I am weirdly obsessed with fruit right now, and I have been for the past seven months. Apples. Endless apples. But also grapes, oranges, and mangoes. Every piece of fruit I eat seems like the best fruit I have ever had. In the past month I can't seem to eat enough mango. Too bad enjoying a piece of fruit can't be something I check off the to-do list that grows longer with each day.
I'm having so much trouble accomplishing anything lately that if I felt more energetic, I'd be near despair. Fortunately, I don't seem to have enough energy for despair. So I just kind of wander about my house, noticing all that I should do -- clean the kitchen, put things away, wash more clothes, make some space for the baby -- something, anything. Instead, I often just sit back down and somehow manage to avoid the work that awaits me on the computer. Actual clients who want things from me. I get their work done, but it feels like I just barely do.
Here's the trouble. My drug of choice is usually the drug of getting something done. Let me accomplish something, anything, and I will likely feel a little better. But I'm not accomplishing much these days, and I don't recognize myself. Tonight I had to call my friend, my pecan sandie best friend, to try to restore myself, to find a way to feel like me. Hearing her voice helped.
Because we have weirdly parallel lives and a few of the same frailties, she told me that lately she is consciously trying to spend more time doing things that can't be undone. She says she spends too much time doing all the things that get undone -- namely, the household chores that dog her hours when she's not at work teaching high school English. She says she's trying to take more time for things like laughing with her girls, reading a book, walking the dog, and even taking a nap -- things that she says can't be undone.
After we talked, I ate a mango and read a chapter of the book I've been slowly enjoying lately: Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. Enjoying a mango can't be undone. According to the ultrasound I had today, this little dude has gained a pound in the past two weeks. (I won't mention how much I've gained.) I savored the mango and tried to find a way to live with myself as I am right now -- a person who accomplishes much less than usual. I tried not to wonder if I'll ever be myself again. I did wonder how I would ever find the energy to clear out some kind of space for baby clothes and diapers. I thought about the process of partially dismantling Son1's very small room to make way for a crib, because that is where this kid will have to sleep -- in a room with his oldest brother. I thought about the process of baby proofing this very un-baby-friendly house.
I didn't proceed to actually do anything, but I did enjoy that mango and the chapter that I read. Then I played a few rounds of Boggle with Son3.
I expect that sometime in the next nine weeks we'll bring this little fellow home -- it will happen whether I ever actually find a place for the baby clothes, whether my husband sets up the crib, and whether I finish my work. Of course, I may very well get organized and find a place for the baby clothes and diapers, my husband will likely set up the crib, and surely I won't let my clients down. Right? I hope so. Nevertheless, I will keep eating fruit and this kid will keep packing on the pounds, and I expect that won't be undone.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Pecan Sandies
When I was a kid, I loved to sleep over my best friend's house. They had a cat and a dog, and their household was entirely different from mine. They also had dessert every night. The thing is that I could have dessert whenever I wanted to as a kid, a million times a day if I wanted, because my parents were desperate for me to eat and gain a little weight. But I wasn't particularly interested in food. Yet dessert was somehow different at my friend's house, because it was something sort of official, like dinner. And I liked that.
Every once in a while, though, there wouldn't be anything good for dessert. Sometimes there were only pecan sandies. I think if I were to eat pecan sandies now, I would actually like them. But at the time my friend and I thought they were gross, and her brothers thought so too. And that is precisely why her father, who did the grocery shopping, bought them -- because he got tired of always having to buy more food. And if he bought pecan sandies, then he could always claim that there was a dessert available...but he also knew that no one would eat them. It's quite a tactic. He found a way to never run out of dessert!
When we were kids, we couldn't understand why he did this. But now it's crystal clear. There comes a point where you just get tired of buying food and having it run out. It sounds absurd, I know. But I ask you: how many granola bars can you buy in one week? No matter the number I buy, they all get eaten -- in three days! So I think, I could just never buy granola bars again and save all that granola bar money. Sometimes the food disappears so fast, It's as if I literally can't buy enough. You can only fit so much food in the cart, and I'm not going to turn into one of those people who uses two carts. At this point, I find grocery shopping to be an exhausting endeavor anyway. I walk through the store having contraction after contraction, hoping they are harmless and not leading me to some crazy early preterm delivery.
And so another boy, who will surely eat a lot, is on his way. I heard some statistic about how it costs over $200,000 to raise a child to age eighteen. I believe it. And that's why sometimes you lose your mind and start buying pecan sandies for dessert.
Every once in a while, though, there wouldn't be anything good for dessert. Sometimes there were only pecan sandies. I think if I were to eat pecan sandies now, I would actually like them. But at the time my friend and I thought they were gross, and her brothers thought so too. And that is precisely why her father, who did the grocery shopping, bought them -- because he got tired of always having to buy more food. And if he bought pecan sandies, then he could always claim that there was a dessert available...but he also knew that no one would eat them. It's quite a tactic. He found a way to never run out of dessert!
When we were kids, we couldn't understand why he did this. But now it's crystal clear. There comes a point where you just get tired of buying food and having it run out. It sounds absurd, I know. But I ask you: how many granola bars can you buy in one week? No matter the number I buy, they all get eaten -- in three days! So I think, I could just never buy granola bars again and save all that granola bar money. Sometimes the food disappears so fast, It's as if I literally can't buy enough. You can only fit so much food in the cart, and I'm not going to turn into one of those people who uses two carts. At this point, I find grocery shopping to be an exhausting endeavor anyway. I walk through the store having contraction after contraction, hoping they are harmless and not leading me to some crazy early preterm delivery.
And so another boy, who will surely eat a lot, is on his way. I heard some statistic about how it costs over $200,000 to raise a child to age eighteen. I believe it. And that's why sometimes you lose your mind and start buying pecan sandies for dessert.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Insomnia and Sarah Palin
Well, it's 5:43 and I've been awake since 2. Two in the morning! I am beginning to agree with the husband...maybe God really is getting me ready for a baby who just won't snooze. But I'll be honest: I hope not. Really. Everyone should hope not. I am more human when I sleep. I found out this week that I'm anemic, and in my mildly obsessive quest for information online, I learned that one symptom of anemia is insomnia, so I am hoping that this lovely iron and herbal potion I am downing twice a day will take care of the anemia and the insomnia.
Yesterday morning I was watching the news and decided that we really have lost our collective perspective. Apparently back in August the White House Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, called some liberal democrats "f***ing retarded" for attacking the president's health care plan. Now Sarah Palin is calling for him to resign over the use of the word retarded. Umm, really? If we ask people to resign over such things, would anyone be left in DC? And honestly, we don't seem to ask them to resign for lying to us over weapons of mass destruction and taking countless innocent lives, so I fail to see the urgency here. I know, that's a tired old axe to grind. But, right?
Here's my question: can she really not see that Emanuel's use of the word retarded, while in poor taste I guess, is not actually an attack on people with disabilities? Is her mind really that dull? Umm, don't answer that.
I'm sorry, but this woman annoys -- and terrifies -- me. But what scares me more than her are all the people who think they want her to lead our country. This is a person who couldn't even hang in there for her term as governor of Alaska. That there are people who would still gladly elect her to our country's highest office offends me a lot more than anyone's use of the word retarded.
See? I'm a little cranky when I don't sleep.
Yesterday morning I was watching the news and decided that we really have lost our collective perspective. Apparently back in August the White House Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, called some liberal democrats "f***ing retarded" for attacking the president's health care plan. Now Sarah Palin is calling for him to resign over the use of the word retarded. Umm, really? If we ask people to resign over such things, would anyone be left in DC? And honestly, we don't seem to ask them to resign for lying to us over weapons of mass destruction and taking countless innocent lives, so I fail to see the urgency here. I know, that's a tired old axe to grind. But, right?
Here's my question: can she really not see that Emanuel's use of the word retarded, while in poor taste I guess, is not actually an attack on people with disabilities? Is her mind really that dull? Umm, don't answer that.
I'm sorry, but this woman annoys -- and terrifies -- me. But what scares me more than her are all the people who think they want her to lead our country. This is a person who couldn't even hang in there for her term as governor of Alaska. That there are people who would still gladly elect her to our country's highest office offends me a lot more than anyone's use of the word retarded.
See? I'm a little cranky when I don't sleep.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Books & Movies
Son2 is really looking forward to the upcoming release of the Lightning Thief movie. He's been reading his way through the series throughout the school year, and he's enjoyed them quite a bit. I read the first two (the books were were recommended here when I was begging for book recommendations), and I especially enjoyed the first.
I am just hoping that the movie lives up to Son2's expectations. That book to movie transition isn't always smooth. In fact, I've enjoyed very few movies based on books I love. The Lord of the Rings movies are the most notable exception. I loved The Lovely Bones when I read it, but I wouldn't dream of seeing the movie, and that's usually how I feel about such things. I like to preserve my feelings about a book and not let a movie wreck it. You know?
So, I'm wondering whether you've read any books and subsequently enjoyed the movies...
Sometimes I think that it's just whatever you first experience. A gzillion years ago I saw the movie Unbearable Lightness of Being and just loved it. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. Then i read the book and didn't love it so much.
Son2 is pretty critical of things. He has strong feelings about music and stories and movies. We would not be surprised if he grows up to be a filmmaker, or at least gives it a good shot. He's always making these goofy movies and posting them on YouTube. More important, he's always dreaming up the next one. He had one cooking in his brain throughout early December, and as soon as Christmas break started, he devoted himself to three days of filming. He played all the parts and did almost all the filming. It was a total manic creative episode. When he finished, he sat down and edited it for hours. The result was his most well thought out and interesting movie yet, though it is a bit lengthy. We were so proud of him.
All of this to say, he loves Percy Jackson and he loves movies, and I hope he's not disappointed.
****
On an entirely different note, I had another ultrasound the other day, and the little guy decided to show me his face, which I appreciated. I brought home the pictures, and brothers 2 & 3 announced that they thought his nose looks awfully big. (In all fairness, it does look like kind of a turned up pug nose.) And I thought, poor guy, not even born and already being criticized by his brothers. Regardless, we all keep wandering over to the refrigerator to sneak peeks at the little buddy's pictures hanging there...
I am just hoping that the movie lives up to Son2's expectations. That book to movie transition isn't always smooth. In fact, I've enjoyed very few movies based on books I love. The Lord of the Rings movies are the most notable exception. I loved The Lovely Bones when I read it, but I wouldn't dream of seeing the movie, and that's usually how I feel about such things. I like to preserve my feelings about a book and not let a movie wreck it. You know?
So, I'm wondering whether you've read any books and subsequently enjoyed the movies...
Sometimes I think that it's just whatever you first experience. A gzillion years ago I saw the movie Unbearable Lightness of Being and just loved it. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it. Then i read the book and didn't love it so much.
Son2 is pretty critical of things. He has strong feelings about music and stories and movies. We would not be surprised if he grows up to be a filmmaker, or at least gives it a good shot. He's always making these goofy movies and posting them on YouTube. More important, he's always dreaming up the next one. He had one cooking in his brain throughout early December, and as soon as Christmas break started, he devoted himself to three days of filming. He played all the parts and did almost all the filming. It was a total manic creative episode. When he finished, he sat down and edited it for hours. The result was his most well thought out and interesting movie yet, though it is a bit lengthy. We were so proud of him.
All of this to say, he loves Percy Jackson and he loves movies, and I hope he's not disappointed.
****
On an entirely different note, I had another ultrasound the other day, and the little guy decided to show me his face, which I appreciated. I brought home the pictures, and brothers 2 & 3 announced that they thought his nose looks awfully big. (In all fairness, it does look like kind of a turned up pug nose.) And I thought, poor guy, not even born and already being criticized by his brothers. Regardless, we all keep wandering over to the refrigerator to sneak peeks at the little buddy's pictures hanging there...
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Right Words
The other night, I could not sleep. When exhaustion drives you to bed by 9:30 but you're awake again by 11, you know it's going to be a bad night. And it was. Apparently it was a bad night for my husband too...maybe because I was tossing and turning relentlessly? He got up before me, around 3, I think. I stayed in bed until 4 and surrendered to the inevitable. That's how we found ourselves huddled by the woodstove around 4:15 in the morning talking about how to negotiate our lives, juggle the labor, help our family and each other survive this upcoming transition.
In the midst of this conversation, he started playing with one of our cats, Smudgie, enticing him with a string. It was one of those surreal moments, being awake so early, trying to figure out life, while the cat rolled and batted and acted goofy. Cats. Lovely creatures without a care in the world, and always good for a little levity and distraction. That morning, the levity brought back a memory.
The summer I was seven years old, I met my epic friend. Our families were at a barbecue, and our brothers introduced us. She was the only other little girl at the party, perhaps the only other child my age. I don't remember. Most of the families there had children my brothers' age -- in other words, not children at all, but teens and young adults. Like me, this girl was the surprise in her family. Her brothers were eight and ten years older than her; mine, ten and twelve years older than me. One of my brothers was friends with one of hers, and they thought we should meet.
The trouble was that both of us were shy, painfully so. So our brothers stood there, telling us about each other, and we stood there, giggling like goofballs, unable to say a word. It looked like this meeting might go nowhere, until I finally piped up and said, "Want to play with the cats?" And that was it.
We've been friends for more than three decades. Through dolls and silly sleepovers, painful adolescent moments, first boyfriends, choir trips and youth retreats, college, life in the city (complete with giant roaches!), first real jobs, marriage, babies, businesses, and more, we have seen each other through. We have oddly parallel lives, and somehow we reflect and interpret reality for each other. She has three girls, essentially the same ages as my boys. Her first, born a month to the day after mine; her last, born six weeks before mine. Well, before this very last one, of course. These days, when she calls, my husband says to her: "So, are you pregnant yet?" Because really, this pregnancy of mine brings us to the greatest divergence of our realities.
I am certain that I have all the greatest friends on this earth, that no one is as fortunate as me in the friends department. Beautiful, wonderful women. Interesting, unique, and true. I don't know what I would do without them. But this friendship is altogether one-of-a-kind, perhaps because neither of us has sisters and we have known each other for so long. For most of our childhoods, she was the bolder of the two of us, and she overcame her shyness long before I overcame mine. But I like to remember that our friendship got its start because I found the words to get it on its way. I would not be me without her, and that our friendship hinges on a cat and her kittens at a summer backyard barbecue somehow makes it all the sweeter.
In the midst of this conversation, he started playing with one of our cats, Smudgie, enticing him with a string. It was one of those surreal moments, being awake so early, trying to figure out life, while the cat rolled and batted and acted goofy. Cats. Lovely creatures without a care in the world, and always good for a little levity and distraction. That morning, the levity brought back a memory.
The summer I was seven years old, I met my epic friend. Our families were at a barbecue, and our brothers introduced us. She was the only other little girl at the party, perhaps the only other child my age. I don't remember. Most of the families there had children my brothers' age -- in other words, not children at all, but teens and young adults. Like me, this girl was the surprise in her family. Her brothers were eight and ten years older than her; mine, ten and twelve years older than me. One of my brothers was friends with one of hers, and they thought we should meet.
The trouble was that both of us were shy, painfully so. So our brothers stood there, telling us about each other, and we stood there, giggling like goofballs, unable to say a word. It looked like this meeting might go nowhere, until I finally piped up and said, "Want to play with the cats?" And that was it.
We've been friends for more than three decades. Through dolls and silly sleepovers, painful adolescent moments, first boyfriends, choir trips and youth retreats, college, life in the city (complete with giant roaches!), first real jobs, marriage, babies, businesses, and more, we have seen each other through. We have oddly parallel lives, and somehow we reflect and interpret reality for each other. She has three girls, essentially the same ages as my boys. Her first, born a month to the day after mine; her last, born six weeks before mine. Well, before this very last one, of course. These days, when she calls, my husband says to her: "So, are you pregnant yet?" Because really, this pregnancy of mine brings us to the greatest divergence of our realities.
I am certain that I have all the greatest friends on this earth, that no one is as fortunate as me in the friends department. Beautiful, wonderful women. Interesting, unique, and true. I don't know what I would do without them. But this friendship is altogether one-of-a-kind, perhaps because neither of us has sisters and we have known each other for so long. For most of our childhoods, she was the bolder of the two of us, and she overcame her shyness long before I overcame mine. But I like to remember that our friendship got its start because I found the words to get it on its way. I would not be me without her, and that our friendship hinges on a cat and her kittens at a summer backyard barbecue somehow makes it all the sweeter.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Classic
Yesterday I started the merry-go-round of testing that will make up the last trimester of this pregnancy. Trips to the doctor's office two or three times a week, depending on the week. If you can believe such a thing.
WARNING: Unless you live a life of ease with no responsibilities whatsoever, do not get pregnant in your forties. Just don't do it people! Not only do they tell you scary things and require insane amounts of additional medical care, you will be exhausted. Trust me, I know. Pregnancy is way harder this time around.
Every Monday until this guy's birthday, I will go for a biophysical profile (BPP), which is a fancy term for an ultrasound where they measure certain things -- mainly (I think) fluid levels as well as the baby's muscle tone, growth, and practice breaths. On Thursdays, I will go for non-stress tests, hooked up to the monitor that you wear during labor that measures contractions as well as the heartbeat and who knows what else. Every other Friday I visit the doctor. It feels like a bit much. C'est la vie. My husband says I should be grateful for good medical care. I am certain he is right. I'm working on the gratitude thing, trying not to fret about the time that all of this takes.
The important news is that this little fellow passed his test yesterday with flying colors. But what made the whole thing just a classic representation of my life is that the ultrasound tech couldn't get any pictures of his face. Instead I walked out of there with a picture of his forearm and a very powerful-looking fist as well as a good shot of his butt and well...yes, his balls. If I'd had any doubts (which I really didn't) about his gender, I don't anymore. This one is all boy, in personality and more.
WARNING: Unless you live a life of ease with no responsibilities whatsoever, do not get pregnant in your forties. Just don't do it people! Not only do they tell you scary things and require insane amounts of additional medical care, you will be exhausted. Trust me, I know. Pregnancy is way harder this time around.
Every Monday until this guy's birthday, I will go for a biophysical profile (BPP), which is a fancy term for an ultrasound where they measure certain things -- mainly (I think) fluid levels as well as the baby's muscle tone, growth, and practice breaths. On Thursdays, I will go for non-stress tests, hooked up to the monitor that you wear during labor that measures contractions as well as the heartbeat and who knows what else. Every other Friday I visit the doctor. It feels like a bit much. C'est la vie. My husband says I should be grateful for good medical care. I am certain he is right. I'm working on the gratitude thing, trying not to fret about the time that all of this takes.
The important news is that this little fellow passed his test yesterday with flying colors. But what made the whole thing just a classic representation of my life is that the ultrasound tech couldn't get any pictures of his face. Instead I walked out of there with a picture of his forearm and a very powerful-looking fist as well as a good shot of his butt and well...yes, his balls. If I'd had any doubts (which I really didn't) about his gender, I don't anymore. This one is all boy, in personality and more.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Tears
Historically speaking, I haven't been much for crying. Years can go by. I can be sad, upset, or depressed, but the tears don't really come. Sometimes, yes. But more often than not...not.
But this pregnancy has changed all of that. I started crying before I even knew I was pregnant. I couldn't figure out what exactly was wrong with me. And then...well...then I found out. So now I am undone by things, big and small. I cry and cry. One of my dear friends says that she is grateful to this little fellow for enabling me to cry. She suggested that perhaps when he grows up, he will be the kind of person that others will feel safe to cry with. A lovely thought. I hope he is that kind of person.
I really love Guster's music, and the other day my husband realized that the song "Two at a Time" is a song referring to Noah and the flood. He showed me the lyrics and played the song. Here are a few of the lyrics:
Once upon a time,
For the Lord the skies they parted;
So a few must die
To bring us back to where we started.
CHORUS:
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Do what you're told.
Each and every kind were gathered up,
This tiny boat - the future of the world.
For those that drowned, it made no sense;
They should have known, because we told them so.
I listened to the song and read the words...and cried. I'm not even sure why. Except for the fact that it had been a terrible week. I was feeling vulnerable and tired, and those lyrics broke my heart somehow. I thought of those animals, innocent of the wickedness that plagued mankind, and how they had to die anyway. I thought of the way that God devised a great plan -- the future of the world in a tiny boat. A great plan, yes, but loss and death were an inescapable part of it.
Suffering, loss, and redemption, an endless cycle, and the tears just kept coming.
But this pregnancy has changed all of that. I started crying before I even knew I was pregnant. I couldn't figure out what exactly was wrong with me. And then...well...then I found out. So now I am undone by things, big and small. I cry and cry. One of my dear friends says that she is grateful to this little fellow for enabling me to cry. She suggested that perhaps when he grows up, he will be the kind of person that others will feel safe to cry with. A lovely thought. I hope he is that kind of person.
I really love Guster's music, and the other day my husband realized that the song "Two at a Time" is a song referring to Noah and the flood. He showed me the lyrics and played the song. Here are a few of the lyrics:
Once upon a time,
For the Lord the skies they parted;
So a few must die
To bring us back to where we started.
CHORUS:
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Two at a time,
Do what you're told.
Each and every kind were gathered up,
This tiny boat - the future of the world.
For those that drowned, it made no sense;
They should have known, because we told them so.
I listened to the song and read the words...and cried. I'm not even sure why. Except for the fact that it had been a terrible week. I was feeling vulnerable and tired, and those lyrics broke my heart somehow. I thought of those animals, innocent of the wickedness that plagued mankind, and how they had to die anyway. I thought of the way that God devised a great plan -- the future of the world in a tiny boat. A great plan, yes, but loss and death were an inescapable part of it.
Suffering, loss, and redemption, an endless cycle, and the tears just kept coming.
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