Nutcracker, here we come!

Chebbles went back to the little ballet class today.

Last week was a disaster of weeping and fear, partially because another kid screamed the whole time. But I thought we might give it another whirl, particularly because I like the other moms in the waiting room, two of whom are due to have second babies at the same time I am.

And Mikhail Baryshnikov* be praised, the crying girl did not show up this week. Instead, it was a parade of cool-headed little ballerinas, and Chebbles had the time of her life! She stood in a line with the other girls, wearing her tutu and itty-bitty ballet slippers, and pointed her toes and danced around like a champ.

I sat in the waiting room, wringing my hands and listening for the telltale shrieks of "Maaaamaaaaa" that erupted from Chebbles last week. But instead, I heard the instructor call out, "Beautiful, Chebbles, that's BEAUTIFUL!"

I don't know what she was doing that was so beautiful, but my heart swelled with pride and I wished so bad for a spy camera so I could watch my preternaturally graceful child do her thing.

When class let out 45 minutes later, she ran into my arms, breathless and excited. But lest I give the impression that she has transformed into a sedate and graceful Gelsey Kirkland, she proceeded to fiddle with the water dispenser, and then fell into a big rhino-like tantrum when her teacher and I informed her that the water dispenser is for "adults only." Man, she was pissed.

But, you know, that's typical of primadonnas, especially 28-month-old primadonnas in Cinderella Pull-Ups.


* One thing you ought to know about Mikhail Baryshnikov: One day he came into Charlie Flynn's for a drink -- this was the bar I frequented during graduate school in Boston. I sat there imbibing a pitcher of beer with my fellow students when someone started whispering, "Dude, that's Mikhail Baryshnikov..." We watched him excitedly, then as soon as he left, I snagged the lime from his gin and tonic and FedExed it to my mother.

I guess she knows her art

I hung up a Miro print in Chebbles' room. It was time for her baby quilt to come off the wall -- and I thought I might make the place a little more sophistocated.

I chose Miro because that's the way she draws -- circles inside of circle, with lines adjoining them. And it's kind of a neat print, so I had it dry-mounted, hung it up in her room and presented it to her proudly.

"That's just like the one at my cousins' house," she said when she saw it.

"Who? You've seen this before?"

"It's not the same, but it's like the one over my cousins' piano."

After she went to bed, I called our Washington State cousins and asked about the art over their piano. Our cousin H. wasn't sure, "Is there a picture over our piano? I honestly can't remember," she said. Then she checked.

"Yep. It's a Miro."

(Incidentally, this morning, she told me that I'm not her mom. And that her REAL mom lives in Washington State. That explains a lot, in terms of the lack of resemblance between us.)

Misanthrope

I know that it's the pre-labor hormones talking, but most of the people in the world piss me off.

At Gymboree class on Saturday, one of the dads did NOT help the teacher when she was struggling with a big piece of equipment, and then he let his daughter collect a disproportionate amount of little stuffed frogs during the frog hunt. I can make a passionate argument for having this man wiped off the face of the earth.

See, I look around me and see the kindnesses people offer others, the tidal wave of love offered me at my shower, the pay-it-forward sweetness of my lovely community, and I think, "What is WRONG with these people? Don't they know that everyone is an asshole?"

Why hold the door open for people? Why drive courteously? Why go out of my way for anyone who isn't ME? I just have no patience for my fellow man.

I know that this is a natural phenomenon, and Mother Nature knows what she's doing. She knows that if I hate everyone enough, then I will be able to forgo the epidural and mightily shove a whole person out of my body on my own power.

But it disturbs me, in my few "lucid" moments, as I observe my nasty attitude. And I know that some of it leaks onto my family -- and Hub-D and Chebbles are learning to give me a wide berth. I can't be the only nine-months-pregnant woman who has said to her whining, wiggling toddler, "Can you please just stop being an asshole?"

Or perhaps I am.

I need to be separated from society. Just put me in a dark closet in a giant laundry basket filled with shredded newspaper and a month's supply of peanut butter cookies. Don't open the door until you hear the baby cry.

Sometimes...

Sometimes you take your adorable 28-month-old daughter in for a photo session. See, there is a $10 special and they'll take photos of you and her together. You harbor these fantasies of photos of your daughter kissing your pregnant belly... photos you can share with the new baby as she grows... "look at how happy you made us, even before you were born!"

Then your daughter (the one who is already born) decides that she will only wear her princess dress to the photo session... the same dress she wore to the LAST photo session. But what the heck, you're too pregnant to go mucking around in her closet and sustain a long wardrobe bargaining session. It only has one stain on the front and it worked well last time. You give in and bring the princess dress.

At the studio, she starts acting like she's two years old. She cooperates for about .5 seconds, then she's had it with the whole scene. The well-meaning photographer then TOUCHES her, setting off an attack of the stranger-heebie-jeebies. She likes the idea, the concept of having her photo taken, but she has no desire to do anything but sit on a few rickety stools they have -- facing away from the camera.

Then she looks at the camera for one split second, the photographer snaps the photo. And this is what you get:

The Perfect Shower

Back when I was pregnant with Chebbles, my friends threw me a shower and I spent most of the day gawking in disbelief... "So, this is what a baby shower is like... is this really for me? Am I really having a baby? What's going on?"

Today I was given a second chance to enjoy myself during the super-festive baby shower in honor of big ole Baby V. I was able to kick back and think, "Hooray! It's my baby shower! I'm really having a baby and we're all really damn happy about it. I think I'll have another chocolate dessert."

My friend A. pulled off the pampering morning of my dreams, rivaled only by Dorothy Gales' reception in the Emerald City. At 8am, the colorist showed up (safe in the third trimester, don't worry!), to be followed by the manicurist, then a hair stylist. By the time the beauty team galloped out the door at 11:30, I looked like a new woman. For the first time during this pregnancy, I properly GLOWED.

This photo depicts Chebbles assisting with lotion application during my pedicure.

At noon, my friends started arriving -- neighborhood friends, playgroup friends, the famous Stella, a couple women who have worked for me for many years and basically everyone who has seen me lovingly through the last two painful years of my life. Hooray for them!

And they brought with them a cavalcade of pink clothing in order to usurp the inadvertantly male wardrobe I inflicted on Chebbles for the first year of her life. Lots of hearts and bows and ruffles and gee-gaws and velour and happiness.

Hooray for Baby V! Tomorrow, she's officially "term," or 37 weeks. So yeah, kid, anytime.

One more!

I forgot to mention my friend Kate Rope's blog yesterday. Hers is a unique blog, a serial true story of her dramatic pregnancy. I mentioned it once before, as she started to write it, and there are 10 parts to the story now.

Kate and I met in January 1999 when I first moved to San Francisco, and she has propelled my life in many ways ever since -- at first by recommending I move to a terrific apartment with her erstwhile boyfriend, then eventually, five years later, talking me through my pre-wedding jitters on the way to my wedding, where she graciously served as a bridesmaid.

She's a brilliant writer, and clearly a top-notch mom. Her blog is now entering the exciting "birth story" phase. So don't miss the exciting forthcoming conclusion of Kate Rope's blog!

New and Used Blogs I Read

I've made some additions to the "Blogs I Read" section, so I thought I'd explain who these new jokers are...

* Baby in the Making (we hope!). Cindy lives up in Sacramento, and she and her husband are working hard to have their first child. She's really open about their process and is currently trying interesting acupuncture treatments in their pursuit of her "elusive two lines." I enjoy rooting her on along her journey.

* Give Me Some Sugarbytes. This is one of my oldest and best friends, Alekka, who is a REAL PASTRY CHEF living in Chicago. She started a business doing in-home custom cooking classes there. In her latest post, she blames her sweaty, smeary hands on her years of cooking, but I know the TRUTH.

* Just a Girl in SF. Stella ALLEGES that she is keeping up her blog from NOW ON. We all loved her posts when she started her blog, then she faded away in order to "become a police officer." Next thing she'll be saying is that her sweaty hands are from "years of cooking." Stella and I went to grad school together in 1994, when she asked me, NAY, begged me to be her friend. And last weekend, she asked if I could put her back on my blogroll, so here she is.

* Now a dayz. This is my new, wonderful friend, M., whom I discovered living in my own neighborhood. (Not unlike the Clampett's discovering "black gold" in their own backyard.) She is part of the reason that Hub-D and I feel we've got to live in this subdivision forever, even if it means building underground lairs and/or turrets onto our house. M. has two young sons and has recently decided to homeschool them.

* Wish You Were Here! Lucky me, Holly discovered my blog and introduced me to hers. She's a terrific writer, photographer, and is apparently able to be fingerprinted without making a big deal out of it like SOME PEOPLE, thus enabling her to live a fascinating expatriate life with kids.

I also removed Jonathon's "My Kid Has Four Parents" from the blogroll, because he hasn't posted since November. Attention Stella, you will be cited and towed for refusal to post!

Once more, with feeling

Thank you for your advice about Chebbles' new dance class. We're indeed going to give it another try. The word on the streets is that the other crying kid has *one last chance* and then she'll be gone, then we can dance with no tears from now on.

I confess I'm completely blinded by the fact there is a RECITAL this coming June, and Chebbles will participate in it, with her matching costume (which may or may not include WINGS), if she stays in the class.

And Chebbles is blinded by the ability to wear her tutu and sparkly tights on a weekly basis.

Chebbles: Oh Mama, these tights feel bad. (scratching at them)
Mama: What's wrong? Do they itch?
Chebbles: YES, Mama, they ITCH.
Mama: Well, that's too bad. I'll take them off.
Chebbles: NO!!! Do NOT take them OFF! (runs from room)

Apparently, the kid knows that beauty is suffering.

Ready for the next step?

Chebbles tried out a dance class today -- for little kids -- ballet, tap and tumbling. And it was TOUGH. I blame the punk kid who wouldn't stop crying the whole time.

So do I push the class again? She cried on and off the whole time, and ran into my arms afterwards, curling up like a little boiled shrimp.

But NOW she's talking about it like it was FUN. Right after the class, I asked her if she wanted to try again and she said "no" rather insistently, but then she came home and told Daddy that dance class was good, and she wants to do it again.

It feels like I'm pushing my kid too hard, at 28 months, plopping her into a moms-wait-in-the-hall dance class. But she loves dance, and all of the trappings. She was nuts for the sparkly tights and tutu I put on her, and she talked about taking the class all week long. She was duly warned that it would be a kids-only class -- but that crying kid threw her off her game, I think. She was initially full of excitement and energy as she ran into the classroom without me, then, well, I blame the punk kid.

But also myself -- did kids start dance classes at 28 months when I was little? No. We were 5 as I recall. My sense is that we should try once again, but am I becoming a stage mom here?

Good times

Chebs, Hub-D and I all have rotavirus.

Luckily, Dr. M. has declared us non-contagious and ready for houseguests despite the grossness of our family, so our Monterey-based cousins are coming to stay the night. We all need some fun and cheer around here.

I'm not going to go into TOO many details about our collective woes, but let's just say that as I drove Hub-D to the train station this morning I gave him a grave warning: "Never think you just have to fart."

"Where will 2007 take you?"

First, to conclude the health drama (one hopes...), Chebbles woke up in fine spirits and normal digestive activity today, as though nothing had ever happened. I cancelled her doctor's appointment due to excessive cheeriness.

On to other topics (will you miss reading about poop?)... I went to the mailbox today, and there was a letter to Hub-D, welcoming him to the Starwood Preferred Guest Program.

At the top of the letter is an impressive typo:

"Where will 2007 take you?"

I think they meant "2008," but as it stands, I find it a lovely thought. It's as though 2007 was a springboard upon which exciting things were laid, ready to leap up into our arms. Where will 2007 take us?

Last January, I was tromping around various medical facilities, with armloads of books and pages of scribbled notes, seeking answers to my miscarriages. I was determined to find out what the hell was going on. Last winter, I was making plans for my operative hysteroscopy and buying the OV-Watch because FOLKS, I was NOT dicking around anymore.

At this time last year, I actively sought out new friendships, and have since laid unexpectedly deep roots within our local community.

2007 was a year in which my reproductive system sprang back into gear, producing a child who seems determined to make a grand entry fairly soon. Yes, it was a year of deaths and heartache, but it's also the year we debuted the trampoline in our backyard, and had some big parties with lots of merrymakers.

So, Starwood, to answer your question, 2007 is the Year of the Trampoline. We sank low, but sprang high into 2008. Where will it take us? Right now, the sky's the limit!

Week 36, The Chebs takes up the puking baton

We have an appointment tomorrow morning with Dr. M., the pediatrician, so I can review Chebbles' bizarre illness with him and make a determination as to how to STOP THE CRAP.

The illness in brief: Last week, there was one phenomenal night of barfing, followed by days of now-legendary diarrhea. Then it stopped. Then last NIGHT, after the tights-destroying episode, Chebbles woke up over and over, covered each time in either crap or barf.

Then this morning? Nothin. Just a jolly old Chebs. A few loose poos, then the storm was over. Or... is it? It pays to remain vigilant around here.

I'm praying that Dr. M. gives The Chebs the go-ahead to interact with other children for the rest of the week, because it would put a serious crimp in our plans for fun and adventure if she's deemed highly contagious.

Tonight, I went to deliver dinner to my neighbor J., who has just had her second baby girl. The baby is two weeks old and was firmly latched onto her boob when she answered the door. I was transfixed! If all goes according to plan, that will be ME in a month or so. I can't get the beautiful image out of my head -- the tiny little baby, so content, already a fixture in her home.

I didn't go into their house, in case I'm a carrier for the deadly rotavirus (the crappin'/pukin' disease), but to me, from the doorway with my bag of taco soup fixins, it was as good as a nativity scene in its peace and beauty.

Man, I can't wait to be on the other side of this pregnancy.

PS: This is how much Hub-D loves The Chebs -- he went out to Walgreens and bought her Bubble Gum flavored Pedialyte. Pink. Gum-flavored. Pedialyte. What a dad!

Crap

This is why you tune in to Shaken Mama, yes? For stories such as this...

Chebbles started acting pissy this afternoon, which didn't make any sense. Her pal Z. had just returned from Ohio, and the two of them were gallivanting around the house with wild abandon.

Then she started acting kind of, um, "shitty" might be the best word for it.

Her temper flared inexplicably and she kept crawling up into my lap, repositioning herself and getting oddly anxious.

But we held fast to our plans to go to Sweet Tomatoes, our local salad/buffet restaurant which we enjoy immensely. (I can combine infinite amounts of "chocolate lava cake" with vanilla ice cream... ohhhh yes.)

We got to the restaurant and Chebbles began happily dipping her rotini pasta into fat free Italian salad dressing, although she continued to act physically restless.

Then she stood up on the booth seat and let out the most sonorous, impressive fart I've witnessed to date. My eyes went wide, and Chebbles and I shared a little laugh about her extraordinary gastric abilities. Then we all went back to our dinner.

A few minutes later, Hub-D said those fatal words: "She looks quite contemplative now."

Those of you who have raised toddlers know precisely what that expression means: poop.

"OK," I thought, "Not the end of the world. I've got diapers and wipes in the car."

Then I smelled it, and innocently peeped into the back of her diaper to verify the situation.

And my hand went straight into the most massive amount of diarrhea I have ever witnessed. She was brimming over with it. Her entire "overnight" Princess Pull-Up had become a Haz-Mat scene.

Hub-D urged calm. I started hyperventilating. "Tell me what you need me to do," he said very earnestly, as I wiped with a napkin, again and again, at the crap stuck to my hand and under my fingernail.

"Go to the car, and---" (gagging, retching feelings, thinking about crap under fingernail)

"Go on," he said, "Tell me what to do."

"The wipes are in the glove compartment, the diapers under her seat."

He was gone like a flash and I sat there with my crappy right hand suspended in midair and, against all odds, finished my salad with just my left hand, and tried to pretend that my nose and hand had DIED.

Chebbles was suddenly in a TERRIFIC mood, of course, and enjoying the pageantry that surrounded the craziest poo of her career.

Hub-D came striding back into the restaurant with the goods and I commanded Chebbles to walk with me to the bathroom (nooooo way was I going to carry her). As we left the table, I asked Hub-D, "And while we're gone, can you wipe all the crap off of the booth? Thanks!"

When we got to the bathroom, I was grateful to find it full of mothers. I semi-hoped one of them would start up a conversation with me, so I could focus on something other than the disaster before me. But they avoided me, surely thinking, "There but for the grace of God go I..."

I hurled Chebbles' 3T body onto the infant changing table and began to take stock.

The tights would have to go. She'd only worn them a couple times and they're great knit white tights that go with all of her outfits, but -- they were DONE. Their career as tights on a little girl had been truncated by the disaster. I shoved them into the trash can, and began to pull wipes from the packet, one, after another, after another, after another. The diaper itself was a joke of a product failure.

It took about a thousand wipes, I think, and about 20 minutes of horrified wiping on my behalf. It was halfway up her back. It was down to her knees. It was STILL UNDER MY FINGERNAIL. The smell was so far up my nose that I'm STILL smelling it.

I then took us both to the sink and washed the heck out of my hands and nails. Chebbles wanted to wash her hands too, and I certainly obliged. If I could have dipped us both bodily and briefly in a vat of bleach, I would have done so.

But please don't think we still didn't get ice cream before we left Sweet Tomatoes, her bare legs goosepimpling in the night air as we dashed to the car, away from the scene of the crime in the bathroom and the booth. No, we definitely didn't forget to fill up on ice cream first.

Breath of fresh air

S. and V. drove up from San Francisco to visit The Chebs and me today, and we both relished the visit. There is something about women who are equally impressed with the cats and my children.

I told S. as she left that it's as if a big waft of San Francisco fog comes rolling up with her -- the chilly moist air escaping from her hair as she emerges from her car, a very fresh breeze through our little suburban subdivision.

It's also kind of neat the way that Chebbles responds to visits from them -- she tries HARD to impress, and comes gamboling behind us as the grown-ups walk three abreast, and she tries to insert a comment or reclaim our attention. But we're too busy catching up on other family news that she becomes something of an afterthought, The Chebs does.

I wouldn't trade my fellow parenting suburbanites for all the world, but having S. and V. come visit is like having a visit from myself, had I not, four years and five days ago, accepted the marriage proposal from Hub-D that led to our five-bedroom gestational lifestyle. I would have been a hell a lot of fun, if S. and V. are any indication.

Nipple steals the show at Big Sister class

I took Chebbles to the "Sibling Celebration" class today, so that she could get "up" on all the latest Big Sister techniques. She was pretty cool about the whole scene, considering they idiotically held the class at 1pm (naptime) and some of the material was over her head.

The second half of the class was dedicated to caring for your own baby doll -- you know, holding and feeding, burping and diapering, snuggling and swaddling. Unfortunately, they distributed baby bottles for the "feeding" part, and Chebbles spent about twenty minutes focused solely on ripping the nipple apparatus out of the bottle so that she could put it in her mouth and pretend it was a binky.

I tried to trade her everything for that dumb ersatz binky, but she wasn't having it. She totally skipped the burping, diapering and swaddling parts of the class in the interest of running her finger over the tip of the ripped out bottle nipple.

The teacher told one of her assistants to "just take it" from her. You might guess how well that went. The assistant went running back to her chair, put firmly in her place by Chebbles, who was at the height of her binky-rubbin'/gnawin' mania.

Anyway, it was neat for her to be in a little crowd of kids who are going through the same process she is, and one of the older neighbor girls was there as well, officially making it a "cool" thing for her to do. She got a stack of coloring books and a lesson in proper handwashing, plus a T-shirt that declares her Big Sister status. She is currently wearing it in her crib.

They also tried to give me a cheesy "I'm a John Muir Baby!" T-shirt for the new baby. But she's not going to be a John Muir Baby (my OB has nixed their maternity ward, calling them "wanna-be's") and the T-shirt was ugly, so I fended them off.

How about a shirt that says "Hey, give me back my binky!" Now THAT would be appropriate.

The Return of The BINKIES

I don't like pacifiers. I learned to reject them from my parenting bible, Baby 411, and I agree that they are a crutch that babies don't need as they grow. Chebbles used one occasionally until she was four months old, then I put them all away.

Unfortunately, around the age of 18 months, she rediscovered pacifiers, and started calling them "binkies" (which further annoys me) and wanted to carry one in her mouth at all times, kind of like a cigar in a gangster's mouth. She wasn't necessarily sucking on them, but she liked the "look" of the pacifiers dangling from her lips.

I withstood this phenomenon for several months. She had a whole little farm of newborn pacifiers, which she had discovered in the back of her closet.

But then she started freaking out when she couldn't find one of them. "Where is the PINK ONE? I want the PINK ONE!" (tantrum follows)...

Or we'd get in the car and she'd say, "I wanted the BLUE ONE instead!" or she'd drop it between her carseat and the door, or similar hijinks, then scream about it all the way to our destination. This was compounded by her desire to have Mimi the Panda at her side at all times, and a rotating array of stuffed animals (Brown Bear, Baby, Blue Bear, Teddy, etc. etc. ad nauseum), so I was always on edge, worried about being asked for a different binky, perhaps one that had fallen under the couch.

So one day I just threw them away and informed her that we'd "given them to the babies." See, the night before, she'd lost her mind at 2am because one of the pacifiers had rolled under her crib and -- shocker -- that was the one she wanted. So yeah, I shoved them all in the garbage can and dealt with about a week of "Where are the BINKIES???" before she moved on to other pursuits. I just told her that she was a big girl and big girls don't have pacifiers anymore, so we "gave them to the babies."

Then came YESTERDAY.

We pulled down a bunch of newborn stuff from the attic, and discovered a little trove of goddamn binkies. She zeroed in on them before I had a chance to intervene. "Binkies! Binkies for my baby sister!"

I thought it might be OK, now that she's 28 months old and hadn't talked about the pacifiers for many months. Yesterday, she carried the pacifiers around in a bowl and chatted about how she was going to give them to the baby when she cried. I sorted through them with her, asking her which ones she thinks the baby will like best, etc.

Then things began to spiral out of control. She was gradually turning into the Golem from Lord of the Rings, gathering the "binkies" in her lap, "Preeesscious....." and it wasn't long before she started hanging them out of her mouth again.

Last night after she'd been in bed an hour, she screamed because she couldn't find one of the binkies. Her babysitter had indulged Chebbles' desire to go to bed with the WHOLE BOWL of them, but one of them tumbled out of the crib slats. And this morning, while I showered, she started sucking on the pacifiers full-bore, playing with them with Daddy and growing more obsessed and worked up by the minute.

So while she was at preschool today, I put the whole bowl of horrid little plastic "binkies" in the back of a shelf in the new baby's room. And there was a lot of screaming and complaining when she came home and I told her that I'd, yet again, treacherously given her binkies to the babies. But I will not put up with this CRAPOLA about the pacifiers anymore.

Here's hoping the new baby finds her thumb before too long, and we can dispose of the whole binky mess.

German Nanny Says "Auf Wiedersehen"

We interviewed a German nanny earlier this week. She was SO SWELL, we all swooned in her presence. She was on time, she was neat and fun, her German was crisp and easy to understand, and she had plenty of experience with newborns.

I'm just looking for someone to care for the baby a few mornings a week so Chebbles and I can continue our regularly scheduled Chebbling, and the new sitter would spend a few hours with both girls so that I can take a jog or a nap or a shower or some other indulgence.

But then I started getting carried away, thinking, "Let's find a GERMAN." Germans are tidy and punctual, they can teach my children the only foreign language I know, and I "get" their culture as my family is German, and I've lived among the natives.

Enter M., the glorious German nanny.

After meeting her, I was so far down the road of wanting to hire her -- I already had placed her as a fixture in our new, efficient, four-person family life. Then I got the devastating e-mail from her today, that she'd chosen to work with a family that is located closer to her, with a girl who has autism, as she's looking forward to a new challenge in childcare.

The e-mail threw me into an immediate depression. Our M.! Our M. Poppins! Chebbles had loved her very much, sidling up to her within minutes of meeting her, trying to impress her with all kinds of tall toddler tales. And speaking German with her was so refreshing for me, I felt my language brain all revved up throughout that day.

And she dissed us.

She had been the sole German, legal applicant to my ad, so I'm back to the Spanish-speaking candidates. There is nothing wrong with a Spanish-speaking candidate, as long as we can communicate adequately and she's Trustlined and legal. But the whiff of my family's Heimatland is fading away as the dream of M. disappates.

I sent her a tear-soaked e-mail reply, saying I understood her decision, but to keep us in mind if she should become available again. But this lady tends to work for families for years on end. For cripe's sake people, she COOKED GERMAN FOOD.

So anyway, next week I'll interview a woman from Nicaragua, from Mexico, and from somewhere else, I forget. And we'll learn to love again.

As many of you know, I have been searching for the perfect book to read during a high-anxiety pregnancy.

The book had to contain NO pregnancy dramas, and had to be sufficiently DIFFERENT from the gestational experience such that a person might think and dream about something other than her uterus. Bonus points if it's not an Oprah book.

I'm proud to say that after exhaustive reading efforts throughout the current literary offerings available, I have FOUND IT. It's "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell" by Susanna Clarke.

This book is so badass I don't know where to begin. And after I finished it, I felt badass myself. It's 1,000 pages of excruciatingly perfect writing, complete with miniature footnotes that wrecked my eyes such that I can't drive at night for a few weeks, until they recover.

It's classified as a fantasy book, but I don't think that does it justice. The fantasy drama, although one of my favorite genres, is so populated with crappy, disappointing books. It feels more like historical fiction that is so dedicated to its fantastic content such that it is indistinguishable from that more staid, enjoyable genre.

The story is set in the early 1800's, and centers around the study of magic among upper class British gentlemen. I won't say one more word about it, because it was worth it, SO worth it to discover the rest for myself -- even at the expense of my beleaguered eyeballs.

I'm sad to have finished it, and would love to know if anyone can identify other books as perfect as this gem.

Don't screw around, pass the apple juice

Is there nothing so thirst quenching and glorious as chilled apple juice?

Remember that scene from "Look Who's Talking," when the fetus yanks on the umbilical cord and says, "Hey, how about some apple juice down here?" and they cut to a scene of Kirstie Alley guzzling a full gallon of the stuff?

That'd be me. I'm sitting here with an empty gallon jug of Martinelli's apple juice, which I've just polished off (yeah, straight from the jug -- want to make something of it?).

I took Chebbles out for sushi tonight, and we ordered three big fat glasses of apple juice for the table. I was greedily eyeballing her little "kid's cup" that was half-filled with apple juice, but I reminded myself how much Chebbles backwashes and left hers alone. But I was sorely tempted.

I don't like to compete with anyone for apple juice. Hub-D innocently poured himself a cup of apple juice from one of our massive containers, and I watched him angrily. How DARE he? Is he pregnant? No. Could he choose another beverage? Sure. But he was gulping down MY apple juice instead. There is NOT an infinite supply of apple juice in this house, and I'd thank everyone else to stay the hell away from my Martinelli's.

By the way, I'd like to thank you guys again for your marvelous name suggestions! You've given us some really terrific ideas, and validated many of our favorites. I can't remember who suggested "Martina" but that's so close to "Martinelli's" that it would be extremely appropriate at this point, no?

Poop Doggie

Today, I was talking about death with a friend (as I am so wont to do), and Chebbles interrupted us to say:

"I died before I was born."

Oh. OK. Then she said she was a boy then.

I think it's reasonable to assume that we've got evidence of reincarnation right there.

Now that philosophical question is answered, so let's move on to the big question of life, which is...

What in the WORLD should we name our new daughter?

Here's what we're working with so far:

* Chebbles Junior (that's what Hub-D and I call her most often)
* Poop Doggie (that's Chebbles' suggestion)
* Cockroach (ditto)
* Cinderella (yeah, ditto)

The only name that Chebbles likes that we agree with so far is Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty) But that's kind of a dark horse candidate on our growing list of possible names.

Seeing as our last name makes most monosyllabic names sound like a medicine, we have something of a challenge before us. Our previous favorite names, Evelyn and Valerie have bitten the dust -- we just fell out of love with them for various reasons.

So, do you all have any names you've kept in reserve, multisyllabic names you wouldn't mind sharing? We're really digging in the dirt here, with five weeks to go until she shows up.

NB: For those keeping track of our gripping sleep saga, Chebbles took a decent nap today, after just an hour of chattering and hurling Mimi from the crib. Really, what is her objection to sleeping during the day until she's 5?

Seriously, this is ridiculous

Do you want to know the most annoying part of the Chebbles-No-Sleep situation?

She'll be quiet for a full two minutes -- the monitor goes absolutely silent and the very second my hopes begin to rise that she is finally sleeping -- BAM! -- she starts railing on some stuffed animal or another, e.g., "No, NO, Blue Bear you can NOT do that!"

Then she'll be silent for several more minutes, so that I think, "OK, yeah, NOW she's sleeping for sure," just before she starts singing the asinine "Pizza Man" song she learned in Gymboree.

We're on Day 3 now of her not sleeping during the day. As I type this, she's singing, "The more we get together, together, together, the MORE we get together the HAPPIER we'll BE!!!"

No dude. On days like this, the LESS I hear of the chirping from The Chebs, the happier *I* would be.

Because she wouldn't take a nap yesterday, she had a full meltdown at 7pm -- the kind where Hub-D and I locked eyes and nodded, as if to say, "Could we just walk out of the house forever and pretend we didn't create this person?"

"Do you KNOW the PIZZA MAN?"

That's it, I'm turning the monitor off.

She's doing it AGAIN

I feel like I'm whining about Chebbles like a sister ("Moooom, she woooon't go to sleee-ee-eep!". But HONESTLY, can't she just take a damn nap like every other kid in town?

I know she's tired. I know she's geared up for a nap. She ran around in the sunshine with Hub-D all morning, trying to fly a kite. She had a good lunch. She had TWO poops. She's all set. She's locked and loaded.

AND YET. She's leaping around her crib hollering about various particularities in her life, and it's aggravating me. LIE DOWN. TRY.

Kid, do you know what I'd give for someone to fill me full of good soup, a sandwich, a cup of warm milk, and a cozy bed where I MUST stay for a few hours and nap?

Last night, when I put her to bed, she jumped around and made merry until almost 10pm. So this is officially ridiculous.

Go...to... SLEEP

I have to admire Chebbles on days like today. She said she didn't want to take a nap, and she has now been bouncing, by herself, in her crib, for two hours.

Am I the only mom who fantasizes about tranquilizer darts?

And if it weren't so annoying -- knowing that she'll be grumpy later this evening, having my own rest truncated -- it would be kind of funny what she's saying as she leaps around in there...

"Daddy said one lollipop, and I said TWO lollipops then Daddy said ONE and I said three, four, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN, ELEVEN, THIRTEEEEEEEN!!!! Hahahahaha! (boing boing boing)"

"Ariel! Mary Poppins! Happy Birthday!"

Cripes, kid. Go to sleep.

Sharing

What's up with The Chebs and the sharing?

With some toddlers, she's incredibly giving, allowing them to manhandle her toys willy-nilly. But in other situations, with other kids, she gets extremely HOT UNDER THE COLLAR about them coming within a meter of "her stuff."

And it's the same stuff -- just some mysterious different circumstances that make her go from gracious to grubby.

We just hosted playgroup at our house, and she only said "mine" once -- it was terrific! I just sat back and chatted with the other moms while she happily played with her dollhouse side-by-side with other kids. They were even touching her princesses and she was cool with it.

But last night, her beloved friend K. came over, and Chebbles threw a huge hissy fit about a dozen times, because K. was just kind of eyeballing her toys and skimming her fingers over them. The evening ended with a big fat timeout for both Chebbles AND her Clifford pull-toy.

I wish I knew what the difference was. Is it the time of day? Is there something chemical between certain toddlers? Is it her blood sugar levels? Whatever it was today, I want to duplicate it for the rest of our lives, particularly around the time that Baby V starts to move around and grab stuff.

Can I get a Witness?

So, the consensus seems to be that hiring a sitter before Baby V's birth is a GOOD IDEA. So I'm going with it, I'm proud to say.

This unborn child who seems to have every intention of emerging next month shall have a babysitter two mornings a week, so that I may engage in pursuits such as yoga, showering, and sleeping.

I contacted a local nanny-match service -- and some interesting questions have cropped up.

For example, one candidate states early on in her "personal statement" that she is a Jehovah's Witness. Now, it's been well established that I like Mormons. But Jehovah's Witnesses are a totally different religious breed.

I happen to be a semi-expert on the subject because I actually chose to date a Jehovah's Witness back when I lived in San Francisco.

What was I thinking?

Well, he didn't exactly tell me of his religious affiliation when we first met. And when he did, he presented it as something that was in his past. But, as I learned so gradually and painfully over my dating career -- whenever a guy hides something, then says that it's "over," he's full of crap.

Anyway, he was a nice guy, other than breaking up with me after four months because the call of the Watchtower was too great. While we were dating I quizzed him constantly about Jehovah's Witnesses. And he seemed happy to have an audience to tell about the TOTALLY BIZARRE THINGS that go on in that church.

There is a lot of witnessing that takes place in the church -- they are required to spend something like 15-20 hours a week going door-to-door or "witnessing" with The Watchtower on streetcorners. They may not celebrate birthdays or Thanksgiving, not to mention Christmas.

When his brother came out of the closet, he and his family were told by their church to consider him DEAD. And he DID. He cut his brother off and considered him dead because the Jehovah's Witnesses gave him that directive.

He also told me that a lot of lonely young men join the Jehovah's Witnesses because there are a LOT of "hot chicks" in the church. There is a lot of ogling, he told me, that takes place during their many meetings, but they may not engage in premarital sex at all (which I can agree with), so they tend to marry very young (which I can't agree with).

When he explained the overarching philosophy of the religion, I was laughing so hard and uncontrollably I was embarrassed. But he said it in a really funny way. Anyway, there are a finite number of spots (144,000) available for the "chosen" spots next to Jesus in heaven. Most everyone in the world did NOT qualify for these spots, and very few Jehovah's Witnesses qualify. Everyone whispers, he told me, about people who think they've been chosen and what a joke that is.

Because for every new person in the church who might be chosen to rule alongside Jesus, someone who was previously chosen gets... kicked out.

Anyway, so the question remains. Should I consider a Jehovah's Witness for a nanny for my children? Is there something inherently wrong with a woman who has marched along with this army her whole life (and according to her dossier, married at 17)? Am I blinded by my Unitarianism here?

I don't know. I'll look at the other resumes and see if I can't avoid the question altogether.

Cold, packed ice

I exist in some half-sleeping state throughout the night, and I'm having difficulty sorting out dreams from reality.

Take last night, for example. I could have sworn that it was the last day of SUUSI (the Unitarian Camp I haven't attended since 2001) and I was tearfully saying goodbye to everyone in the dorms. "I am going to miss you SO MUCH!" I blubbered to all my dream characters.

Once I half-woke and sorted out that I wasn't anywhere near Blacksburg, Virginia, it isn't July, I'm eight and a half months pregnant and that was seven years ago, I was able to drift back to sleep.

Then I heard a voice coming from my family room. It was absolutely distinct, an effeminate male voice saying in an authoritarian fashion: "ICE. COLD PACKED ICE."

Cold packed ice? What, was he selling it? Was he complaining about our crappy furnace?

I sat up in bed and hollered, "YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE," which is something I learned at SUUSI -- a good way to ward off ghosts, spirits, and weird dreams. You just have to make your position clear to them.

So, get the hell out, COLD-PACKED-ICE-man. I'm trying to get some shut-eye and my hips are killing me!

Now, hold still Wolfie. I just need to give you a haircut. Yes, with these baby nail clippers, don't ask so many questions! I may need to clip around your eye here for a minute but it won't hurt a bit. And guess what? You get a lollipop after you get a haircut, Wolf-man, so quit your whining.

You guys are smarter than I am, especially now, so I thought I'd fish around for some advice...

* How in the WORLD am I supposed to sleep these days? When I lie on my side, my hips ache like crazy, and if I lie on my back, my circulation gets cut off by my enormous unborn child. Is there some solution to this? I'm fantasizing about that get-up that Dolly Parton hitches Dabney Coleman to in the movie "9 to 5" -- remember that thing that suspended him over the bed if he tried to escape? That actually seems like a viable solution to me.

* What gifts should I request for the new baby? I have an attic filled with the necessities, and I now have specific preferences regarding baby toiletries, but Baby V is apparently going to have her own little raft of presents, whether I ask for them or not. So how should I direct people? I was thinking of asking for "girly" clothes, since I dressed Chebbles in a retroactively embarrassing unisex fashion from birth (see photo of 4-month-old Chebbles in her deadly Bumbo), prompting half the population of Rome to exclaim, "Bello Bambino!" when they met her.

* How should I handle childcare? Since my days as a single-child mother are rapidly coming to an end, this feels like my big chance to thoughtfully interview potential sitters. But do I need one? I haven't had a regular daytime babysitter since Chebbles was 18 months old. See, when Chebbles was eight weeks old I thought I would lose my mind, so I posted an ad on Craigslist and I hired the first legal, nice-seeming sitter that walked through the door (Nanny D). Am I going to have the same freak-out this time around? And what should I do? Schedule breaks for mornings that Chebbles isn't in preschool, so she and I can still enjoy some time alone together? It all seems rather callous, as I can't imagine ever relinquishing Baby V to anyone else's care.

OK, I'm going back to my absurdly huge nesting project (e.g., "Chebbles' whole closet needs to be cleaned out and organized before the baby is born, or HELL WILL RAIN DOWN ON US!") and allow you Think-Tankers to help me draw some conclusions here.

Acute Otitis Media

There's nothing cute about it.

I'm not going to post a picture of what my daughter's eardrum looks like right now because it's pretty gross. As usual, though, I feel like a bonehead for not figuring out she had an ear infection three days ago, when she started complaining about her ear.

What threw me off was that her pain came in waves. She would wake up feeling great, then five hours later, she'd be mired in excruciating pain. I quizzed her about her ear every hour, and she'd either deny that it hurt, or it had mysteriously stopped hurting some of the time. Basically, any time the doctor's office was open, her pain was minimal. And the moment he closed for lunch or for the evening, it would flare up again.

Anyway... she's so much happier now. She and Hub-D are sharing the ear numbing medication while she takes dregs from a massive container of Amoxycillin. She was delighted to discover that the medicine is PINK. It's so frothy and sweet, I'm bizarrely tempted to take a swig myself.

In other news, I'm kind of jazzed about starting a new playgroup for the new baby. I've got a little list of other moms who are having their second baby early this year, and I'm proud of my motivation to accumulate friends for Baby V before she's even born.

OK, I'm off for a date with Hub-D... we have dates every Thursday night between now and Baby V's arrival day. I have these inappropriate fantasies of dancing all night in smoky nightclubs then making out in the car. I have to be careful to remember that I'm physically incapable of all of those things.

Let the Year of Gratitude Begin

OK, enough whining. Let 2007 be buried with Stanley. It's time to get serious about gratitude.

In that spirit, Dr. Laura had a good idea, which is to preface things with, "I get to" rather than "I have to."

For example, our housekeeper has the flu, and we gave a party for 60 people yesterday, so now...

* I get to clean my house by myself. It's weirdly fun to pick up all the cups from the mantel and the bookshelves and scrub out the dishes and mull over all the fun times we had together. This will surely be our last party for some time, and having a mess to clean up alone prolongs the good times.

Also, Hub-D went back to work today, which made Chebbles and me very sad, as we had very much gotten used to him being around. Plus we decided to stay a one-car family for now, so there was the matter of getting Hub-D to the morning train with a cranky, cold toddler who didn't want to wear a hat. But look at it this way:

* I get to drive my husband to the train station. The man works very hard for us, and our company has thrived under his guidance. His working hard allows me to stay home with our daughter(s). So in driving him to BART through the frosty morning air, we get to have a few extra moments with him before we have to say goodbye.

And finally, in the the spirit of my Year of Gratitude, 2008, I'll say:

* I get to be pregnant. Baby V is kicking up a storm as I type this. (Why did people leave me TOFFEE here after the party? That's so CRUEL because I can't stop eating it and my fetus is on a sugar high.) I get to have morning sickness. I get to have anemia. I get to have preterm labor symptoms. I get to have fears about delivery. Because I get to be pregnant with a healthy baby girl.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.