The bright side is elastic

OK, I may have been up vomiting since 5am, but I am resolved to look at the bright side:

I, unlike most people in the United States, am fully authorized to wear MATERNITY PANTS to the Thanksgiving table.

Strap on the feedbag!

I shouldn't have looked at the calendar

Wait a minute, are you serious? Am I really scheduled to wait AT LEAST six more months before this baby is born?

I need to spend half a year in this state of crippled nausea?

I know, I know, I'm lucky, it's worth it, blah blah blah. I certainly wouldn't want to have the baby emerge any time before that, for its own little sake.

But SIX MONTHS? I feel like I've been pregnant since the beginning of time. And my ex utero children are lacking the real MOM energy I give them when I'm not pregnant. I'm foisting them in any direction but my own lap, which diminishes by the day.

Six months?

I need to go eat a sausage and pity myself for awhile.

Chebbles' two moms

It's time to confess that Chebbles has another mom.

It's Stella.

Our theory is that Chebbles got confused upon her birth. Stella was there in the delivery room, probably looking almost as haggard as I was, and Chebbles accidentally imprinted on her.

She looks like Stella. She acts like Stella. And this weekend, she pronounced that she officially wishes that (a) Stella were her mother and (b) she lived all the time at Stella's house.

"So do you want to come over here for a sleepover?" I asked eagerly, thinking I could potentially foist my child on Stella, who by all rights should be doing SOMETHING by way of child support.

"Not without you, Mama."

Well, that's nice. But still, we've been visiting Stella more regularly lately. It's not easy to get there as it entails a car trip of at least an hour into the city. But it's worth it, I say, for the adult companionship and the superior food offerings of San Francisco.

Chebbles thinks it's worth it because she gets to play with Stella's jewelry, and wear Stella's dresses, comb Stella's agreeable cat Vesper and read Stella's completely un-PC children's book offerings. Just WAIT until Stella hauls out her vintage Fisher-Price chalet from the basement. That's going to really seal the deal.

Stella has already chronicled this phenomenon in full, along with a disturbingly similar picture of newborn Stella next to newborn Gigi. What the hell? Is there some kind of secret egg transfer going on here?

Crying Game?

I took Gigi with me to see Dr. W. on Friday. (I went in for my weekly gotta-listen-to-the-heartbeat appointment.)

She was sitting on my chest when Dr. W. walked in and he said, "Wow, she's gotten big. And LOOK, she still has those HUGE HANDS!"

Huge hands? Is this what he remembers about her birth? Not the heartiness of the amazing girl-child, or even his own heroics thereto, but her huge hands?

And does she have huge hands? No. She has elegant, piano-playing fingers, thank you very much.

Huge hands. Honestly.

On our answering machine this morning

"This is J. (elderly next door neighbor)...

Prince and Otto are here at my door asking for breakfast and it's A QUARTER TO EIGHT!

Thank you (sigh of resignation) "


Hub-D and I have started to almost enjoy the madness of these messages. I think what she was trying to say in this message is that it is APPALLING that our cats haven't been fed a proper breakfast at this late hour of the morning.


"Hi J., yes it's me. Prince and Otto like their eggs soft-boiled, and their bacon well-done. Not too much juice! THANK YOU!"

Who is The Jeege?

Gigi's personality has really started to emerge, so now we're pinning nicknames on her left and right.

Gigi
Jeeger
Jeegerboboleeger
Bobo

You see how things are degrading around here.

Her favorite things at 8.8 months of age are:

SISTER (known as "Bag" or "Sssss")
KITTY (known as "Kkkk" or high pitched squeal)
BROOM (just high pitched squeal)

I know that Hub-D and I are also high on her list, but she just kind of takes us for granted. She's also completely entranced with S., who has been working as a housekeeper for us since I was pregnant with The Jeege. When S. comes over, she does things like VACUUMS and SWEEPS and runs the front-loading washing machine and all the glory that that entails.

The child is pretty much housebound, due to my pregnancy. It kind of sucks for her, pacing (crawling) like a caged animal, pressing her tiny hands against the front door, looking for any form of egress.

But she's made the best of it, loving so many things around the house, it's almost enough to keep her mind off the fact that she has NEVER once (ex utero) darkened the door of Gymboree.

She can crawl extremely fast, and entertains herself for long swaths of time by inspecting Chebbles' bicycle and tricycle. She YEARNS for the day she can board these vehicles and make them go. (And, presumably, get the hell out of here.)

Just after I spent a mint on cases of jarred baby food, she has decided that prepared baby food is for SUCKAS, and she only wants things she can jam into her mouth herself. Then when she eats all the finger food I lay before her, her hands work like the hippos in the "Hungry Hungry Hippos" game, just shoveling mechanically until the last scrap is removed from the tray. (And into her mouth, across her eyebrows, soaked into her dress, jammed into the chair next to her rump and on the floor)

She is trying desperately to talk. She says "Mumumaaa" for me, and various little hissing and gurgling noises that only I can decipher for anything else.

This child is incredibly good natured. Her preference is to be carried all of the time, but when she finds herself (ignored) on the floor, after a few squawks of annoyance, she does a great job just finding something to entertain herself with. She still loves climbing onto the dishwasher door (when available) and inspecting the contents thereof.

But her very favorite toys are Chebbles' shoes. They are in a rack near the front door, and when all else fails -- she can't catch a cat, her sister has closed the door to her room, and Mama is "coughing the the potty" -- she'll crawl over and remove every shoe for a thorough inspection. Half of Chebbles shoes are semi-permanently missing now, having been absconded with by our wee magpie.

In conclusion, we're all just crazy about The Jeege. She's such a joyful child. It is so easy to make her happy, and she's so cuddly and gorgeous, with her increasingly curly locks and determined nature. Chebbles has taken to introducing her to people with her full first and middle names -- both of which are an impressive mouthful. So it sounds something like, "Zis is my sistah, Juneneeffeeuuuuuleezaaaabutt" which somehow suits the little sprout.

Oh, BOBOS!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmQhKI217aI

Lovely numbers, neurotic mama

I just got a phone message from the perinatologist's office. I love that they just blather on about my results on my answering machine, because the news is JUST THAT GOOD.

They have calculated our risk of Down Syndrome and Trisomy 18 based on my bloodwork, along with the aforementioned nuchal fold measurement and the risks based on my age.

The odds that the baby has Down Syndrome is 1 in 1,200, and Trisomy 18 is 1 in 10,000.

Well, rock on, little fetus. Rock on.


Oh, did you think that this news would prevent me from thinking that my pregnancy is in imminent peril? Did you think that I didn't spend every night getting sweaty and nervous about the fact that it is TRUE that some people still miscarry in Week 12? And did you think that before every doctor's appointment I didn't convince myself that the fetus might have died so that I'm not shocked if the doctor doesn't find a heartbeat? If you did think those things, then clearly you've forgotten with whom you are dealing.

Nuchal fold looks bitchin'!

Our chances for Down Syndrome look to be decreasing... always good news for a gal over 35.

I plumbed the whole subject on today's Health.com post.

New Health.com contribution

I wrote a response to a news article on Health.com here... I read that IVF/birth defects article and thought that it had the potential to be a little bit more alarming than necessary.

But the last two lines on the article (the CNN article) were truly hilarious.

My own racist thoughts, and how Obama's cracking the wall

I have been thinking so much about Obama since his election. And re-examining my own perceptions of race in a way I never thought I would.

This man has claimed the ultimate accomplishment as an American citizen: he has been elected president. (Perhaps even better will be excelling as president, and being regarded by historians as a great president 100 years from now... anyway...)

I was surprised, throughout the campaign, by people who talked about his race. "Wow, we could have a black president. That's amazing!" seemed to be the prevailing sentiment.

And I would think, "Yeah, what a milestone," but I never stopped to think about my own perceptions of race. I looked at each candidate's credentials and statements as I made my voting decisions, and went merrily on my way.

But ever since the night he was elected, I have to admit a strange brick wall is falling in my head, a brick wall I never knew was there -- and if I knew it, I never would have admitted it.

I knew very few black people growing up.

(Suddenly I'm paranoid about my terminology here. I was taught as a writer for the Michigan Daily in college to use the capitalized term "Black" instead of any other moniker. I've dropped the capital "B" because white people aren't capitalized and it looked weird, but PLEASE correct me if I'm screwing up here. Can I say black? This is right, yes? My mom told me that people who were once known as Native American now want to be called Indian, so I don't know what the proper term is anymore.)

Anyway, I had one black friend, D., who was a good friend throughout my school years. He was the only one in first grade who could best me in the timed math quizzes, and I still get irked to think of his name up there on the chalkboard on the weeks that he won.

We stayed close, sharing gifted classes and many friends. We were in the band together and double-dated to the homecoming dance. The fact he was black never really crossed my mind, any more than the fact his family had a poodle, or he ran track and played the tuba. I never knew to consider it an identifying trait. Naive, I can see that. But he never was "my black friend" while I grew up in that lily white suburb.

When I went to Michigan, I met a real Jewish person for the first time. When my roommate referred to a "JAP" I assumed she was talking about a Japanese person. It was also the first time I met Japanese people, or anyone Asian that hadn't been adopted by white parents. So I really had no idea about ethnic stereotypes of any kind.

I was really buffeted by my experience at Michigan, as it related to black people.

At Michigan, they worked hard to change their admission standards in order to admit as many kids from Detroit into the University as possible. But, as a result, a lot of those kids, the majority of them black, were unprepared for the rigors of Michigan.

I rarely saw black kids in my classes, and they all seemed to just hang out with each other. They had their own Greek system, which is no wonder since my own sorority was apparently racist as hell.

But what perpetually shocked me throughout my time at Michigan is that the black kids didn't want to be friends with me. My friend J. and I went to a black sorority's dance -- it had been advertised in our dorm, and we thought it sounded cool. It didn't even cross our minds that we weren't invited.

Once we got there, they turned their backs on us, the women of the sorority. We tried to dance and mingle, but we felt so uncomfortable by their cold shoulder that we finally just backed out. Especially considering my own sorority's attitude (hello!), I can't hold it against those women for a moment. But we were still so naive and confused by the rejection.

And then J. was asked by The Daily to report on a Louis Farrakhan rally. She was the only white woman there, and left in tears when the speaker singled her out in the huge crowd, asking the rest of the people to look at her and observe her ugly flat hair and her horrible white traits. And then she was cornered on the way out and threatened against writing anything negative about the rally for the paper.

So there were my impressions, confused and limited, in my first two years of exposure to black people as a group. They stuck to themselves. I was told they weren't academically capable of taking on the same classes I was taking. And some of them just hated white people so much they would purposely terrify my friend.

Again, I recognize now how little I really understood, but I'm tracing where that brick wall grew its first foundations.

Probably the worst thing I could have done at that point, in terms of understanding black people, was move to Germany in 1991-1992. As it happened, my little dorm was on the outskirts of town, close to an "Asylbewerber" community. Asylbewerber means someone who has requested asylum -- so this meant that huge crowds of African men, men desperate for a visa to live permanently in Germany or the United States, lived close by.

So every time I would be waiting at the U-Bahn stop, I was approached.

I KNOW that African is different from African-American, and I understand how privileged I am to have been born in this country, so I don't hold it against the young men who perpetually approached me throughout the year I lived there.

But I learned to be afraid of black people. Every African man approached me and tried to "romance" me, some quite aggressively. For some of these men, any who might be sent back to the war-torn countries they had escaped, a relationship with an American would have saved their lives.

But after I was approached by the 500th African man who would keep talking with me and keep following me despite my asking him to desist. Many wouldn't board the trains when they came, as they hadn't bought a ticket. They were just trolling for ladies on the U-Bahn platforms. They were desperate to connect. But I was scared and pissed off, that I couldn't read or do my homework or simply be by myself when I wanted to be.

So there it was -- my limited first exposures.

I really thought I had moved well past the negative feelings I developed in college, but I now see that I didn't. That brick wall regarding black people consisted of all the things I'd learned... each little brick was a little scene. Somewhere in my brain, I learned that people whose skin was darker than mine merited suspicion.

Every year in the last few days of school, the dorms at University of Michigan are ruthlessly and thoroughly robbed. I was asleep, the day all of our parents were coming to pick us up, when I heard someone rifling through my desk. We startled him out of the room, and he dropped the wallets as he ran. But he was black. There's another brick.

Then I didn't think of any of this for years. It's just been the last two weeks that I have had a strange feeling of elation regarding my own prejudicial feelings. I feel somehow free. I have examined that awkwardly constructed wall and decided to knock it down.

I certainly wouldn't argue that every prejudicial thought has been eradicated from my mind.

But there is Barack Obama, and I'm pinning my hopes on him just like everyone else. Please be wise, Obama. Please be smarter than FDR and resist the temptation to saddle our country with another New Deal. Please make really tough, unpopular decisions that help get our country back on course.

There is Barack Obama, surrendering his BlackBerry, deciding on a school for his children, determining a Secretary of State (Hillary? Really?)

And in January, I am prepared to embrace him as the President of my country, which I love more dearly with every passing year.

Instead of dismissing the fact that he is black, I am very surprised by how exhilarated I am by it. Our president will be black. And the Italian prime minister has dumb things to say about it, as do the Austrians.

We're learning.

Goats-n-Cows

Hey folks -- yet again, it's GOAT GIVING TIME.

Our family is deeply involved in this Rwandan charity, which gives goats and cows to Rwandan genocide survivors and effectively helps them start a small business.

There are other organizations through whom to give goats and cows, but they have tremendous overhead, and it seems like the money is best spent on, well, goats instead of shiny catalogs.

It's $40 to give a goat to a Rwandan this year, and $2500 for a Holstein. They make terrific presents!

The website is new this year, and features photos and videos taken by our family.

(If you look really closely, you can see Chebbles' and Gigi's beloved Aunt C. in the mix.)

While I have advanced fantasies about mounting a wild posse of angry women and careening through the Congo wreaking revenge on the gangs responsible for the Rwandan genocide, and now the ongoing violence and general horror in the Congo, that plan of action seems kind of unrealistic for a pregnant woman with two little kids.

So instead, Hub-D and I are going to give goats (and hope) to the survivors.

Don't be deterred, by the way, by the fact you can't give directly online. It feels kind of fun and old-fashioned to mail a check nowadays, doesn't it?

I take it back

In a previous post, I got all hot and bothered, saying how the Obama's should get a pound dog instead of a purebred dog.

I just learned that Malia is allergic to most dogs. (Why do I have to learn these important facts about our country from the UK's Financial Times?)

So I take it back. I think she should get whatever dog she's not allergic to. I think about those girls moving into the spotlight -- I've seen First Daughter, I know the hardships -- and they're too young to have consciously chosen this new life for themselves.

So now I retract my statement. Girls, get whatever the heck puppy you want.

Ahead of the game, yeah right

So, I'm doing my Christmas cards.

I know, I know, if you're anything like Hub-D, you are rolling your eye so hard and possibly permanently damaging your sockets. It's November 15! Excuse me! Christmas isn't for another 40 days.

But here is the way things go around here... slowly.

I throw up now, a lot. My children have unpredictable sleep patterns. I can barely get dressed every day, let alone wash my face, let alone contemplate the holidays.

So now whenever I have a lucid moment where my children are distracted by toys or sleeping (and I'm not embroiled in Law & Order episodes from 1992), I am hustling as much Christmas as I can.

The cards are printed up and sitting here on my desk. I've addressed all the A's and half the B's. If this is anything like last year (and it is a LOT like last year... knocked up, paranoid, drifting around my house feeling emotional) then I'll forget about the Christmas cards for the next three weeks. Then I'll get through the D's, then all will be a haze until Valentine's Day, when I'll paste little shiny hearts over the poinsettas and pass them off as valentines.

But for now, a little stack of DONE ones are sitting here. Personalized messages are done. Current addresses are written on them. And they will start to gather cobwebs from this point on. I can't very well MAIL them now, so I'll plan on posting them the day after Thanksgiving. Just so I don't forget.

Likewise my Christmas present buying. I'm trying to be ahead of the ball, seeing as half the people close to me have the GALL to have December birthdays as well. So when Hub-D found me puzzling over my father's birthday present, he said, "WAIT, now hold on. Isn't his birthday in more than a month?"

Yes. Yes, it is. And if I don't do it now, I'll forget until next year.

Aspartame

This is awful, and I know you people who occasionally consider me a fellow hippie are going to be APPALLED, and you might even be tempted to send me articles about how horrible this is, but...

Today (after hearing the baby's melodious heartbeat) I told my doctor that I am losing weight and getting dehydrated again. It's just like my last pregnancy, where I started tanking in Week 11, culminating in my hospitalization for much-overdue dehydration at Week 16. (Remember how many sacks of fluid they put into me? And I STILL didn't have to pee?)

I told him that I have trouble with any beverage, and any kind of sugar makes me sicker.

So Dr. W said (this is the part where the hippies should stop reading), try Sugar-Free Popsicles.

"But I thought I wasn't allowed to have artificial sugar," I said, astounded at the sudden naughtiness of the conversation.

"Go ahead. Let's get you hydrated. I could also tell you not to BREATHE when you go outside in case a bus drives by. But go ahead and have artificial sweeteners."

"How about CRYSTAL LIGHT!???" I said, so incredibly naughty I wasn't even recognizing myself.

"Sure, yes, try that."

I have been CRAVING Crystal Light for weeks, and I was so excited to try it.

Back at home, I shook with excitement as I dumped a packet of pink Crystal Light into my Trader Joe's Sparkling Water.

I watched its evil chemicals penetrate every last bit of the drink. There was even an inexplicable chunk of BLUE powder within the pink, and it rolled around and dissolved and I had a sickeningly cotton-candy pink beverage in front of me.

My friends, I chugged that thing.

I haven't been able to take anything more than a sip of any beverage for weeks. And I chugged that thing like Gigi taking a bottle in the middle of the night.

And I feel INCREDIBLE. I am so full of life. It's like I went from 10% of my normal functioning self to about 65%.

I instantly wanted to DO something with all the new energy, so I strapped Gigi into the car and went to pick up our beauteous Christmas cards at the photo studio. Then, in a fit of CRAZINESS, I went into Old Navy and picked up a couple of long sleeved shirts for Jeege, and some new maternity pants for myself.

THEY WEREN'T EVEN ORGANIC. And the pants were FULL RETAIL PRICE.

It's like this little taste of aspartame is making me crazy with destruction.

I can't believe how good I feel. Of course, because I'm ME, I'm thinking, "Great, I killed my unborn child with that blue powder chunk, and THAT is why I feel so terrific all of a sudden."

But whatever. When I got home from Old Navy, I went into the kitchen and counted how many Crystal Light packets I have left.

Now that I am more hydrated, I can tolerate non-sweetened beverages right now. But the next time my mouth feels even slightly dry, or my urine begins to turn sunset orange, you better BET I'm headed back to my evil friend, aspartame.

Where will I stop with this craziness? Will I start ingesting more artificial colors next? Deli meat? BLOWFISH?

I don't care, as long as I stay out of that 10% range of crappiness.

One thing I like to do when I'm pregnant is watch "Law & Order."

I can't explain this prediliction, but it is undeniable. I hunger for Lenny Briscoe's unfunny puns, and Mike Logan's checkered ties. I can't get enough!

One awesome thing about watching old episodes of Law & Order is you get to see some "before they were famous" moments.

Last night were some huge L&O star-sighting JACKPOTS, such as Harold Perrineau as an egotistical hacker in an episode called "Virus." It was particularly juicy, because when he was Michael, on "Lost," he had some very notable, naughty computer moments as well.

Frances Fisher took a marvelous turn as a disturbed woman in "Animal Instinct," and I SWEAR a reincarnated William Powell played her lawyer. I can't for the life of me figure out who that guy was, but I'm perturbed by how familiar he looked...

Oh crap, I almost forgot I have an ultrasound in, oh, 16 minutes.

(Tonight, I get to watch MORE Law & Order -- I have four juicy episodes waiting for me on DVD... yeeee!)

Save yourselves from crappy medical care, ladies!

I'm so grateful to Health.com for letting me vent about my old, bad doctors.

And perhaps, with the list of questions I suggest in today's post, all my pals and readers can avoid the heartless situations I found myself in.

If anyone who lives close to me would like to know the name of my doctor, let me know! Just wait to call him until after I'm done taking up all his time, OK?

Chebbles-n-Chess

Some fathers get their kids involved with soccer or camping, or whatever it is that dads are supposed to impart to their children. For Hub-D, it's chess. Chebbles is getting comfortable with the chess board, perhaps a little too comfortable.

She has started renaming various pieces, and criticizing Daddy's moves. She has a very specific idea as to how each piece should behave, and the castles, should (naturally) be stacked.

And now, for the video...

Dude. DUDE.

I am so sick. I am sicker than ever. I am subsisting on sips of old tea and salt and vinegar potato chips. I can barely heat up a Gardenburger for my childen without vomiting.

The Jeege has started sleeping through the night, and I barely care, because I'm up throwing up in the middle of the night anyway.

The toilet has even rebelled, so tired of my 24-hour ministrations. The handyman just left, after making yet another repair, so it won't flow all night long.

I have become immune to my childrens' cries. Gigi bumps her head a dozen times a day, and Chebbles has taken to lying in an awkward position somewhere random in the house and screaming "HELP! HELP!"

I just ignore it, shoving chips and Zofran into my stinking craw.

In other news, The Jeege has been tabulating our household expenses and she has some suggestions where we can cut back. For example, she doesn't want to wear diapers or clothes anymore. So that's a big savings in laundry and 12-24 month clothing.

* I'm 11 weeks pregnant as of today, according to my e-mail from Babycenter. I'm trying to convince Hub-D that this is our LAST baby, regardless of its gender. Honestly, seriously. DUDE. (Hurl)

* Chebbles' fear of The Spookies has gone away. Marvelous! She still wakes up at 4am because she's lonely, but it's not sheer terror anymore.

* She also really likes Obama. There is something almost mythically comforting about the man, I agree with her. Hey, things are bad, the worldwide economy's in the shitter and people are running out of food, but really, Obama! He's picking out a puppy for his children!

* Also, I'm really hoping the Obama family goes to the DC pound and picks out a mixed breed puppy (or an older dog!). That would be such a great example, versus all the purebred half-wit dogs people are buying from puppy mills nowadays.

* Jeege! JEEGE! Gigi is so juicy now, that Chebbles and I spent a full half-hour just kissing her and giving her belly raspberries last night. We couldn't contain ourselves. She's hit some new amazing level of chunkiness, she's irresistable.

* I'm also a particularly big fan of Gigi today because she slept from 6pm until 6:30am, waking up only at 10pm. Of course I woke up and stared at the ceiling for an hour in the middle of the night, trying to resist the urge to check on her and make sure she was still breathing.

* My vomiting has really increased in the last week. WTH? Hello 11 weeks!

Mixed feelings

"I don't want you to have a new baby," Chebbles said.

I invited her onto my lap.

"Is that because you want to be my only baby?"

"Yes."

"You'll always be my baby, Chebs. And you'll always be my first baby. You are the person who turned me into a mama."

"You were not a mama before me, and then I came."

"That's right, you were born, so we became a daddy and mama for the first time."

"When I was born, did you and Daddy laugh really, really hard?"

"I know that we SMILED really hard. So hard that we cried."

"OK."

I need my own ultrasound machine

This is the usual cycle, until I can feel the baby move... I'm OK for about a week after an ultrasound, then I start doubting everything. The dark yellow discharge? Harbinger of doom. The uptick in morning sickness? Not a good sign. The intermittent cramping and headaches? Obviously the end of everything.

In order to short-circuit the late-night insanity, I've scheduled an ultrasound for tomorrow, just a "Is everthing OK IN THERE!?" ultrasound.

I'm going to have to bring both kids, which is going to be a challenge. Or all three kids, really. If you count the one who is or isn't in my womb.

My new Health.com post will make you puke

But really, if you know anyone who can't stop hurling while pregnant, they might get something out of my latest post.

And I'm so suspicious of pregnancy mojo. When I had my second miscarriage, it was just after I posted a bunch of morning sickness advice, and right after I received my schedule information for my nuchal fold test.

This may sound psycho, but I think I'm going to insist that my doctor do another ultrasound this week. I can't handle the suspense, and the anniversary of discovering that miscarriage is really weighing on my heart.

If I could just stop yakking at 3am... Anyway, read the post! It contains a cameo appearance of Gigi.

(And if you're reading this Obama, someone needs to unload our dishwasher. Not naming any names.)

We think we're funny

Now, our joke around the Mama house is that Obama is going to take care of all of our problems.

"Who spilled all these stickers all over the floor!??"
"Don't worry, Obama will take care of it."

It's also quite possibly the first word Chebbles ever read. It was the headline of the NYTimes this morning, and Chebbles said, "Look! It says Barack Obama."

Perhaps that was just toddler intuition, but still. See, Obama has already begun taking care of business in the Mama household.

Maybe if I put up a big picture of Obama's smiling face in Chebbles' window, it will keep out The Spookies? Worth a try...

Achin' choppers

It's dental season in the Mama family!

It's the time when everyone goes in for their check-ups and comes home chastened in one way or another.

Hub-D is still paying the piper for a spate of non-dentistry before we met. He's got two fillings that need to be replaced. Ugh.

Chebbles is permanently off lollipops until further notice, because she cracked her veneers and requires a new filling in the spot that cracked off. Man, that kid has porous teeth. And she's not insured, PLUS her spritely little sister's birth used up our whole HSA this year. So it's going to cost a bundle, those lollipop-induced veneer cracks.

I don't seem to have any cavities this year, but my bottom teeth are getting more crowded and crooked, they practically need a vise and a jackhammer to clean them. So I'm on track for some fancy orthodontia after I finish having babies.

Which will be, oh God, never.

Oh, and I'm supposed to be cleaning Gigi's teeth every day. Hahaha. I know, an ounce of prevention and she won't have to join our merry band of dental liabilities. But I still can't bring myself to take those pearly little nubs seriously.

Damn you, Halloween!

Chebbles seemed to handle Halloween really well. She ran around with her friend K., collecting candy and charming the neighbors with her massive red Ariel wig.

But now? Enter "The Spookies."

The Spookies are what Chebbles is currently having nightmares about. The same child who has repeatedly told us to GET OUT of her bed so that she could have a proper night of sleep is now pleading with Daddy to sleep in her room and protect her from The Spookies.

When pressed, she defines The Spookies as skeletons, witches and ghosts that come into her room through the gaps in her curtains.

I've been schooling her in self-defense against The Spookies, telling her how SCARED The Spookies are when she tells them "NO" in a loud voice.

I tried to tell her that The Spookies would die if she kicked them, but she doesn't want them to die. She's kind of wickedly fascinated with The Spookies, and is talking about them pretty consistently.

The skeleton wears white shoes so his feet don't get cold. And he easily gets a stomachache, apparently. And the witch doubles for The Queen on Hub-D's chessboard, a position of both fear and vulnerability. Ghosts are pretty spooky because they seem particularly unstoppable in their attempts to get through the gaps in her curtains.

And all of this would be almost cute, if it didn't wake up the whole household at 2am, The Spookies in all their glory, coming in to dork around in Chebbles' bedroom.

Halloween! I knew you'd have your vengeance. Is it because I ate her Snickers bar? I repent! Spookies, be GONE.

Great news about our embryo!

My latest Health.com post details our appointment, and the layers of pregnancy paranoia that won't let up.

Is it possible that I'm getting sicker too? Last night, Hub-D went to the gym after all of us were tucked into bed, and I just lay there, pathetically waiting for him to return so I could ask him to make me a peanut butter sandwich.

If that sounds completely wussy to you, then you have not lived in the crappy, crappy world of hyperemesis gravitas, lucky you.

In other news, I've finished Powers' "The Echo Maker" and... pardon me while I obsess about sandhill cranes and brain injury for the rest of my life.

I've also polished off Elinor Lipman's "The Way Men Act," which is kind of silly and predictable, but I couldn't stop reading it. And last night I finished "The Haunting of Hill House" by Shirley Jackson, after which I became convinced there was a being in my bedroom.

Now I'm reading David McCullough's "Mornings on Horseback" about the childhood of Teddy Roosevelt. It makes me wish I lived in a giant brownstone in Manhattan with a fleet of servants. Because I could have just rung my bell for that peanut butter sandwich.

Ho-bag mom

I know that it's not rational, but I feel somehow slutty-looking, now that my belly is expanding and starting to look vaguely pregnant.

My gut is definitely Homer Simpson-esque at this juncture, and it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to see that I am "with child."

I don't have that "slutty" feeling unless I've got Gigi with me. That's when it really looks like ho-bag city.

Yes! The new baby was conceived on the first night that Gigi slept for more than two hours at a time.

Yes! They will be fifteen months apart (presuming this pregnancy is uneventful).

Yes! This was on purpose.

No, I'm not breastfeeding. Yes, that's part of why we've got this... spacing issue.

But ultimately, it looks like Hub-D and I just couldn't keep our hands to ourselves, and we just went to town so soon after Gigi was born.

Really, it was the doctor's warning about potential birth defects that was the primary inspiration for this quick turnaround. "Every day counts," he told me, meaningfully, when I asked him how soon we should plan to conceive again. And I also figured I might have another miscarriage or two, between babies.

But nope. Here we are, Trampy and her willing co-conspirator, knocked up with a baby in our arms. Lucky, slutty us.

And now, it's the holidays

I thought I'd get ahead of the crowd today, and have the girls' Christmas card photo taken.

With our used and repurposed dresses, we hauled through the rain to "Clix!", our local photo studio that kicks the ass of Sears. (Note: Sears Portrait Studio can be awesome. Ours is currently not.)

The place was packed. The Christmas card selections were on the front counter, and they were doing brisk business, taking holiday family shots of everyone in the county. The owner fit us in on her lunch hour and got some great shots (my scanner is on the blink, so I can't show them off yet). But DUDE, everyone was all hopped up on CHRISTMAS CHEER.

I guess no one is really in the mood for the holidays until after Halloween. Then on All Saints Day, everyone starts going nuts. When I got home from the photo studio, I found our mailbox jam-packed with holiday catalogs. Despite my massaging the "Catalog Choice" website, they still sneak in under Hub-D's name or they re-start if we make a purchase online.

Note: Has anyone else noticed that the Pottery Barn catalogs are like catalog HERPES? There is no cure! Not Catalog Choice, not calling them to request removal from the list, not going on their website and officially requesting that the catalogs stop. They just keep arriving at our house. And my customer number at Pottery Barn is an uncanny perversion of my social security number. Coincidence? Not from the unshakeable STD of the catalog world.

Anyway, suddenly Harry & David and Heifer International and the whole world wants to make our Christmas shopping SIMPLE and EASY! On November 1, apparently the real kick-off of the holiday season.

PS: As I wrote this post, a mama raccoon and her 3-4 little raccoon babies walked behind me on the fence, yodeling to each other and sniffing around. They're awfully cute when they're NOT IN MY HOUSE.