?"

Leave it to The Chebs to remember that the way to Daddy's heart is through his feet. And damn if her footrub didn't make him feel about 300% better. (Why didn't I think of that?)

So, SEE? I have so many things for which to be grateful in 2007. The year brought blessings galore. Our company and investments fared well despite the economy's woes (I tell you, no matter how crappy the economy is, people always buy videogames.)

But there was a constant sprinkle of crap that kept me down throughout the year, and no matter how much I try to turn it into glorious fertilizer, and look at the bright side, the crap wants to be acknowledged and dealt with before it will feed the flowers.

For example, Hub-D's grandmother passed away this year. And I could barely function at her funeral as I was six weeks pregnant with Baby V.

Losing Grandma C sucked so bad, partially because she and I could have long conversations that went like this:

Me: Isn't my husband smart?
Grandma C: OH YES, honey, and so handsome!
Me: He is ridiculously handsome, isn't he?
GC: Why certainly! He is as handsome as he is smart!
Me: It's possible he's perfect.
GC: I've believed that for YEARS, honey.

So Grandma C left me with her torch for Hub-D, an electric upright piano and a bright blue fleece jacket. Chebbles and I have used that piano and jacket almost every day since Hub-D's parents brought them up for us. And just today, Chebbles transformed the jacket into a "cozy blanket for snuggling" on our bed.

There is the bright side, see, the piano and jacket. But it's crappy to have lost her in the first place.

And I lost some friendships this year. I don't know what the hell I did or said or didn't do or didn't say, but some people that I thought were real "keepers," with whom I spent major chunks of Chebbles' first year, completely dissipated from our lives. And that has broken my heart in varying increments -- I can sometimes go a week without caring about it, then spend a few days actively mourning those friendships, which I've worked hard to put behind me so that I'm not wallowing in heartbreak for time immemorial.

So that was another crappy thing.

And finally, looking a gift horse STRAIGHT in the mouth, this pregnancy has been the PITS. I had one good day -- the day that we found out. I went to the zoo with my friend V. and I kind of forgot about the pregnancy and just had a glorious day goofing around, riding the SkyRide with Chebbles over the camels and buffalo, and having a great time.

Then the whole thing went down the shitter. I started bleeding all the time. Then the hyperemesis gravitas kicked in -- morning sickness so tragically horrible I had to be hospitalized for dehydration. The only good part of the hospitalization was being able to listen to the baby's heartbeat, but everything else about it was from HELL. Have you ever had to have an IV inserted when you're dehydrated? I cried like a baby, just weeping by myself and hating everything and everyone, particularly the abovementioned lost friends.

I couldn't eat anything except occasional tacos and popsicles, while the bleeding continued, and I reported to the OB's office for heartbeat checks every couple of days.

The pregnancy has gotten easier -- heavier, ungainly, dizzy and pissy -- but much easier than the early days.

So anyway, I am happy and safe and warm with my gorgeous, thoughtful husband and equally sweet daughter. I can't say that 2007 was full of cheer, and we're just building on those marvelous moments, but I can say that I am READY TO BE DONE with it, and I look forward to revealing the secrets behind Door 2008, including but not limited to: "Will all this heartburn mean that our newborn baby will have hair?"

For this, and other answers, stay tuned!

Hiccups

My unborn child has hiccups.

The joy I feel to be pregnant today is indescribable. On this date last year, I was knocked out at the hospital, having a D&C which would remove and reveal a "normal girl" who had inexplicably died ten days before I found out that she had.

But this year? I'm gutting my office and stocking diapers to create a home for this new child, and my friends are planning a party for me rather than sending me sad cards, flowers and meals.

Chebbles talks to her baby sister all the time and we are already talking about Baby #3 -- trying to make him or her a reality, the logical follow-up act to our 8-weeks-to-go-but-already-fabulous Baby V.

Thank God. Thank my friends. Thank my uterus for springing back to life. Baby V hiccups, and makes this a tolerable anniversary.

Stanley died today.

Our neighbors found him in their side yard -- he'd been living inside with them for a few weeks, but he'd been insistent that he go outside last night at 2am. They saw him alive (and eating!) this morning, but when they went out to lunch, they came back to find his body.

On Wednesday, Stanley came over to our house for a brief and unexpected visit, and even let me pet him for awhile. Chebbles was waiting in the car, so I couldn't linger long, but I spent several minutes stroking his gorgeous stripes before leaving. Maybe it was his way of reconnecting before he hopped off this mortal coil?

Stanley and I met in 2001. He slept under the covers with me every night at first. After September 11th, when there were military jets soaring over San Francisco at all hours of the night, he was startled by the noise and scarred my thigh with his claws.

He was a superb cuddler, but he spent the last two years growing increasingly uncomfortable and even crabbier than normal. Our sweet Stan stopped cuddling altogether and moved in with the neighbors because I kept giving him medicine and Chebbles kept trying to pet him.

We have no idea how old he was. But he died missing several of his teeth, including his majestic fangs, missing one leg for reasons unknown, and missing kidney function. I like to think of him sleek and good-smelling in cat heaven, catching up on his Cicero.

Chebbles puts Ariel, new baby on pedestal

The Chebs is pretty excited about her Disney princesses, specifically Ariel, who she carries around the house and shows things, as in, "See that, Ariel? It's the garbage truck!"

Likewise, both Chebbles and I are enchanted with the new little raft of newborn stuff that has begun to arrive at our house. I made myself wait to buy anything until Christmas Eve -- until I was properly eight months pregnant.

And on that day, I started buying the basics online. I bought the carseat, which I'd obsessively researched for months (Chicco KeyFit 30). I bought the rug for her nursery (Cherries and Daisies). I bought more Arbonne baby cleanser and lotion, because it worked so well on Chebbles' sensitive newborn skin. I purchased a closet organization "system" that I'd been mulling since before I was showing (waaaaay cheaper than California Closets).

And the diapers. I bought a peck of little diapers, and they are hilarious, my friends. They look like they're made for incontinent garden gnomes, they are SO SMALL compared to Chebbles' junk-in-the-trunk honkers. They arrived in a big box yesterday, and Hub-D dutifully placed the box in Chebbles' room. And I got a charge out of telling him, "wrong kid" ... they're for the new baby!

Chebbles freaked out when she saw the newborn pacifiers I bought. She ripped them from the box and ran around the house with them, leaping around, so excited. I think she gets the basic concept that the pacifiers are NOT for her, as she "gave her binkies to the babies" months ago, but they just JAZZ her up, those little pink pacifiers. She can't wait to give them to her baby sister.

And the Born Free bottles have arrived as well, sending Chebbles (and me, I'll admit) into fits of anticipation. Baby V is going to have bottles that are free of Bisphenol-A so she'll be at an advantage over her sister, who has gulped from hot plastic sippy cups since before the age of one.

It is true that as I order these things and prepare the basics, I think, "OK, if something happens to this baby, I know six other people who are having a baby at the same time, so I can give it all to them." That's sick, I know. I ought to dwell in a fairy tale land of optimism, here in the high times of Month 8, but TOO BAD. I'm still a pessimist. I'm just a hopeful pessimist at this juncture.

And Chebbles had a dream during her nap yesterday, in which she had a baby in HER belly. It was her baby sister, and her name was "Two."

So yep, hope rides rampant through our house.

This tiger attack is playing havoc with my hormones

Hub-D and I chatted about the tiger tragedy at the San Francisco zoo last night (prompting Chebbles to ask, "What's a gun?"... to which Hub-D replied, "It's how we kill tigers." Egads...) Anyway, we're both in agreement that the circumstances of this "attack" were shady.

What were a bunch of dudes in their late teens doing on their own, late at the zoo on Christmas Day?

I volunteered at that zoo for years, and I saw every demographic of zoo visitor. Couples come alone with some regularity, but nearly everyone has a date or a little kid in tow, at least as an excuse to attend the zoo. It is a remarkable exception to see three young men alone at the SF Zoo.

And I've also spent a lot of time at that tiger enclosure. They can't get out. I truly do not see how this was possible. So it doesn't surprise me that the SFPD is treating this situation as a homicide/crime scene. It doesn't add up that a tiger just randomly escaped from her enclosure and chose three dudes at random to attack.

Furthermore, say you're a tigress, and you kill a dude. Wouldn't you stay with your kill, or haul him off somewhere where you can be in peace with the corpse? I know this sounds so gross, but anyone who has witnessed as much feline killing as we have in our household, and has watched enough nature shows, knows that it takes a LOT to distract a tiger from the hunt, and they never hunt three gazelles at the same time.

So I wonder, what really happened with those dudes at the zoo?

And while I'm at it, can we just stop keeping tigers in cages (even with modest outdoor areas)? Can we just have wide open ranges for them to be their tigery selves? It pisses tigers off to be in captivity, and it rarely ends well (sick animals, Siegfried attack, etc.). I know it was cool in Roman times to keep tigers caged and then unleash them on various slaves and prisoners. But it may be time to put an end to all of this.

On Christmas several years ago, a couple of dudes stole a koala from their enclosure as a gift to someone's girlfriend. The girlfriend, properly horrified, returned the koala and turned the guys in. So anyway, this tiger attack is similarly shady, and I hope I don't sound too callous about human life when I say that my heart goes out to the tiger.

Joy to the World

My Christmas present: as my new baby girl kicked in my belly (clearly relishing the Christmas season), my handsome husband tossed my firstborn in the air.

She had chosen to wear her purple dress, which had been mine, made by my mother (I think?) back in the early 70's. And we are all so damn happy, I keep taking gulps of all this happiness, knowing that it doesn't always feel so great -- I want to take in some extra so I have some of this overflowing happiness in reserve.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Week 31 trudges along, bringing "Lost" nitpicks in its wake

I keep forgetting that I'm not Julia, and that I am only 31 weeks pregnant. Her story has gripped me throughout my own pregnancy -- she's about 4.5 weeks ahead of me, with a twin pregnancy after, uh, I think eleven miscarriages. Thank goodness I have HER story to keep me occupied as the long trudge through the third trimester continues.

All told, I'll take the third trimester any day. The first trimester was fraught with so much anxiety that my hair and guts all fell out, en masse, every day. The second trimester was characterized by slightly less anxiety and slightly more vomiting, plus premature labor and extreme anemia-related fatigue.

But this trimester? Well, at least I feel I like I could waddle down the street and -- if the baby fell out when I got to the end of the block, it would stand an excellent chance of survival. My hips are spreading so wide, I'm not sure WHO they're preparing for (perhaps she's coming out sideways?). But my hips ache so much that Hub-D is under a directive to rub them at ALL TIMES, whenever he is within arm's reach of me -- just rub 'em, rub them constantly, and do not stop. It is only Hub-D's ministrations which keep me comfortable these days.

Another great blessing of this trimester is that it falls squarely on Christmas -- and there are SO MANY THINGS TO EAT around. This coincides neatly with my wracked hunger for chocolate and cookies.

But the cabin fever of this pregnancy has reached all-new levels of obsession and isolation, marked by my untamed obsession with "Lost." I never saw it on television, but I've been renting the DVD's, and the third season of "Lost" was just released. I've been plowing through it on Netflix, and I have some nit-picking beefs that are driving me inordinately crazy because I have NO LIFE other than what the HELL is happening on that island with Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Jin, Sun, Hugo and the gang.

First, I beg you not to reveal anything that happens after the third DVD of Season Three, as I'm still working my way through. Season Four is a total, deliberate mystery for me as well.

Second, what the HELL is going on with the preponderance of blue-eyed parents giving birth to brown-eyed babies? Jack's parents both have blue eyes (as we see in flashbacks) and he has very brown eyes. And now, brown-eyed Alex is purported to be the child of blue-eyed Danielle and Ben. Can someone fix this issue? I am willing to personally pay for the actor's brown-eyed contacts that would make the genetics of the issue make sense.

(Note: My grandfather had brown eyes, and both of his parents had blue eyes. We've tacitly assumed that someone wasn't his true biological parent.)

Please do correct me if I'm wrong in my belief that blue-eyed people can't produce a brown-eyed child, as I learned in Biology 101.

Also, one of the "Lost" characters, Claire, thinks of a whiz-bang idea: to tie a note around the leg of a banded migrating seabird so that it might carry their distress signal back to civilization. Brilliant! Except she just writes it with pen, on a piece of notebook paper, and folds it up and ties the paper to the bird's leg. I was assuming a tiny waterproof case would be more appropriate -- from the first moment that bird rests on the water, or pees, or anything, the note will be obliterated.

Well, at least I can be sure they won't be rescued that way, so that I can enjoy my ongoing housebound irritation with the show for years to come.

Dudley Dursley's Christmas Dream

You know Dudley? Harry Potter's spoiled cousin? Remember how he has a cow in the first Harry Potter book because he only has something like 36 presents, and the last year he had 37?

I'm pretty sure that we're turning our innocent Chebbles into Dudley Dursley with this haul of Christmas presents.

First, I held back a bunch of birthday presents for Christmas, then I did the "mom" thing, in that I found a whole bunch of other things that she should probably have for Christmas (I can't help it that eBay had the pink Disney princess guitar WITH keyboard in excellent used condition).

Then her loving relatives all did the same thing -- finding very Chebbles-ish things throughout the land, wrapping them and sending them our way.

THEN she asked for a pink cake for Christmas. See, her actual desires were modest. All she really wants is a little pink ice cream cake for Christmas.

She doesn't need a dollhouse with all of the accessories and the realistic stuffed pug Hub-D found at FAO Schwarz on his last trip to New York.

I did go out and order that cake. And my inclination is to drop all the rest of the haul off at a local orphanage.

Cabin fever

After four days in quarantine, Chebbles and I are getting pretty sick of each other.

She's started saying "ow" for no discernable reason, because it makes me say, "What hurts," and then she's really vague about it... (e.g., "Anywhere, Mama, it hurts anywhere.").

Every so often "ow" is meaningful, like when she pointed out that she's getting her annual eczema on her arms, and we enjoyed a lotion frenzy. "That feels good, Mama," she said. Whew, a nice break after 1,000 "ow"'s.

Her fever did the same thing today -- lower in the morning, a very good spell of activity and happiness in the late afternoon, then a major crash and a redeveloped fever at around bedtime. Tonight I did not screw around and I put her in her crib at 6:30pm.

Part of my incentive was to have some time for MYSELF for cripes sake. I know someday I will yearn for her following me around saying, "Cuddle, Mama, I want to CUDDLE MORE," but after four days of solid cuddling -- which means a 30+ pound toddler on top of a wily fetus on my belly -- I'm ready to have some "alone time."

I went to the doctor today, and told him that I have two desires related to the birth of the new baby. They are as follows:

(1) To stay in the hospital as LONG AS POSSIBLE.
(2) To give my new child to the nursery as MUCH AS POSSIBLE.

He told me that the nurses will be surprised to hear these things. The hospital is THE hospital where all of the Berkeley hippies give birth (when they are not doing so at home), and they are the pioneers of brief hospital stays together in a "Family Room."

Listen, we're going to have PLENTY of Family Room time once we get home. We're going to have 18 years of Family Room time together. I just know that the days following Chebbles' birth were really tough, and every moment I could con the nurses into taking care of her for me was a GOLDEN MOMENT. Sure, I'll nurse her and look lovingly into her googly little newborn eyes, but seriously, a woman needs to sleep after pushing giant babies out of her body.

So please, transport me back to the 1950's, where the newborn is whisked away by competent hospital staff and I am left to sleep a deep and peaceful slumber for a WEEK with no one pestering me or saying "ow" one thousand times. And THAT will make me a better mom in the long run, rather than trying to be all granola in a "Family Room" and secretly resenting everyone involved.

When you're sliding into home...

Last night, Chebbles' fever spiked at an impressive 103.5. And she was breathing in a slightly shallow manner. Of course, because it's my job as a mom, I jumped to maniacal conclusions (pneumonia? deadly bacterial infection?) -- but Hub-D kept me relatively sane. And this morning, we got our Chebs back at about 65% of normal chebbling capacity, with a much reduced fever and some classically explosive diarrhea.*

Apparently, Chebbles will be contagious through the end of the week, so all of our normal forms of entertainment are out. So I enslaved her to help sort through our wedding photos this morning, so that I might box them up and store them, making room for her little sister in the room-formerly-known-as-my-office. She helped label the boxes in her own language while I sorted photos.

The name of the game now is for Hub-D and me to NOT get the stomach flu. Of course, it might be barely distinguishable from the six months of morning sickness I endured -- but regardless, no thanks!

And in other news, I got into a scrap with my reproductive endocrinologist's office this morning -- I insisted that the $1000 they sent me was in error, and they demanded I cash the check.

I laid out the information for them: "I was originally charged just $450 when we thought it might just be a hysteroscopy, but once she began the surgery and discovered the polyp, it turned into an operative hysteroscopy, for which I owe you an additional $1000."

And the woman, whose name was Yanni (cue pan flute), held her ground and said that her boss had personally reviewed my case and that they would appreciate it if I would cash that check before the end of the year. So OK, I tried. And I've got her name (cue swell of pan flutes) in case they demand it back in the future.

I asked Hub-D if I should get in touch with Blue Cross and try to send them THEIR share of this refund, and he shooed me out of his office. There is only so much wifely morality a man can take early in the morning, particularly when said wife has a child's flu-related body fluids reeking from her skin and clothing.

* NB: Is it wrong that I can't stop singing the "Diarrhea" song today? You know the one, "When you're sliding into first and you're feeling something burst, diarrhea!" It's so awful and immature, but come ON, folks. Diarrhea is funny!

Barfma

Hub-D took over nurse duty for awhile so I could get out of the house and find a good remnant to cover the floor of the new nursery (And I did find a perfect remnant! Is there anything so satisfying as identifying a perfectly shaped, perfectly colored carpet remnant in the back of a warehouse?)...

Anyway, when I returned, Hub-D and Chebbles were sacked out in front of the TV, re-watching one of her few videos (note to self: stock up on more kid videos... for your OWN sanity during these occasions of illness). I went and sat with them and chatted with Hub-D for about 30 seconds before Chebbles started moaning.

We both stopped and directed our attention to her, and she lurched for my arms. I grabbed her around the chest and pulled her tight to me just as she vomited everything she had ever eaten all over ME. She soaked through my jeans and sweater and boots. Oh, and Mimi took a bad hit too. The power of the puke was impressive. It came in three giant, fun-filled heaves, and after comforting her for the obligatory 10 seconds or so, Hub-D and I immediately launched into how damn funny it was.

"Why didn't you puke on Daddy?" I asked her earnestly. "Next time, stay with Daddy when you're going to puke."

Hub-D considers it karma, as I left my sick child in order to blithely go carpet shopping. What would be the word for it, "barfma?"

Anyway, I did end up finding a perfect carpet remnant. And Mimi survived another turn in the dryer tonight before bedtime.

Chebs DOWN

The poor chickie woke up with the fever, and no appetite, and plenty of snot.

J'accuse the other moms at her preschool, who, according to her teachers, sent some SICKIES into class last Wednesday. It's always nice to have someone to J'accuse in these situations.

But it's sad to see our spunky princess laid low. On the plus side, I've gotten a couple catnaps in, lying next to her in our bed, where she's just ingesting apple juice and feeling rotten.

On the minus side, she's decided that "The Little Mermaid" is too scary. Which scene, you might ask? Where King Triton destroys Ariel's grotto? The ship sinking? Nope. The "Kiss the Girl" scene. You know, where the fish are romantically crooning, trying to get Prince Eric to smooch Ariel. I'm with Chebbles on this one. That scene is kind of scary. It's encouraging a lot of premature intimacy for two people who haven't even had a conversation.

OK, back to nurse duty. She's drinking and peeing a lot, and her fever has topped out at 102.5, so I don't think this situation is doctor-worthy. I just want my Chebbles to feel better.

Sunday Summary

* I bought curtains for Baby V.'s room tonight. I had been lounging, immobile, in bed, feeling like a beached beluga, when Hub-D came into the room and asked if I'd like to take the car and go run some errands SANS CHEBBLES. You've never seen a big pregnant woman move so fast. I threw on a pair of shoes and jetted out the door, not even certain of my destination. I found myself at Cost Plus, where I bought thick, light-blocking red velvety curtains for the room-formerly-known-as-my-office. Hallelujah.

* While I was footloose and Chebbles-free, I also stopped at Cold Stone Creamery and ordered a petite pink ice cream cake covered in raspberry frosting. And it wasn't even for ME. This is Chebbles' one great Christmas wish. She has asked Santa repeatedly* for a "pink cake with princesses on it" for Christmas. So I found the figurines on Amazon.com and a pink ice cream cake should blow her mind on Christmas morning. They promised there would be enough room for at least four princesses atop the confection.

* I think I'm going to try and return that check from my reproductive endocrinologist. That is, I'm going to TRY. And on your collective advice, only if they confirm that the refund is legitimate will I start spending it. But it's NOT legitimate, unless they retroactively recategorized my surgery to a simple hysteroscopy, and we all forget about the polyp. It would be nice to dismiss the polyp, but it's not that easy. And then I'd be faced with refunding a portion Blue Cross's paltry refund as well. Why can't I just be an amoral simpleton who makes off with a cool grand?

* I'm trying not to worry about this, but Chebbles went to sleep with a fever tonight, having thrown up the meager dinner she'd eaten. But she was in surprisingly good spirits, considering her physical state, and I'm not prepared to admit it was the stomach flu. If it continues tomorrow, I'll admit that the plague has crossed our threshold (and I'll apologetically broadcast our diseased state to the kids we shared germs with at the birthday party today). But knowing Chebbles, she'll wake up perky and fine tomorrow morning. Heeeere's hoping.

* Otto's in a bad place, emotionally. Otto is one of our twin cats, and the gentler soul of the two. But something/someone has been getting the best of him lately. He's come home with some impressive scabs and scratches on his head and neck, and last night he bled on our white comforter cover. Who in the world has a beef with OTTO? He's a lover, not a fighter. Perhaps the dead rat in our rose bushes is related somehow. Now he's resting his head on my forearm as I type, purring off the defeats of the day. I'm glad my mom-vibe doesn't just work for The Chebs, but for downcast felines as well.

* I've found there is no toddler-related problem in this house that "The Little Mermaid" can't solve. She's only watched little five-minute blocks of it here and there, but it truly heals all that ails The Chebs. The same goes for the last two musical numbers from "Grease" and any and all musical numbers from "The Sound of Music." Thank goodness we cancelled our satellite service, or she'd learn that television programming extends beyond those three movies.

* NB: Chebbles never directly asked Santa for the pink princess cake, but rather had her friend Z. ask Santa for the pink princess cake due to her overwhelming fear of Santa Claus. So the credit really should fall to him. And if he's allowed to eat dairy by Christmas, he's got to share a slice of this masterpiece.

Whereas I make $400 by accident

Thank you so much for your help with the newspaper tipping quandary.

Now, hot on the heels of that moral quandary, I have another...

Last March, I paid my reproductive endocrinologist $1450 for an operative hysteroscopy. Although I had paid for the whole surgery, I received increasingly threatening letters throughout the year demanding I pay them another $1000. I left them messages and spoke with a few different people, and finally they seemed to accept that I'd paid for the whole surgery and left me alone.

Also, it bears mentioning, that after months of wrangling with Blue Cross, they refunded me more than $800 for the cost of the surgery as well.

Then today, I got a check from my RE's office for $1000. It seems that whoever finally jimmy-rigged their billing system so that I would not continue to be harrassed, inadvertantly credited me with $1000. So I assume that as they're wrapping up their books, they're issuing refund checks, and VOILA! Merry Christmas, Mama.

It does feel like a moral quandary because it's not my money. But if I send it back to them, it might just confuse matters even more. And hey, it's Christmas and we could use some extra change. Is it right to have MADE MONEY on a reproductive procedure?

What do you think?

Do you send the check back to the doctor?
	No way, dude, it's their mistake.
	Yeah, how can you live with yourself if you keep ill-gotten gain?
	Perhaps it's some kind of karmic refund from God.
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I love you guys! Thanks for your input!

What's my obligation here?

Say you cancelled your local newspaper six months ago. But it kept showing up at your door, month after month, not being read most of the time.

Then Christmastime rolls around and you get a big "hinty" envelope in your unwanted newspaper, asking for some holiday money.

Should you tip the deliveryman?
	Yes! It's the least you can do.
	No, you have no obligation to him.
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Speaking of shelter

Anyone who has experienced pregnancy loss on any level will appreciate the gravity of this statement...

I BOUGHT A CRIB.

Oh yes, my friends. I found a company in my old stomping grounds of Eugene, Oregon that makes cribs from sustainably harvested wood and then rubs them lovingly with nontoxic oils and organic love. The minute I saw this crib, I knew it was right for Baby V., as she'd unofficially known around these parts. It's so... her.

Yes, I... bought... a... crib.

This is the closest I've come to admitting I might be a mom once more, and that the kicking I feel in my gut may result in a person who needs her own bed.

And, in a spasm of careless optimism, I've also started planning her nursery. I'm clearing out of my office, relocating my desk to a foyer, and planning a room for my unborn child. I was thinking deep reds, yellows and pinks. Something along the lines of this rug. Nothing too pink, yet something strong and feminine, something to suit the personality we've extracted from "feelings" and ultrasounds.

So she has a crib, being crafted as I type by friendly carpenters of the Pacific Northwest who appreciate microbrews and rainforests. And the fetus has a nickname. And now I'm fussing over curtains. Curtains, I tell you! These leaps of faith are mind-boggling, terrifying and exhilariating all at the same time.

The solution was me

Chebbles thunderstorm-like tantrums have officially stopped altogether.

And I reveal, with some level of shame and pride, that the solution was me.

It used to be that I would stand aside or leave the room when she began her pre-tantrum routine. I didn't want to reward the spasms of grief she'd exhibit over a broken pen or my insisting on pants.

I would just give her "space" and let the emotions wash over her. I'd see the clouds gathering in the sky above her, then the feelings would gradually overtake her ability to control herself. These storms would almost always resulting in a self-destructive, face-slapping explosion. They were painful to watch and many times I didn't.

But then something happened a few weeks ago. She had started a pre-tantrum routine and I tried to walk away. And she managed to squeak out between her sobs, "Mama DON'T GO."

Huh? I thought she HATED me. I thought I was the source of all of her problems. I thought she'd do much better calming herself down without an audience.

So I turned around and came close to her, and said, "Would it helped if you hugged Mama?"

And to my eternal heartbreak, she nodded and gave me the hardest hug of my life. She clung to me for dear life. And after she finished soaking my shoulder with tears and snot, a smile broke out across her face. "I'm happy again, Mama," she said, completely recovered.

I realize now that she needed my help, and I hadn't been available to her. I'd had this ability the whole time, and perhaps I could have diffused these things from the start. I also believe that my sick pregnancy and lack of availability to her led to the damn tantrums in the first place. And I wonder how many other children need hugs like this, from their one-and-only MOM, in order to feel OK -- and they may not be getting them when they need them. (Hormonal sob...)

Chebbles does have a temper, and it resembles Hub-D's temper in its efficiency. They both have the innate ability to immediately identify an offensive stimulus and react to it accordingly. (I do not possess this ability. I am a "slow burner" and it can take me minutes/days/years to realize how pissed I am, by which time my ability to defend myself is greatly hampered.)

Once she gains some control over that temper, it will be an asset to her. But for now it feels so strong and uncontrolled -- like an F-1 engine in a Mini car. There so much power and emotion for such a little, inexperienced body to sustain.

So now I'm her umbrella. I'm her lightning rod. I'm her roof, under which a storm sounds cozy instead of terrifying. And now, whenever she's gearing up for an old Noreaster, we look at each other and reconnect, and despite her desire to throw her body on the ground in grief and terror, she'll run across the room and into my arms, and we'll sit together and wait it out.

And I am so grateful to be there for my child, so grateful.

The plague

Does the whole country have the plague? It seems like everyone is getting a wicked stomach flu, and it's knocking down some folks worse than others.

Our usual babysitter cancelled last night, as she'd been barfing since 5:30am. Thank goodness she sent her sister, whom Chebbles secretly likes better.

But really, folks are dropping like flies! Chebbles' pal Z. has had it for days, and our Gymboree class and playgroup were ghost towns. If people don't have it, they're paranoid of GETTING it, creating a cycle of total nonattendance throughout the land.

In a totally inappropriate way, I'm a little satisfied that I am FINALLY not the only one barfing. Not that I wish anyone ill, but seriously people, imagine being connected to the toilet like that for months at a time...

I thought it was a California thing, but my friend Chef Alekka reports that the Heartland is down for the count as well.

It's enough to inspire a voodoo-type dance around the perimeter of our household. We do NOT need sick people around here!

The Chebs in the snow

Did Chebbles enjoy her trip up into the snow to find a Christmas tree with her cousins?



Special thanks to our playgroup friends for loaning us all the warm woollies!

Babies blow

We're back at home -- our non-haunted (as far as I can tell) home.

I wonder, was that my last trip? Dr. W. says I can travel up until Week 36, which gives me 5.5 more weeks to go do... what? A cruise? Searching for my Irish roots? Helicopter in to Machu Picchu?

I don't want to go anywhere. That trip was modest and great, and Chebbles had such a rocking time with her cousins -- sledding and dressing up and laughing her head off -- it made the annoyances of travel well worth it.

I've toyed with the idea of going to San Diego for the weekend, to visit a dear friend of mine *one last time* before the baby comes and our life becomes even more random.

But my instinct is to stay right here. My primary focus at this moment is Chebbles. I want her to enjoy her last few months with Mama's sole spotlight of attention on her. Because I know what it's like to become a big sister.

There is no way to sugarcoat it: it completely BLOWS. It happens to many, many people, and everyone loves their siblings (eventually, and in their own way), but why are we running around saying that it doesn't BLOW when it does? It's like telling a kid that a shot won't hurt. It WILL!

There is so much literature dedicated to the virtues of becoming an older sibling. "You get to be the big kid!" "Your sibling will always look up to YOU!" "It's so special and important to be an older sibling."

Let's have some truth in advertising here: it also BLOWS. Because you have spent your entire life -- from gestation onward -- as the center of your parents' universe. And with the arrival of the baby, you will share the spotlight for the rest of your life.

If you have a particularly cloying mother, as Chebbles does, sharing the spotlight is probably a good thing in the long run. It must be detrimental on some level to have a mother who lies awake at night wondering if it's her own incompetence that leads to your lack of ability to do jigsaw puzzles at age 2.

But once that new baby shows up, you'll be told to "wait" and "be gentle" and "help" in myriad ways. And the new baby itself doesn't have a lot to lend itself to your big sisterly love. It cries, it takes up your mom's whole lap, and it tends to wreck things. Most importantly, it takes away your coveted "baby" status. It's smaller than you, probably cuter, and completely self-centered.

I KNOW that eventually it is kind of marvelous to have a sibling. I would probably be in an asylum if I didn't have my sister to kick around all those years, then subsequently commiserate with about our parents' foibles.

But for now, I just see this axe about to fall on my gorgeous, unsuspecting kid.

So maybe we SHOULD go to the beach one last time.

What happened last night

In a house where four kids are sleeping, it didn't take me by surprise when I saw a kid standing at the end of the hallway at 2am.

I was hurrying to Chebbles' bedroom, who was crying for me for the second time that night. I was annoyed with her, and in a hurry to solve Chebbles' issue.

I looked directly at the kid, and saw that it was nothing. It was a white mist, at most, probably explained by reflections from the fire burning in the wood stove here at our cousins' house.

And I marched into Chebbles' room and sat down next to the Pack-n-Play, still mad about being woken up. "Why are you crying?" I asked. She stood in the Pack-n-Play and looked directly out at me. She had stopped crying as soon as I'd walked in the door.

"Because I saw a baby."

"You saw a baby. OK. Where?"

"She was there," she said, pointing to the hallway. I'd left the door open when I came in, and the hallway light was shining in on us.

"Mama," she said, "She was calling to her sister."

"You saw a baby who was calling for her sister?"

"Yes."

"GO TO SLEEP."

"Can I have more warm milky?"

"Yes, but then lay down and go to freakin' sleep, because Mama wants to sleep and Daddy wants to sleep and your cousins want to sleep and I want for YOU to sleep."

I changed her diaper and got her the warm milky and fell back into bed with Hub-D, but then I started staring at the ceiling... WAS there someone from the spectral plane in the hallway? Was she communicating with my child?

Aw, hell, maybe. But I fell back asleep anyway.

(PS: This morning, Chebbles pointed out one of her cousins' books, which she'd never seen before, and told them, "I know that book. It has cows in it. I read it before I was born." Greeaat.)

Don't be jealous of my taco soup

Chebbles and Hub-D are off in the National Forest with our cousins, chopping down a Christmas tree.

That sounds kind of WRONG, doesn't it? Chopping down trees in a National Forest, for goodness' sake? But apparently, that's how things are done around here in southern Washington State. You pay $5 for a permit and then chop away.

And it does have an old fashioned charm to it, this method. So I think of it like venison... I don't want to be any part of the hunt (it could be Bambi's mom, for cripes sake!) -- but yum! I'll happily eat it with berry sauce and potatoes. So I'm sure I'll enjoy the Christmas tree, and I'll just try not to think too hard about where it came from.

In the meantime, my assignment is to make taco soup for the tree-choppers.

I've never posted a recipe before, but the taco soup recipe must be passed on to others, it's so damn good. It's perfect for large gatherings, and I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't like it. Even Chebbles plows through the spicier versions of the soup, augmenting her meal with cold milk to get the spices down.

I myself have consumed massive amounts of taco soup in the last few months, making double batches and freezing individual portions for myself. So anyway, here is the recipe:

1 lb ground turkey (brown meat)
ADD:
1 can black beans
1 bag of frozen corn (Trader Joe's has a frozen roasted corn that is just the ticket)
16 oz of chicken broth
1 lg or 2 small jars of salsa
1 tsp of cumin
1 tsp of cilantro (frozen cubes from TJ's)

The quantities are not essential, particularly with the salsa and broth and cilantro.

I've found that a dollop of sour cream on top is ESSENTIAL to the experience. Then if you want to get even crazier, you can add shredded cheddar, avocado, fresh cilantro or chips.

Oh great, now I'm hungry again.

Ensconced

Chebbles is sleeping deeply in her Pack-n-Play downstairs, here at her cousins' house. As predicted, she completely lost her mind when she saw her cousins, and the entire house went from nice-n-clean to looking like "December 26 Across America."

No toy was left unturned, and this Mama's too, uh, rotund to lean down and actively participate in the clean-up process.

The only hiccup of the day was when Hub-D and I sat next to each other on the plane. Southwest didn't change the size of their seats, I don't think, but... Well, after years of happily sitting next to each other on planes, this is the first time we bumped straight into each other's rear ends and had a "turf war" over the seam between the seats.

So it seems my hips have spread in the last couple of weeks. I suspected as much, as they've ached like crazy. But oh man, there is some serious junk in the trunk at this point.

High excitement in Chebbletown

We're going to Washington State to visit our cousins tomorrow, and Chebbles cannot wait.

These are the cousins (Hub-D's first cousin, H., is their mom) who famously came down on the train in April, and whom we've visited several times at their home -- most recently on the trip that required my being admitted at the Hood River hospital due to hyperemesis gravitas (a.k.a. excessive barfiness).

We always feel so relaxed there, because there are things like the Multnomah Falls that just sit by the side of the road, casually, like, "Hey, if you think of it, check me out. I'm just another massive waterfall..."



And I also get to take a back seat in Chebble-care. Her cousins, ages 11, 8 and 6, (and their mom), do all the heavy lifting for me. Both Chebbles and I are extremely lucky that they love her so very much. It's the kind of environment where I can just carelessly nap whenever I want, and somehow my child is amply fed and entertained (fish hatcheries, science museums, giant playgrounds, etc.), and utterly forgotten by me.

I wonder if they'll take us in for the next, say, 11 weeks? And how are the birthing facilities at the ole Hood River hospital?

Crappy finders

Yet again, we've passed along a genetic fault...

See, I'm a bad "finder-of-things." When I was growing up, I'd repeatedly call my sister over to the refrigerator to locate items that were right in front of my eyes.

For this reason, I've had to be very organized in my life -- I can never hope that I'll just "find" the tax files or a mushy letter -- if it's not immediately filed under "Taxes 2007" or "Hub-D, Notes," it's gone.

And for all his wonderful qualities, Hub-D is a WORSE finder than I am. It gives me a little thrill to, for the first time in my life, show off my "skill" at locating objects. It seems I help him to locate his own body sometimes.

There is probably some science to the art of finding things -- our brains are somehow geared to dreamin' and thinkin' and NOT to locating our keys or the soap in the shower.

All this brings me to last night. I took Chebbles out to a salad buffet restaurant, which we enjoy -- she for the ice cream, and me for the ability to pile her plate with brussel sprouts and demand they be eaten before the ice cream is a possibility. (I even got the staff in on my evil ways last night, as I had the cashier insisting that only kids who ate their whole dinner were allowed access to the ice cream machine.)

Anyway, I put her plate in front of her -- and she happily ate it for about ten minutes. Then she got distracted by the woman bussing tables, and asked me if she was a princess. ("I think she MIGHT BE," I told her) While she was distracted, I moved her plate about 12 inches to her other side, and spun it 180 degrees, so that the nutritious goodies were on better display.

"Where's my plate?" she asked, in all seriousness. It was directly in her line of vision, but not in precisely the same place she'd remembered it.

"Where is MY PLATE, Mama?" she insisted. I was speechless.

That's when she looked around the whole table carefully, locating her plate, which, I must emphasize, I hadn't moved more than a foot, and just to her left side instead of her right side, and never out of her field of vision.

"Mama! You moved my plate! Do not move my plate, Mama."

And she pushed the plate to precisely the same location where it had been.

See, we're crappy finders in our family. And we've passed on the gene. Let's just hope our unborn daughter can find her way out this February... ("Mama, you moved the cervix!")

Tight as a drum

Oh dude, what a relief! Dr. W. checked me this afternoon and I am not dilated or effaced, I'm just "doing too much."

The contractions started when I got down on my hands and knees and rolled around on the floor looking for Mimi on Sunday night. And they are just now letting up. So Dr. W. told me not to do that anymore. He said, "It's time to start prioritizing your second child over your first."

FAT CHANCE, BUSTER! That is not a request you make to a woman who is herself an older sister. Chebbles and I will continue our wanton lifestyle and Little Sis can roll with the punches!

OK, I'm not serious about that, and I am going to take it easier over the remaining weeks of this pregnancy. But reluctantly so.

Wouldya stop it?

The contractions continue.

They are painless, but so consistent. I am eager for the doctor's office to open this morning so I can call and talk to them about it.

In the past, Dr. W.'s "drink a glass of wine and soak in a warm tub" has worked to stop them. But the tub's chemicals were off today, so I didn't get in, and all we had was an unopened expensive bottle of wine, and I just wasn't "in the mood" to get off the sofa and open it.

One drag about these contractions is that they sap all my energy. The last couple weeks of my pregnancy have been marvelous and full of energy, it's hard to imagine this brief honeymoon coming to an end.

The Big Squeeze

What's going on? I thought were were past all of these contractions.

But anyway, I'm not writing long, as the contractions are exacerbated by my sitting at the computer. They're painless, but sustained. C'mon, dude! It's making me paranoid.

In other news, we've adopted a soldier for the holidays, and we're sending him a huge care package. We were supposed to send a stocking of good cheer, but things kind of spiraled out of control, and we've got a full set of Chinese Checkers, a million kinds of fun diversions and some flea collars coming his way.

Flea collars? I don't know. I just do what I'm told. And I'm told they use the flea collars to ward off sand fleas. Somehow.

Anyway, the deadline is in the next few days, to get a stocking to a soldier, and if you wanted to be matched with a platoon as well, and send some flea collars and hot chocolate packages, these are the people: Adoptaplatoon.org.

I feel so grateful to the men and women who are giving up the time with their families this season to serve our country, and this felt like the best way to share our own family's support. Chebbles has drawn a big brown drawing for our soldier too. Not sure what he's going to do with that. Perhaps it will ward off sand fleas.

Hooray for JEEESUS!

Ahh, that was a nice little break. NaPaBloMo was giving me a heart attack throughout November. Other than Chebbles' bedtime, I haven't had to work to a deadline since she was born.

But I don't think I can take these two-day breaks, because I'm now completely constipated with things I've been meaning to tell you, like...

* Chebbles hid Mimi in a little saucepan in the kitchen cabinets last night, prompting a search by me, Hub-D, our friend T. and Babysitter A., who had called us home from Hub-D's birthday celebration because Mimi was so thoroughly hidden. I contemplated calling the police at one point (perhaps an Amber Alert would be appropriate?), so certain was I that Mimi had been stolen. But no, he was shoved deep inside a saucepan way down in the kitchen cabinets, with only his fuzzy black rear sticking out. I looked in that cabinet twice before I actually put my hand in and found his dirty little hide. I screamed, "I've GOT HIM!" and then rubbed him hard against my face while shouting, "Thank GOD, thank GOD!"

* Chebbles is really into Jesus now. When she asked me why we were seeing Santa all over the place, but not Jesus, I told her, "Well, sweetheart, Jesus is dead." But then I told her that some people think that Jesus is EVERYWHERE despite the fact he died, and this only served to screw up her theological education even worse. What do you expect, entrusting a child's religious education to a UNITARIAN?

* As part of her growing excitement about Jesus (She only ever says his name in an enthusiastic shout, never "Jesus," but rather "JEEESUSS!!!"), she's been staring at nativity scenes with particular fervor. Yesterday morning she was ogling another creche and asked, "Where's the doctor?" That's when Hub-D pointed out that SOME PEOPLE don't have to have doulas and doctors and they can give birth in stables, thus saving their families a LOT OF MONEY.

* Chebbles is now in the habit of telling me that I may not touch certain objects around the house, various toys of hers, because they are "too delicate" or "very expensive." For example, Hub-D's used birthday candles are a prime object of fascination this morning, but they are not OK for Mamas to touch, just to you know.

* I have to wrap up this post because Chebbles is insisting that we watch some "videos of hoes." Although yes, this is something you can find on YouTube, it's not what you think. It's backhoes, I think...