New Post Up

This week I talked about why I don't work out AT ALL as soon as I know I'm pregnant. This is the article on Health.com.

26 days to go, before I start using my C-section as my no-workouts excuse!

Tour of the hospital

I saw Dr. W. today and the pregnancy's going well, running right on time, and no reason to be concerned by my constant "leaky" feeling. Par for the course, apparently. Just vaguely disconcerting, and kind of annoying to change my underwear several times a day.

I started to get really jazzed when I was talking to him. "27 days, and I AM SO EXCITED!" I blurted out.

When I got home, I received the admissions packet from the hospital in the mail, with lots of irrelevant "What to do during labor" information, and new parent support groups, and how to schedule a tour of the L&D department in Cantonese.

I know that place well now. After last year's emergency C-section, I toured the place over and over again, lurching between my room and the NICU to enjoy the sight of Gigi in her bassinette, usually sleeping, hooked up to a multitude of wires and tubes.

I took the above picture in the walkway between my room and her little station in the NICU. A beautiful late winter afternoon. I would stare out that window as I shuffled slowly over to my new baby.

Then one morning they brought her to me, surrendering my healthy baby from the bonds of the NICU. I could tell they were a little reluctant to hand her off, they had gotten kind of bonded to our Gigi and her "Donald Trump" hair, as they called it. But I was waiting for this moment, the moment she was really MINE.

28 Days Before...

28 days to go before the advent of Leafy.

Stella is planning to stay at my house the night before the scheduled C-section, where she'll get the kids their breakfast, then hand them over to a sitter and dart down to the hospital to take the first pictures of The Leaf.

Will my eyelash extensions hold until she can make it there? My GOD I'm so vain, but seriously, if you looked like a bloated, old Sissy Spacek in YOUR children's first day-of-life photos, you'd be taking extreme measures too.

I actually cleared it with the anesthesiologist, the eyelash extensions. He doesn't want me showing up with mascara, but extensions he can handle. He just wants to have a fair look at my pallor throughout the procedure, so no "paint" of any kind -- no lipstick or anything. But we made a nice compromise with the eyelash extensions.

In other news, Gigi may be emerging from her "Mama Only" phase. Here she is at a table with her cousins, pretending she's a big girl again. And I switched her into the Britax Marathon seat today (and out of the somewhat janky Graco), and with her little tennis shoes swinging from the top, and her earnest expression, I could see -- this ain't no baby anymore.

And today at Gymboree she ventured far from me, enjoying the balls and the play equipment without giving me so much as a backward glance.

She's got 28 more days to slough off the vestiges of babyhood, before she becomes a (what?) big sister.

Loving our prologue

In my continued nesting frenzy, I keep coming across treasure troves of old photos, including these.

Things happened so fast for us in 2004... engaged, married, buying a house, pregnant... that the photo documentation is, at best, poor.

So I am enjoying trolling through the old files, finding a few gems among the mix.

At our wedding, we danced to "Your Song" as performed by Ewan McGregor on the "Moulin Rouge" soundtrack. We are currently in a debate regarding this tune, by the way, and our exact location the first time we listened to it together.

We both remember driving down the road in Hub-D's 1989 Camry, on our way to Improv class, already so smitten with each other after just a couple of weeks. I have posited that this drive occurred on Bay Street. Hub-D has countered that the listening-to-Your-Song-on-The-Moulin-Rouge-soundtrack drive occurred on Divisadero. We have compromised, albeit both very reluctantly, that we must have listened to the song while driving down Van Ness. So EVEN THOUGH the drive totally happened on Bay Street, I am currently working to alter my memory and have it take place on Van Ness, although WHY we would have been driving that route during rush hour, I do not know. All I know is that it must have happened on Van Ness because I love my husband.




Then, in August, after being married just two months, we bought a friggin' HOUSE. It was a troubled house, edging more toward Amityville Horror in terms of new-homeowner-surprises, but we didn't know it THEN. And I love this picture with Hub-D's parents, for so many reasons.

I look at the background, and I now know how much LIFE has happened under this roof since the photo was taken. The cabinets are filled with sippy cups and never-used martini glasses.

The top cubby by the back door is filled, not with artsy vases as in this photo, but a bunch of stuff I don't want Chebbles to play with unsupervised, like bubbles and sunscreen.

This was probably also the last time I wore jeans that didn't have a stretchy maternity band on top, as I was soon knocked up in a big way, with one heaping helping of Chebble McPie.

It all feels like a prologue, the two-year romance of Hub-D and me, then the haste in becoming real grown-ups, then parents. It all feels like a prologue to the day we met Chebbles, and she rightfully took over our lives.

And then THAT time in our lives, the following two and a half years of parenthood, travel, corporate growth, and most notably, reproductive ANGST and agony, was just a lead-up to the arrival of The Jeege, the darling of the hospital NICU and the youngest purveyor of barrettes this side of the Mississippi.

So now we are exactly one month away from pushing all of THIS action, all of the time we've spent getting to know each other -- Hub-D and me, then our first daughter, then our second daughter -- behind us. We have 30 days to look around before Baby Leaf comes hurtling into the world, spinning our growing planet in yet another new direction.

Kid, bring it on. (And I hope you don't mind that we named you "Van Ness"...)

Aging, but in a good way

I was trying to explain to Hub-D how I think we look older than when we got married almost five years ago. He didn't concur.

Even the happy events have worn us down a little, I would say. I mean, come ON! Natural childbirth alone probably knocked a few years off of our lives. (I know it permanently scarred/aged Stella, who didn't even have to stay up all night with Chebbles the first several months...)

Transatlantic flights with babies and toddlers -- we've done SIX of these. Each one of those must have been responsible for a big share of wrinkles and grey hair, if we're being honest with ourselves.

"I think my hair is better now," I told him, by way of giving in to his assertion that we have not, in fact, aged. (He was willing to concede that *I* have aged, but I'm not going down on this ship alone.)

Maybe it's simply that we don't sleep anymore. We don't get to lie in bed and laze around with the Sunday paper, wondering where we might procure a tasty brunch. Perhaps that was keeping us young.



But in all honesty, I think we're more attractive than the day we got married. So many dreams of ours have come true, in particular, our 2.5 daughters, and our business has done well. So we're tuckered, a little aged, but in a good way.

Chebbles + School TLA

"Mama, I want to go to school EVERY DAY."

"Really? Are you sure? Because we would miss you so much if you went to school every day."

"Yes, I'm sure (pronounced sssore)."

"Well, this fall I could send you to school all five days."

"I want to do that! But can I start NOW?"

"No! Don't rush me, Chebbles. First you want to do five days of preschool, and next thing you know I'll be dropping you off at college, having TOTALLY MISSED YOU."

"But I want to start going all of the days now."

I guess the good news is that Chebbles likes school. The bad news is she likes it more than hanging out with a teething 13-month-old and a crabby pregnant lady. Go figure.

The very good news is that Chebbles' love of school is mutual. Hub-D and I went to our parent/teacher conference this week, and received this written report:

"It is amazing to see how Chebbles has grown since school started. She has made many friends and has become a social butterfly. She works hard at verbally expressing her thoughts and feelings with others, especially in difficult situations. She shares willingly and patiently waits for her turn in activities. Emotionally, she has blossomed into a happy and confident child. We is doing well with her academics. We are so proud of you, Chebbles!"

Ah, Chebbles and school, two great tastes that go great together. Too bad I'm not allowed to hang out creepily just watching her from behind the playground fence all day.

OK OK I confess!

I have been kind of slow to post in the last week... not because I'm 8.5 months pregnant with a massive girl fetus, not because I have a clingy 13-month-old attached to my hip, not because I'm crawling around on the floor picking up tiny scraps of paper from Chebbles' latest "art project."

Yes, I'm also doing those things, but I haven't done anything else because...

I'm reading "Twilight."

OK, there, I said it. After finishing "East of Eden" and Richard Price's "Lush Life," I chose to put down "An Instance Of the Fingerpost" and pick up "Twilight."

Blame Whoozyermama if you must (she let me borrow it from her), but this story is precisely what the doctor ordered in terms of a mesmerizing book that makes you ob-SESS over it all day long. I mean, what will happen NEXT?

And I haven't gone so far as to rent the movie or anything, but it's nice to have a super-hot version of a back-to-life Cedric Diggory lurking in my head as I speed through this marvelous book.

More rear end troubles

Hi guys --

My latest Health.com entry is now live.

I am so eternally grateful for Sealy's warrantee kicking in and replacing our mattress for FREE due to the divot I'd created. My whole body is 100% better now that I'm not sleeping in a hole.

But anyway, the post is now up and ready to entertain you!

What happens to our CHEEKS when we die?

Chebbles is obsessed with death. It comes up several times a day.

"What happens to our bodies when we die? How do we get to be a skeleton?"

Then we tell her about decomposition, and how we don't need our bodies anymore and the skin slowly disintigrates.

"And our lips?"

"They decompose."

"And our cheeks?"

"Yep. Also decompose."

"And our HAIR? Does our HAIR also decompose?"

At this point, I'm drawing from my memories of the movie "Poltergeist," thinking about how some of those skeletons still DID have their hair, but then I think about the composting workshop I went to, and how the guy who led the workshop encouraged us to put HAIR in the compost pile too, so it must decompose eventually.

"Yes, our hair goes away too. Then our bodies are just skeletons."

"Oh, except when people are cremated," I don't know why I have to add this point, but I do. "We burn up some bodies so we can have their ashes."

"Do they start burning the bodies with the hair first?"

"I think they burn it all at the same time."

And the death obsession doesn't stop with the mechanics of corpse disposal. She has been asking us about when we plan to die. She seems not a little disappointed when we tell her that we aren't going to die for a very VERY long time.

"I was thinking that if you die, Mama, and if Daddy dies, AND if Gigi dies, then I could be like Cinderella."

That's true, she would be unfettered by immediate family. Like the fun girls from the "Annie" soundtrack she's been enjoying lately.

"How did Annie's parents die?"

"It was a house fire. Back in the days of the story of Annie people didn't have the safety measures we enjoy in our homes today. It's very RARE for people to die in house fires anymore."

"Oh."

("Darn," I could almost hear her think.)

My neatnik

I was wondering what happened to our water bill. And various other papers I had stacked next to my keyboard, awaiting a quiet, kid-free moment for processing.

Then Gigi wandered up to my desk and started dutifully taking papers from the top of the stack and dropping them neatly into my recycling bin. As she did this, she sang the "bom-bom" song they sing at our Music Together class, the "clean up" song.

How long this has been going on?

Health.com entry... all about timing

Do you know how THRILLING it was to pre-register for Leaf's birth?

I wonder why the hospital wanted me to authenticate my race about 50 times. They asked for my race several times, they asked me for Hub-D's race, and THEN they asked me for the baby's race.

What if I just put something else in there? I looked, and there isn't a box that says "TBD" but that would be kind of fun to throw the system for a loop there.

Anyway, on to this week's Health.com entry. It's all about how May 26th got to be Leaf's anticipated birthday!

Cutting time

This time, I pre-ordered 75 instead of 125 birth announcement envelopes, and before I address them, I have to cut the "fat" off of our address list.

I was able to lop off a bunch of people of right off the bat -- people we haven't heard from in awhile, various dross that has made its way into our address book, etc.

But now I've got to roll up my sleeves and get brutal. These announcements aren't cheap, and I rationalized purchasing them by slicing down the number. Evil thoughts are going through my head as I scroll up and down the list, scanning for victims...

"No Canadians. Not only do we never SEE the Canadians, but they cost me extra postage."

"Well, some of these people could die before I send out announcements, so perhaps some of the culling will be done for me."

"Yes, we always sent announcements to these mofos in the past, but did they ever send us a present? If so, was it a good present?"

There are some people who are totally uncuttable: Enthusiastic relatives, the people who were attendants at our wedding, and anyone in whose toilet I've vomited in the last eight months. And see there? I'm up to 78 families again. Something's gotta give.

Photo round-up with bonus Gigi video

First, Gigi loves her Daddy.

Second, Gigi has inherited the SINGING gene from me. Chebbles definitely has it too. We all three just have to sing. "I Gotta Be Me"-type singing.



Take, for example, this photo. She's on a play structure, messing around with the stairs and the slide, and singing a merry old song about it. Listen, we don't care who's listening, we've got to VOCALIZE every significant moment in our lives.




And this is Chebbles on Easter day, delighting in a stash of jellybeans she has found. The gal loves jellybeans. Hub-D approves of the fascination, as jellybeans are a Republican snack. Don't believe me? Take a look at the lobby in the Jelly Belly factory: all Ronald Reagan, all the time.



And this past weekend also found Chebbles in the kitchen. The girl really loves to cook. "Mama, when I'm a grown-up, I'm going to be just like you, and cook for my babies," she tells me.

One hopes she'll have more than just ONE "signature" dish (Hello, Moosewood Cookbook Lasagne) to feed those grandchildren of mine.

But for now, she's remarkable in the kitchen. I gave her a butter knife and she sawed away at bell peppers and onions while I chopped like crazy to make some lasagnes for some friends of our with new babies. I can also trust her at the stove, which is kind of amazing for a 3.5 year old. She is very careful, and of course I hover, but she delights in her involvement. It's probably the most fun we have together, cooking for Gigi and Hub-D, then sharing our creations with them.





And I took this photo as a demonstration of a typical Gigi moment. She is trying to put on Hub-D's shoes, and take off her diaper, AND get into the refrigerator all at the same moment. She's shockingly successful at all three pursuits.




This was Chebbles today. After helping me make some brownies, and dutifully licking the bowl, she wanted to take a bubble bath. So of COURSE I poured one for her. What I love is that she's basking in a mountain of pink bubbles, and YET she still has chocolate all over her face.




I acknowledge that this photo is dark, but the flash wasn't working with the mirror. I just had to show you how truly gargantuan Leaf has become. And we've got five weeks, six days, 11 hours to go.

And finally, I close with a video I took today. Gigi is fascinated with our stash of napkins, and tries to deliver them to every member of the household. I love this family.

Leafy's got a birthday

May 26th. Surgery scheduled for 8am, so she should be out by, say, 8:30am?

Our little Gemini.

How I spend my days

If there were a pie chart of my daily activities, each 24 hours would look something like this:

7 Hours: "Sleeping" -- which entails resting for awhile, thinking and worrying about money, then making myself shut my eyes, and try to fall asleep while Leafy wakes up and performs some gymnastics, then I flip on the light, read more of Richard Price's "Lush Life" then finally go to sleep, soothed by the tales of gang killings and child abuse in the projects of the Lower East Side.

3 Hours: Obsessively hitting "Refresh" on eBay to see if anyone has bid on the big bunch of items I placed for sale last week. So far, I've got nibbles on the Robeez, the cheesy unworn baby clothes, and the Muppet Show DVD's. But I haven't checked for about ten minutes, so that could have changed.

2.5 Hours: Accepting pairs of shoes brought to me by Gigi, putting them on her feet, then comforting her when Hub-D's size 12 flip-flops won't stay on her feet, then locating her own flip-flops (usually one will be under the couch, and the other one in the car) and putting them on until she finds a more intriguing pair of shoes.

2.5 Hours: Ridiculous nesting activities, all of which involve the copious use of a label maker.

2 Hours: Echoing Chebbles' feelings, i.e., "You're a little tiny baby and you want me to carry you, and it makes you feel very angry that I won't." (Then turning so she can't see me and rolling my eyes so hard it gives me a headache.)

2 Hours: Managing the consumption of books in our house, i.e., Reading "The Color Kittens" yet again to a rapt 3-year-old, comforting said 3-year-old after her sister rips all the flaps out of the Elmo book while I was reading "The Color Kittens," then packing a box of grown-up books for Amazon.com's EasySell, then hitting refresh on their website to see what suckers are purchasing our old books. (We've made almost $80 so far!)

1.5 Hours: Staring at my body in the mirror in order to put on make-up, or see if I look older than when I got married, or what that stain is on my rump that has probably been there all day, and then think about where I want to have Botox injected someday, and of course, standing sideways in the mirror and just rubbing the gut and telling Leafy that she is secretly my favorite child.

1 Hour: Engaging in hot negotiations with Chebbles regarding her magnet chart, what does or doesn't constitute "picking up one's toys" and how her earned magnets might be best spent. Today, for example, she blew all 15 of her accumulated magnets on a showing of "Mickey's Christmas Special" -- a particularly bad bargain, I think.

1 Hour: Managing goat's milk for Gigi. This could be obtaining it at the one store in town that has the goat's milk that doesn't give her gas, and/or heating it in a pan in the stove, then realizing I heated it too much, then putting in a couple ice cubes, then feeling guilty for diluting the nutritional value of the goat's milk.

1 Hour: Spending time with the man I married, in which he tries to talk about interesting, grown-up topics and I interrupt him every 3-4 minutes to make him look at the itty bitty fetus butt that is doing the merengue across the surface of my abdomen.

Final half-hour: Wanting cookies.

Oma lives

I got a call from my aunt this morning regarding Oma. She is doing better! She's adjusting well to some new medication, and apparently, there was a nurse on duty yesterday who was a little too aggressive in giving the "just a few days" diagnosis.

It's a flashback to the time seven years ago when we were told that Oma had terminal liver cancer, and was probably on her deathbed, and... yeah. I don't know what kind of charlatans are practicing medicine in West Lafayette, Indiana, but they seem incentivized to scare the hell out of us every so often.

This is a photo of me and Oma a week and a half ago. You better bet we were talking about something scandalous.

Mourning doves

This morning, I heard a mourning dove out of my window. Hearing them always reminds me of the first time I heard one -- while lying in my Opa's bedroom in West Lafayette, Indiana, sharing his big bed with my Oma. I would lie there in the early morning hours, listening to that bird.

In the summer, I would go visit my Oma and Opa by myself -- flying on an airplane as an unaccompanied minor starting at the age of seven, which was unusual in 1978.

Opa's bed had a white bedspread with little pom-poms all over it. I always associate that kind of fabric with that bedroom, where I would lie down and sleep with my beloved Oma. Opa had a clock that ticked loudly from his tall dresser, and the bedroom also featured a wooden vanity with a large circular mirror in it.

The summer I turned 11, I discovered that one of my breasts started developing while checking out my chest in that mirror.

I was anointed when I was at Oma and Opa's house, in that quiet ticking bedroom. Those weeks at their house, I was a golden child, and Oma and I made a game of weighing me every day and trying to "fatten me up," me and my bony little legs.

Every morning, she gave me a chewable orange-flavored vitamin C from Osco Drugstore, and it was the sweetest treat.

I loved the order of their house. I would set the table for mealtimes, and I would sweat over the details, wanting the place settings to look right, having no idea which side the fork was supposed to go on, but wishing I did.

We went to the local swimming pool, Oma and me, and she would sit by the side of the pool, watching for my feet. She told me that was the only part she saw of me when we went to the swimming pool. And she purchased a bathing cap for me each summer. Other kids weren't wearing bathing caps, but I didn't care. Oma and I were in our own world, and if she declared bathing caps necessary, I just stuck one on and dove into the pool.

It was hot, and we drove around town in Oma's Herbie -- a light blue VW bug -- buying fabric for craft projects, spending my summer savings on dolls at Kmart, going to movies. The car would smell of the heated black leather and the leaded fuel it required.

And I would sleep like a rock after these days of adventure with my Oma. We would go to sleep in that big bed, and in the morning, the doves would start up with that beautiful cooing.

Yesterday I learned that Oma is most likely dying.

It was initially hard to take this news seriously -- we were told she was dying about seven years ago, and we all went racing to her bedside, only to have her completely revive and continue sending us grandchildren boxes of cookies and keep up on every tiny detail of my complicated personal life.

But yesterday I spoke with her, and she is confused, completely unlike herself.

Her heart is "afib" and she kepts calling me her "Engelchen," her little angel. She could barely speak, it's so hard for her to catch her breath, and when she did manage to communicate, it was in German. She kept repeating, "Meine Mutter ist gestorben," ("My mother died" -- she did, in the late 1940's).

So I finally believe that perhaps Oma is mortal. Maybe this woman who breathed with me as we fell asleep under that pom-pom cover thirty years ago, maybe this woman is mortal.

And when I heard that mourning dove out of my window this morning, after Hub-D had gotten up to give Gigi some early morning warmed milk, and Chebbles had already started the dance party in her bedroom, I cried. I cried my eyes out. I cried so hard and loud, I feared the neighbors would hear.

Pimp My C-Section

My latest article is now live on Health.com.

I have been relieved to learn that there will be some (vast?) differences between Gigi's birth and what I can expect next month.

Wait, NEXT MONTH???

Yep. Dr. W. told me yesterday that he would like to schedule the C-section for May 24. I'm not sure if that's the real date, since that's the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, but that feels a LOT earlier than my previous expectation of June 2. A lot earlier. Whoa!

Chebs and the Snugs

The Chebs is home from school this week, and it's so nice not having school-related deadlines, just drifting from one activity to the next.

Her tantrums are kind of dying down. We've probably got about 1-2 on an average day, but they're winding down in intensity. Today she did some head-banging, but she didn't like it as much as she did when she was 2, so she stopped and just walked slowly into a hug from Mama, which settled down the whole situation.

It would be more interesting, the tantrums, if she varied it a little, but it's always the same -- "But I'm a BABY, Mama."

I don't argue with her. Sure! She can be a baby! But I'm not going to pick her up off the floor where she's melted in a heap and started screaming so hard she's got rivulets of snot flowing from her nose and she's shrieking, "SNUGGIES! SNUGG--EES!!!"

I should clarify that we have never used the term "Snuggies" in this house to denote anything. And also, we are constantly trying to get her to snuggle with us or hug us. We are rebuffed about 80% of the time, but we keep on trying. Pathetically, tonight, I bribed her with an iced muffin if she would only give Hub-D a "real hug with arms around his back." She totally fell for it.

Oh, and if we do try to administer a "Snuggie" upon request, it never results in the end of the tantrum. We ALWAYS do it "wrong," and the tantrum starts all over again.

So anyway, it's not as though the child is starved for physical affection. The random demand for a hug is all just part of the breakdown. "I'm a baby!" (yawn from me), then accelerating into "SNUGGIES!!!!", then about 15 minutes of mumbling to herself about how no one in our family is nice to her at all, then finally, a sunny face returns to the Cheb and she's ready for action again.

Whatever. I now am a firm believer in phases. And this is one of those. And it's kind of like background noise, particularly because she never varies the cadence.

And she is an amazing kid all of the rest of the time. I can take 30 minutes of daily hollering when I've got 23.5 hours of extreme cuteness, precocity and generous gestures to her family and friends.

Beach

This morning, we got in the car to have breakfast with Stella in San Francisco, and make an excursion to the beach.

Once we arrived at the shore, Stella and Chebbles just booked it for the water.



It was Gigi's first exposure to the beach (not counting when she was tiny, in Santa Barbara), and she just went nuts for it.

First, she was so enchanted with the notion of all that SAND that she didn't need anything else to make her day complete.

But when she spotted the waves, she just kept pointing and babbling excitedly, and wasn't satisfied until her entire body was soaking wet with salty, chilly San Francisco shore water.




So Chebbles sang and cavorted near the edge of the water while Gigi lurched repeatedly into the waves, never satisfied until she was hip deep, soaking that poor cloth diaper in gallons of brine.




We kept hauling her back to dry land, and she would immediately start out toward the waves again.

"What's your endgame, Jeege?" I called out to her.

"Japan," said Hub-D, as he ran after her for the twelfth time.



It was also a glorious morning because Chebbles got herself dressed. She can do this now -- head to toe -- so I didn't want to spoil her pride by informing her she was wearing one of Gigi's shirts, and her entire lower torso was sticking out. She also chose to wear a crown that she decorated at a birthday party yesterday, and one important aspect of the outfit that is not pictured are the big rubber ladybug boots that complete the ensemble.






After all of this major excitement: Pancakes! Sand dollars! Aunt Stella, for Pete's sake!!!... there were naps in the car. Big fat sacked-out naps...

How We Spend Our Date Night

Selling.

Everything.

On Amazon EasySell. Where you mail all your crap to them, and then THEY sell it and deposit money into your bank account every two weeks.

If it isn't nailed down, we're shipping it to Amazon.

It's so awesome that Hub-D and I are both nesting at the same time. "A clean slate," he said, as he piled more DVD's next to me, where I'm processing them through EasySell.

Some of the books only yield a $1 profit, but we are maniacs, clearing out our house.

Oh, where is Baby Leaf going to sleep? Does she have any diapers?

Don't bother me with trivialities, I'm shipping boxes Media Mail through Stamps.com and it requires FULL concentration.

Chubby and Proud

What do you get when you put some matching kids' dresses together with a generously-lent, generously-proportioned maternity dress, add a bunch of sunscreen, a crowd to make Gigi nervous, and impending Easter Egg hunt? You get us. A big fat picture of us.

Selling

I am in love with selling stuff now.

I sent a big box of books to Amazon.com after logging them into the "EasySell" function, and now THEY are selling my books and just sending me money for them. Thanks.

And I ripped through the attic in a nesting frenzy and sorted every stitch of clothing we have -- by size and season. In the process, I encountered many items of clothing that aren't going to work for Leaf, but other people might think they're groovy. I've already posted four lots of these items on eBay, but the pile of things I'm trying to sell doesn't even look dented yet.

And my pal A. has clued me into Craigslist as another outlet for selling things, without having to monkey around with shipping.

But I do wonder -- isn't everyone doing this now, selling their unneeded items? Isn't this driving down the price of everything as a result?

So perhaps I'm not getting top dollar for the too-boyish Hanna Andersson overalls I bought during "the fat years" but they are no longer VEXING me in our clothing collection. We're trimming down. Everyone. Everywhere, it seems. We're saving money where we can and I'm trading everything for cash that I can get my mitts on.

Our neighbor lost his big truck due to the recession, but his driveway now looks neater, without vehicles spilling out into the street. People have less of things, and Oakland Airport, when I flew in and out of there this week, looked like a ghost town -- fewer flights, I gather, and fewer people.

There is something (cruelly?) satisfying about everyone tightening their belts at the same time. Did we really need a candle boutique in Walnut Creek? Is it a disaster that it's closing down? To the owners, yes, it is. But in the end, wouldn't it be great if we all consumed less, simply traded our goods for other goods, and stopped all the ridiculous spending?

Now I'm projecting. It has been I with the credit card, unable to resist a fourth pair of Robeez. I have been the one with the problem. And I am stopping.

And now, you'll see those dang Robeez featured on eBay!

The decision has been made!

Hey everyone. After some hemming and hawing, and weeping for my lost hippie-birth dreams, a decision has been made regarding Leaf's birth.

It's posted now on Health.com.

In Indiana

I am in Indiana again.

Last time I was here, I was 7 weeks pregnant and didn't know it -- I thought I was mourning my third miscarriage and was dealing with some lingering nausea, mentally preparing for a D&C to finish things off.

But here I am, all round in front, 31w3d, evidence of how wrong I was.

I'm visiting Oma again, who is turning 97 this spring, and has started having the series of small strokes that nature finally inflicts on older people, it seems, when it just can't figure out any other way to do away with them.

Oma has a very strong heart and body. Her leg muscles are impressive (a legacy of her rowing days back in Germany?) and she still remembers every detail of, for example, her younger brother's canary-breeding efforts back in the 1920's.

But she has no memory of having moved into her retirement community back in 1992, where she still lives, even though she's now been moved into the "Health Pavilion" part of the community, and now lives with her roommate Betty, a chipper woman from Georgia who greets everyone with unbridled enthusiasm and can't remember anything from one moment to the next.

I'm relieved to discover that the essence of Oma is still intact. She still likes hearing all the tiny details of my daughters' lives. She is still funny and caring, and we're enjoying each other immensely. I'm lucky that my sister is visiting here at the same time, as she's an RN and can take care of the details -- like getting Oma to the bathroom -- at which I would be a complete fumbling mess. Also, I realized, if Oma starts to have another of her bathroom falls, what is my plan? To catch her? And squish Baby Leaf in the process?

So all is well. My sister is doing the heavy lifting and I'm doing the chatting, and it feels just wrong that we live so far away, and that we aren't here doing this every day.

America is so screwy, how we all move such far distances away from each other. It makes perfect sense in one's 20's to move away and discover one's self. But now? When Oma is starting to fade into the sunset and craves reassurance? And Chebbles is asking about Oma and wants to see her, but the plane trip and the intensity of an overnight stay is too much?

Now I get why other cultures don't put up with the relocating that we do as a matter of course. These are the times -- third baby on the way, one great-grandmother checking out -- that we should be surrounded by those who are genetically vested in us. You know, our loved ones.