Three totally unrelated items, but I can't help but share them.
Houdini
I'm afraid. Very afraid. Baby G seems to be able to do remarkable things with her remarkably uncoordinated body. This morning, I put her down for tummy time on a blanket on the floor. I was two feet away, turned around, turned back and voila! Baby G was on the other side of the blanket. I asked her how on earth, at 16 days old, she'd pulled that trick off. She just stared at me and made funny baby noises. She's been able to roll from back to side since she was four days old, meaning she slept on her back for all of four nights. If her arm is not in the way, she can also roll from her tummy to her back. She started this round of tricks on Day Six. Apparently, she is now able to roll from tummy to side to back, which scares the living daylights out of me. Newborns aren't supposed to be mobile!
Houdini has also foiled every single one of my swaddles. Try as I might - regardless the blanket, how straight her arms are, my technique or how tightly I bundle the little burrito, she always manages to wiggle one hand out. Clearly I'm failing at the swaddling, because that isn't supposed to happen. Right now she's lying next to my leg, swaddled. I looked over and voila! Her little left hand pops out and is wreaking havoc on her psyche as she plays "get the hand to my mouth for long enough to suck on," which is a futile game, since she's not actually coordinated in her Houdini tricks, just lucky.
The Great Diaper Escapade
While Baby G is now 2.5 ounces heavier than birth weight, she's also grown 1.5 inches, meaning she still looks like a little old man with a saggy behind, cute, scrawny legs and virtually no fat to speak of. It also means that the leg openings in even her preemie diapers are gaping holes, just waiting for liquid poop to shoot out. It's almost like carrying around a secret weapon. Baby G seems to store up her excrement and let loose one whopping gusher once a day. Last week, she did so as I was picking her up - we spent half an hour scrubbing her, my uncle's brand-new carpet, me and my cousin's 9-year-old, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and shell-shocked by the whole experience.
Today, while eating, Baby G let rip her daily expulsion. I was pulling clothes off of her in an attempt to minimize the amount of laundry she was creating as I took her into the nursery. The onesie was a lost cause. There wasn't a square inch of diaper inside that wasn't covered. The changing pad ended up covered. I was covered. Baby G's entire lower half was covered, even before I opened the diaper. She screamed at the top of her lungs as I spent 10 minutes cleaning her off, vowing she was definitely getting a bath tonight. I reached for a new diaper, just as things began to feel warm and wet in her nether regions. Apparently, she wasn't finished.
I cleaned her up again and wrapped her naked (except for a clean diaper) little self up in a blanket, as I wasn't about to attempt a third outfit today. I had no sooner settled her back down to eat when *squirt* I hear the dreaded noise again. Amazing! We had a repeat show in under five minutes. Same pattern. New diaper. New vow to bathe this little wonder tonight. New blanket. Same naked body wrapped up. I'm not taking chances.
Red Bean Paste
Turns out, Red Bean Paste is actually made from beans. I knew this, I promise, but that was before nine months of pregnancy and the arrival of Baby G, who apparently sucked out the rest of my common sense brain cells on her way into the world.
Baby G loathes beans. I should have been smart enough to put two and two together after a Cafe Rio experience left her fussy. Instead, it took me eating a big helping of my dad's secret baked beans (the only ones I'll even touch) and Chipotle to realize it was the beans that were the common factor in extraordinarily long nights and noisy little tummies.
Yesterday evening was one of those times. Baby G's tummy sounded like it was inhabited by a hungry monster. It roared and burped and roiled. Baby G wimpered, screamed and hiccuped, burped and passed gas until I was smart enough to remember the gas drops in the cabinet.
I sat back, trying to figure out what dreaded food I'd consumed this time - golden grahams, water, lemonade, homemade chicken noodle soup from my mom, red bean paste pastry ...
Red WHAT pastry? I had stopped at the Asian market yesterday for some items and discovered that they sold one of my favorite treats - red bean paste pastry (they taste better than they sound, I promise!). Without thinking, I purchased one and gobbled it down on the way home.
I then asked Himself what, quite possibly, is the world's stupdidest question:
"Does red bean paste actually come from beans?" (Remember - this is my post partum brain talking, I promise I already knew this - it was a momentary lapse in sanity).
Himself roared with laughter and said, "Not only that, but it is made from FERMENTED beans."
Oh. Dear. That does explain a lot now, doesn't it?
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Arts & Crafts - A New Perspective
My house is blissfully quiet at the moment, just like Saturday mornings should be - when the world is yours to explore at your leisure. Himself fixed us breakfast while I bathed Baby Girl. Even that was serene. For whatever reason, she decided that today it was okay to have one's diaper changed and to sit in lukewarm water and be washed. I dressed her and handed her to Himself to put down for the first of her morning naps. I'm curled up on the couch in my fuzzy blue robe and Baby Girl is lying on the other end, swaddled like a little burrito, finally succombing to sleep after spending 10 minutes just staring at me. (Why she can fall asleep so peacefully in the day time and not at night is still a puzzle to us all - I'm getting MY nights and days mixed up now!).
Today's post was going to be "the rest of the story" I began earlier in the week, but as I bathed Baby Girl and looked at all her little parts, I drifted back to a conversation Himself and I had last night before family prayer. We looked at Baby Girl, and I said, "I'm having a hard time comprehending that we made her."
I'm terrible at arts and crafts. I had a fair amount of drawing talent in my pre-teen years, but I did nothing with it. However, through all attempts to become crafty (toll painting class at age 10, trying to learn to crochet in college, the sewing lesson disasters in junior high and high school, etc.), I have failed miserably.
Yet, somehow, in the miraculous design of life, I was able to create something so much more intricate, detailed and complex than a wall hanging, a Halloween costume or a blanket. As I bathed her this morning, I marveled at Baby Girl and the fact that Himself and I joined together to create her. I thought about the first ultrasound at 7 weeks, where we joked that she looked like an apostrophe. I thought about the 10-week ultrasound where I exclaimed (loudly!) "We have arms and legs!" - vocalizing relief from a fear that had haunted me for weeks. I thought about her 20-week ultrasound when the tech announced we were having a Baby Girl, and how I cried in sheer joy. I thought about the hosptial stay at 25 weeks, when I hadn't felt her move in 24 hours, and, for the first time, I cared more for her well-being than mine.
Then I thought about two weeks ago when all of the pains and aggravations and inconveniences of pregancy and labor ceased to exist as I held my little girl for the first time. I thought of the overwhelming emotion that flooded through me from the moment she left my body - and how my heart really did break as she took part of it with her, forever binding her to me. I thought of the tears in Himself's eyes and the look that somehow was only barely captured in the photos - the look of absolute contentment.
With her goofy expressions, her propsensity to roll her eyes at us already, the borrowed wisdom of her life as a spirit, her pug nose, her refusal to straighten her legs unless she is completely relaxed, her one-eyed-eyebrow-raised-as-if-to-say "oh really?!" look that she gives when I nudge her and reminder her that she cannot eat and sleep at the same time - Baby Girl has completely and utterly captured every ounce of love in our home.
I am completely overwhelmed when I look at her scrawny little legs, her bigger-than-average feet, and the chipmunk cheeks she inherited from her mother - in all my life, I've wanted to make something that would make people say, "Wow. You are so talented." I simply never dreamed it would come in the form of a perfectly formed infant daughter.
She might not get me kudos in arts and crafts, but I'll trade all of that for another blissful Saturday morning just like this one, watching my tiny little girl sleep.
Today's post was going to be "the rest of the story" I began earlier in the week, but as I bathed Baby Girl and looked at all her little parts, I drifted back to a conversation Himself and I had last night before family prayer. We looked at Baby Girl, and I said, "I'm having a hard time comprehending that we made her."
I'm terrible at arts and crafts. I had a fair amount of drawing talent in my pre-teen years, but I did nothing with it. However, through all attempts to become crafty (toll painting class at age 10, trying to learn to crochet in college, the sewing lesson disasters in junior high and high school, etc.), I have failed miserably.
Yet, somehow, in the miraculous design of life, I was able to create something so much more intricate, detailed and complex than a wall hanging, a Halloween costume or a blanket. As I bathed her this morning, I marveled at Baby Girl and the fact that Himself and I joined together to create her. I thought about the first ultrasound at 7 weeks, where we joked that she looked like an apostrophe. I thought about the 10-week ultrasound where I exclaimed (loudly!) "We have arms and legs!" - vocalizing relief from a fear that had haunted me for weeks. I thought about her 20-week ultrasound when the tech announced we were having a Baby Girl, and how I cried in sheer joy. I thought about the hosptial stay at 25 weeks, when I hadn't felt her move in 24 hours, and, for the first time, I cared more for her well-being than mine.
Then I thought about two weeks ago when all of the pains and aggravations and inconveniences of pregancy and labor ceased to exist as I held my little girl for the first time. I thought of the overwhelming emotion that flooded through me from the moment she left my body - and how my heart really did break as she took part of it with her, forever binding her to me. I thought of the tears in Himself's eyes and the look that somehow was only barely captured in the photos - the look of absolute contentment.
With her goofy expressions, her propsensity to roll her eyes at us already, the borrowed wisdom of her life as a spirit, her pug nose, her refusal to straighten her legs unless she is completely relaxed, her one-eyed-eyebrow-raised-as-if-to-say "oh really?!" look that she gives when I nudge her and reminder her that she cannot eat and sleep at the same time - Baby Girl has completely and utterly captured every ounce of love in our home.
I am completely overwhelmed when I look at her scrawny little legs, her bigger-than-average feet, and the chipmunk cheeks she inherited from her mother - in all my life, I've wanted to make something that would make people say, "Wow. You are so talented." I simply never dreamed it would come in the form of a perfectly formed infant daughter.
She might not get me kudos in arts and crafts, but I'll trade all of that for another blissful Saturday morning just like this one, watching my tiny little girl sleep.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Hospitals, high heels and hilarity
**Note. I'm catching up on my blog. Now that I've sufficiently lost my mind enough to think I can manage an infant and working from home and not driving myself and everyone else crazy, I'll be back online more. I have so many blogs written in my head, I could spend a week just blogging. But I won't, because that would take away from the 2.5 hours a night I am sleeping.**
Even in labor I manage to get myself into situations that create fodder for "I have this friend/daughter/relative..." conversations for friends/parents/relatives' conversations for years to come. Conversations that involve stifled laughter and eye rolling and "can you believe its?!" liberally sprinkled throughout.
Saturday night, September 8, Himself and I went out to dinner at a local Brazillian steakhouse with Father-in-law #2 (FIL2) and Nephew (13). FIL2 raved about dinner. I'm not normally a carnivore of much repute, but I enjoyed the chicken hearts (the only organ meat I'll even consider touching), the bacon-wrapped turkey, the grilled pineapple and parmesean-crusted tomatoes. FIL2 paid for dinner, proclaiming it his birthday present to me. It ended up being the only traditional birthday present I received.
I had been in unproductive labor for 4 1/2 days. Earlier in the day, I had started feeling like an old woman with bladder control problems. Curious, I hauled Himself and his medical knowledge into a corner to ask if I might just be leaking amniotic fluid. He assured me I was probably just crazy and assured me that having bladder leakage at this stage of pregnancy was normal.
Still, through dinner, feeling uncomfortable, and in a great deal of pain, I pondered it. Pondered it enough to lose the rest of my sanity and convince Himself that we should just "stop by" the hospital because it was "on the way" home (okay, it's not really, but it was less out of the way than doing the sane thing and going home to drop of FIL2 and Nephew and pick up my hospital things "just in case" - I was doing my environmental duty by saving gas).
Himself let me off in front of the hospital. I, dressed in stiletto sandals and a skirt, marched myself to the Labor & Delivery desk and confessed that my husband had convinced me it was probably nothing, but could someone check to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid?
I'm not sure what I thought they would do, or how they would check, but it certainly didn't involve being checked into a delivery suite and being asked to strip down to my birthday suit and don a backless nightie. After all, I was scheduled to be induced in exactly 25 hours. I was not ready to have the baby NOW, never mind the fact that she was 5 days overdue.
I gave the nurse an incredulous look. "Um, are you sure? I just want you to check to see if I am leaking anything." I'm quite positive she rolled her eyes without me looking. She then said, "Sweetheart, if you ARE leaking amniotic fluid you are not leaving this hospital without a baby."
I wasn't dumb enough to know that having one's water breaking means baby needs to come relatively soon afterward, but I was dumb enough to think that leaking amniotic fluid wasn't quite the same as having it gush down your legs.
A new nurse stuck her head in, after I was sufficiently naked and shivering - still in pain and now forced to lie on my back with the baby monitor (I'm surprised no one has come up with a torture device akin to forcing a pregnant woman in labor to lie on her back attached to a machine). She asked, "Is your husband downstairs in registration?"
Me: "Um, no. He's in the car."
Nurse: "Why is he in the car." (I'm certain she was trying not to laugh at me)
Me: "We are on our way back from dinner. I just came in to be checked. Besides, my FIL2 and Nephew are with us."
Nurse: "You need to call your husband. You'll want him here."
Himself parked the car, leaving FIL2 and Nephew in a dark parking garage until we knew what was going on (for the record, we did offer to let them drive our car home, but FIL2 declined). He came in and edured the teasing and cajoling from the nurses who thought it hilarious that a) I had marched myself into the hospital in labor, obviously overdressed and b) that he had let me (this is because they didn't know that trying to control either of us is akin to trying to train a housefly not to land on food).
Himself settled down in the chair next to the torture device (my bed). A resident, looking all of about 20, came in to ask a million requisite questions - another thing I had not anticipated. I bit my tongue so as not to say "Okay, get on with the test already. I need to get home. I have enchiladas to make, a kitchen to clean and another batch of laundry due before I come back tomorrow." Another resident, this one a male looking like he may have actually made it to 21, came in and announced that he would be shoving a cold, sterile, metal instrument into my nether regions.
He did so. I did my best not to kick him. He proudly proclaimed that it appeared that I was probably not leaking anything serious and informed me the lab would be doing tests to confirm.
We waited. I fidgeted, driving everyone within hearing distance of my room insane. After 90 minutes, a nurse came in and implied I would be staying. Me, with all my medical knowledge, informed her that the resident had said it didn't look like there was any amniotic fluid. She looked at Himself and said, "I wouldn't be too sure. The lab is running the tests again."
Minutes later, the resident returned, explaining that there were trace amounts of amniotic fluid leaking out and that I would be staying until Baby Girl arrived. I didn't bite my tongue this time, reminding him about the enchiladas, the dishes, the kitchen and FIL2 still out in the car - not to mention the fact that I was completely physically and mentally unprepared for this.
The nurse joined us and looked at Himself. She said to him, "She does realize that this baby is OVER DUE, right? That she has to come sometime." Indignent, I reminded both of them that I had resigned myself to a scheduled birth - which was not due to occur until the following evening.
So, there I was, wearing make-up and jewelry, stripped down to a diaper (to prevent the fluid from running down my legs) and a backless nightie, strapped to a torture device and realizing just how terrified I was to labor. All of a sudden, my carefully scripted birth plan was null and void - I felt wildly out of control and practically begged the hospital staff to let me go home. It was futile. The water had begun leaking that afternoon, drastically shortening the medically accepted "window of opportunity" during which they must deliver Baby Girl.
I tried not to hold my breath, tried not to think of what was to come and tried only to focus on regaining control in any form - which manifested itself in badgering the nurses with 1,472 questions and challenging most of the answers.
It was going to be a very long night.
Even in labor I manage to get myself into situations that create fodder for "I have this friend/daughter/relative..." conversations for friends/parents/relatives' conversations for years to come. Conversations that involve stifled laughter and eye rolling and "can you believe its?!" liberally sprinkled throughout.
Saturday night, September 8, Himself and I went out to dinner at a local Brazillian steakhouse with Father-in-law #2 (FIL2) and Nephew (13). FIL2 raved about dinner. I'm not normally a carnivore of much repute, but I enjoyed the chicken hearts (the only organ meat I'll even consider touching), the bacon-wrapped turkey, the grilled pineapple and parmesean-crusted tomatoes. FIL2 paid for dinner, proclaiming it his birthday present to me. It ended up being the only traditional birthday present I received.
I had been in unproductive labor for 4 1/2 days. Earlier in the day, I had started feeling like an old woman with bladder control problems. Curious, I hauled Himself and his medical knowledge into a corner to ask if I might just be leaking amniotic fluid. He assured me I was probably just crazy and assured me that having bladder leakage at this stage of pregnancy was normal.
Still, through dinner, feeling uncomfortable, and in a great deal of pain, I pondered it. Pondered it enough to lose the rest of my sanity and convince Himself that we should just "stop by" the hospital because it was "on the way" home (okay, it's not really, but it was less out of the way than doing the sane thing and going home to drop of FIL2 and Nephew and pick up my hospital things "just in case" - I was doing my environmental duty by saving gas).
Himself let me off in front of the hospital. I, dressed in stiletto sandals and a skirt, marched myself to the Labor & Delivery desk and confessed that my husband had convinced me it was probably nothing, but could someone check to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid?
I'm not sure what I thought they would do, or how they would check, but it certainly didn't involve being checked into a delivery suite and being asked to strip down to my birthday suit and don a backless nightie. After all, I was scheduled to be induced in exactly 25 hours. I was not ready to have the baby NOW, never mind the fact that she was 5 days overdue.
I gave the nurse an incredulous look. "Um, are you sure? I just want you to check to see if I am leaking anything." I'm quite positive she rolled her eyes without me looking. She then said, "Sweetheart, if you ARE leaking amniotic fluid you are not leaving this hospital without a baby."
I wasn't dumb enough to know that having one's water breaking means baby needs to come relatively soon afterward, but I was dumb enough to think that leaking amniotic fluid wasn't quite the same as having it gush down your legs.
A new nurse stuck her head in, after I was sufficiently naked and shivering - still in pain and now forced to lie on my back with the baby monitor (I'm surprised no one has come up with a torture device akin to forcing a pregnant woman in labor to lie on her back attached to a machine). She asked, "Is your husband downstairs in registration?"
Me: "Um, no. He's in the car."
Nurse: "Why is he in the car." (I'm certain she was trying not to laugh at me)
Me: "We are on our way back from dinner. I just came in to be checked. Besides, my FIL2 and Nephew are with us."
Nurse: "You need to call your husband. You'll want him here."
Himself parked the car, leaving FIL2 and Nephew in a dark parking garage until we knew what was going on (for the record, we did offer to let them drive our car home, but FIL2 declined). He came in and edured the teasing and cajoling from the nurses who thought it hilarious that a) I had marched myself into the hospital in labor, obviously overdressed and b) that he had let me (this is because they didn't know that trying to control either of us is akin to trying to train a housefly not to land on food).
Himself settled down in the chair next to the torture device (my bed). A resident, looking all of about 20, came in to ask a million requisite questions - another thing I had not anticipated. I bit my tongue so as not to say "Okay, get on with the test already. I need to get home. I have enchiladas to make, a kitchen to clean and another batch of laundry due before I come back tomorrow." Another resident, this one a male looking like he may have actually made it to 21, came in and announced that he would be shoving a cold, sterile, metal instrument into my nether regions.
He did so. I did my best not to kick him. He proudly proclaimed that it appeared that I was probably not leaking anything serious and informed me the lab would be doing tests to confirm.
We waited. I fidgeted, driving everyone within hearing distance of my room insane. After 90 minutes, a nurse came in and implied I would be staying. Me, with all my medical knowledge, informed her that the resident had said it didn't look like there was any amniotic fluid. She looked at Himself and said, "I wouldn't be too sure. The lab is running the tests again."
Minutes later, the resident returned, explaining that there were trace amounts of amniotic fluid leaking out and that I would be staying until Baby Girl arrived. I didn't bite my tongue this time, reminding him about the enchiladas, the dishes, the kitchen and FIL2 still out in the car - not to mention the fact that I was completely physically and mentally unprepared for this.
The nurse joined us and looked at Himself. She said to him, "She does realize that this baby is OVER DUE, right? That she has to come sometime." Indignent, I reminded both of them that I had resigned myself to a scheduled birth - which was not due to occur until the following evening.
So, there I was, wearing make-up and jewelry, stripped down to a diaper (to prevent the fluid from running down my legs) and a backless nightie, strapped to a torture device and realizing just how terrified I was to labor. All of a sudden, my carefully scripted birth plan was null and void - I felt wildly out of control and practically begged the hospital staff to let me go home. It was futile. The water had begun leaking that afternoon, drastically shortening the medically accepted "window of opportunity" during which they must deliver Baby Girl.
I tried not to hold my breath, tried not to think of what was to come and tried only to focus on regaining control in any form - which manifested itself in badgering the nurses with 1,472 questions and challenging most of the answers.
It was going to be a very long night.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Surprising Realization
Today the Today show had a feature on "The Best Places to Live in Rural America." It spoke of people moving from large metropolitan areas to rural areas, often areas in which they grew up or had childhood associations with.
I thought, "Like me!" Except, well, The Frontier isn't exactly rural. Isolated among rural farmlands and wide open spaces, yes, but not really rural. The county itself, according to the US Census, has just shy of a million people - 978,701 to be exact (978,702 if Baby Girl ever decides to come). Not rural.
Curious, I looked up the population of the county from which I just moved - 1,010,443 - a difference of only a few thousand people. I about knocked my laptop off my lap. County F in Virginia seems like it had to have more than just a few thousand more people than The Frontier county in which I live. Maybe it's the traffic. Maybe the smaller area and increased density. Maybe it's the fact that it's a suburb of a larger city. Maybe it's the cultural and ethnic diversity.
Whatever it is, the two feel a world apart. Surprisingly, I felt a little like the people in the segment - even if my move was from a major metropolitan area to a "second tier" metropolitan area and not exactly a rural locale.
Confession: I kind of like The Frontier.
Correction: Okay, maybe that's too simple (and too shocking for those who have known my decidedly East Coast persona for any length of time). I like what has happened to us in The Frontier. I like the simplicity, the reduced congestion and less frenetic pace. I like the adventure. I love the mountains - and the first glimpse of fall I had yesterday as I caught a glimpse of the changing leaves in the foothills. I love walking through the neighborhood and knowing people. I love that Himself loves his job and our new home ("home" as in The Frontier, not the Hobbit Hole - I still get harassed about that). I love that somehow we've been able to escape the "Keeping Up With the Joneses" poison that had seeped into our lives, unbidden, over the course of years. I love the memories that surround me - the old Union Pacific train station where my dad used to take me to watch the trains, the downtown area - my first urban experience, the comedy club where I spent many Friday nights in college...
It comes down to the fact that I like being in a better position in life than I was before The Move. Whether it's Baby Girl who's changed my perspective, maturity or just the inevitable process of aging, I've changed a little.
DC will always be my first true geographic love, but I cannot deny that The Frontier still holds a little bit of "home" in its grasp.
I thought, "Like me!" Except, well, The Frontier isn't exactly rural. Isolated among rural farmlands and wide open spaces, yes, but not really rural. The county itself, according to the US Census, has just shy of a million people - 978,701 to be exact (978,702 if Baby Girl ever decides to come). Not rural.
Curious, I looked up the population of the county from which I just moved - 1,010,443 - a difference of only a few thousand people. I about knocked my laptop off my lap. County F in Virginia seems like it had to have more than just a few thousand more people than The Frontier county in which I live. Maybe it's the traffic. Maybe the smaller area and increased density. Maybe it's the fact that it's a suburb of a larger city. Maybe it's the cultural and ethnic diversity.
Whatever it is, the two feel a world apart. Surprisingly, I felt a little like the people in the segment - even if my move was from a major metropolitan area to a "second tier" metropolitan area and not exactly a rural locale.
Confession: I kind of like The Frontier.
Correction: Okay, maybe that's too simple (and too shocking for those who have known my decidedly East Coast persona for any length of time). I like what has happened to us in The Frontier. I like the simplicity, the reduced congestion and less frenetic pace. I like the adventure. I love the mountains - and the first glimpse of fall I had yesterday as I caught a glimpse of the changing leaves in the foothills. I love walking through the neighborhood and knowing people. I love that Himself loves his job and our new home ("home" as in The Frontier, not the Hobbit Hole - I still get harassed about that). I love that somehow we've been able to escape the "Keeping Up With the Joneses" poison that had seeped into our lives, unbidden, over the course of years. I love the memories that surround me - the old Union Pacific train station where my dad used to take me to watch the trains, the downtown area - my first urban experience, the comedy club where I spent many Friday nights in college...
It comes down to the fact that I like being in a better position in life than I was before The Move. Whether it's Baby Girl who's changed my perspective, maturity or just the inevitable process of aging, I've changed a little.
DC will always be my first true geographic love, but I cannot deny that The Frontier still holds a little bit of "home" in its grasp.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
How Online Pizza Would Save the World
Himself dropped a bomb tonight - he came home, forgetting his plans to pick up dinner, empty-handed. I had thawed nothing out, settling down for a long night of working to ensure I'm caught up when Baby Girl makes her entrance.
I gave him the evil eye - one of the disadvantages of cooking relatively exotic cuisine is I have nothing in my "need dinner in under 5 minutes repertoire" - especially the day before grocery day. He then dropped the bomb, "Well, let's order Chinese or Pizza."
WHAT?! Did aliens abduct my husband? The one who professes (loudly) to LOATHE pizza, who only tolerates Chinese upon first having the recommendation of 67 people and proof that it is more than just meat dipped in batter and covered in a "choose your own sauce?" The only take-out we've ever ordered in the last 8 1/2 years is Thai. Ever.
His response, "Well, I tried pizza the other day - it wasn't so bad." Um yes, but that was gourmet pizza, which doesn't deliver to the Hobbit Hole.
Still in shock, I pulled up the local Papa John's online. I have an affinity for Papa John's because they make online ordering a snap. I wasn't in the mood to deal with pizza-ordering-by-phone and my pregnant rear end is not leaving the couch tonight except to pee.
I gleefully entered in our order, my fingers whizzing over the keys - delighting in the fact that Papa John's actually understands the fact that while Himself is agreeing to pizza, he wants it HIS way. Additionally, I am quite possibly more picky about pizza than any other food. And we only wanted one pizza.
I get through the order with no hassle - Spinach Alfredo Deluxe - hold the bacon, sausage on one half (yuck), tomatoes on the other (guess which half was mine). I hit "submit" and ...
..."Server Failure." No matter. I try again. Same thing. I call to Himself that he will need to order the pizza on his own over the phone. He groans. I point out the fact that the phone is in the other room and my rear end is not leaving the couch unless I have to pee (which I would have to do if I stood up to get the phone).
He dials. He gives our address. The Hobbit Hole has an easy address. Then Himself adds "it's the basement, use the back door." He repeats it several different times, several different ways. Finally he rolls his eyes and sighs. He looks at me.
"The pizza guy put me on hold so he could figure out how to put "basement" in the system."
Pizza Man comes back on. There is more repitition, more gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes.
Then we get to the ordering. I knew it was going to be a problem - who orders an Alfredo pizza with sausage? Who removes a topping and gets two different toppings - but only on half (the sausage better not cross the half line!)? Apparently Pizza Man thought that too. Another 10 minutes of Himself trying to clarify how we wanted our pizza. Finally I said, "if the tomatoes are screwing things up, they can forget those." Himself sighed and rolled his eyes some more. Five minutes later, Pizza Man said he got it, and we sat down to wait for our pizza.
Half an hour passes. I see Pizza Man (a different one, obviously), outside, walking up the driveway. Here's where I pause to inform you that there are only TWO doors to the Hobbit Hole - the front door (in the front) and the back door (in the back). Highly confusing. Pizza Man walks around to the back. I yell for Himself, who says "He can ring the bell" (the poor guy hasn't ordered pizza in so long he forgets how traumatic it is and is still recovering). No bell rings.
I see Pizza Man head back down the driveway toward the front. Himself sighs again. Then Pizza Man spends 5 minutes deliberating while our pizza gets cold (I'm speculating here - but he DID disappear for 5 minutes). Up the driveway he comes again toward the back door. This time he rings the bell. Himself rescues our pizza. We take bets on what, exactly, we got on our pizza.
Not too bad ... but not exactly right, though we ate it anyway. The Spinach Alfredo Deluxe comes with bacon, onions and mushrooms, but no chicken (that is the "Chicken Spinach Alfredo"). We asked for no bacon. We didn't get bacon, neither did we get mushrooms for some odd reason, but my half did have chicken (and tomatoes. Himself's half had sausage (which had crept over to my side - gross!), so he was satsified, though he protested loudly about the missing mushrooms.
We polished off the entire pizza and decided that next time, if online ordering doesn't work, we're getting Chinese.
I gave him the evil eye - one of the disadvantages of cooking relatively exotic cuisine is I have nothing in my "need dinner in under 5 minutes repertoire" - especially the day before grocery day. He then dropped the bomb, "Well, let's order Chinese or Pizza."
WHAT?! Did aliens abduct my husband? The one who professes (loudly) to LOATHE pizza, who only tolerates Chinese upon first having the recommendation of 67 people and proof that it is more than just meat dipped in batter and covered in a "choose your own sauce?" The only take-out we've ever ordered in the last 8 1/2 years is Thai. Ever.
His response, "Well, I tried pizza the other day - it wasn't so bad." Um yes, but that was gourmet pizza, which doesn't deliver to the Hobbit Hole.
Still in shock, I pulled up the local Papa John's online. I have an affinity for Papa John's because they make online ordering a snap. I wasn't in the mood to deal with pizza-ordering-by-phone and my pregnant rear end is not leaving the couch tonight except to pee.
I gleefully entered in our order, my fingers whizzing over the keys - delighting in the fact that Papa John's actually understands the fact that while Himself is agreeing to pizza, he wants it HIS way. Additionally, I am quite possibly more picky about pizza than any other food. And we only wanted one pizza.
I get through the order with no hassle - Spinach Alfredo Deluxe - hold the bacon, sausage on one half (yuck), tomatoes on the other (guess which half was mine). I hit "submit" and ...
..."Server Failure." No matter. I try again. Same thing. I call to Himself that he will need to order the pizza on his own over the phone. He groans. I point out the fact that the phone is in the other room and my rear end is not leaving the couch unless I have to pee (which I would have to do if I stood up to get the phone).
He dials. He gives our address. The Hobbit Hole has an easy address. Then Himself adds "it's the basement, use the back door." He repeats it several different times, several different ways. Finally he rolls his eyes and sighs. He looks at me.
"The pizza guy put me on hold so he could figure out how to put "basement" in the system."
Pizza Man comes back on. There is more repitition, more gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes.
Then we get to the ordering. I knew it was going to be a problem - who orders an Alfredo pizza with sausage? Who removes a topping and gets two different toppings - but only on half (the sausage better not cross the half line!)? Apparently Pizza Man thought that too. Another 10 minutes of Himself trying to clarify how we wanted our pizza. Finally I said, "if the tomatoes are screwing things up, they can forget those." Himself sighed and rolled his eyes some more. Five minutes later, Pizza Man said he got it, and we sat down to wait for our pizza.
Half an hour passes. I see Pizza Man (a different one, obviously), outside, walking up the driveway. Here's where I pause to inform you that there are only TWO doors to the Hobbit Hole - the front door (in the front) and the back door (in the back). Highly confusing. Pizza Man walks around to the back. I yell for Himself, who says "He can ring the bell" (the poor guy hasn't ordered pizza in so long he forgets how traumatic it is and is still recovering). No bell rings.
I see Pizza Man head back down the driveway toward the front. Himself sighs again. Then Pizza Man spends 5 minutes deliberating while our pizza gets cold (I'm speculating here - but he DID disappear for 5 minutes). Up the driveway he comes again toward the back door. This time he rings the bell. Himself rescues our pizza. We take bets on what, exactly, we got on our pizza.
Not too bad ... but not exactly right, though we ate it anyway. The Spinach Alfredo Deluxe comes with bacon, onions and mushrooms, but no chicken (that is the "Chicken Spinach Alfredo"). We asked for no bacon. We didn't get bacon, neither did we get mushrooms for some odd reason, but my half did have chicken (and tomatoes. Himself's half had sausage (which had crept over to my side - gross!), so he was satsified, though he protested loudly about the missing mushrooms.
We polished off the entire pizza and decided that next time, if online ordering doesn't work, we're getting Chinese.
40 Weeks to Change a Life
Today is rather anti-climatic.
For the past 9 months, September 4 (or thereabouts) has been the countdown day - almost like counting down to Christmas or counting down to the day I finally turned 16. Except ... Christmas and my 16th Birthday were guarantees. The countdown ended at a specific time, with a specific result. I woke up this morning feeling a bit like I'd been taken advantage of by an oily salesman. Ta da! I have arrived - only to discover that there is no prize to be had today for patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently) counting down the months, weeks, days.
Intellectually, I knew that a due date, is in essence, the sort-of mid-point of a 5-week window in which you are "full-term." Yet when the entire world revolves around the calendar flipping each week based on an end date, it's a little disconcerting to arrive at said date only to realize nothing is happening.
And I mean nothing.
What this morning did bring was a lot of thought about how much my life has changed in the last 40 weeks. If someone would have asked me 40 weeks ago today what I would be doing on September 4, 2007, there are several words that would not have entered my answer: Pregnant. Baby. Labor. Childcare. The Frontier. New Jobs (yes, that is plural). Moving. And so forth.
I realized in the past 40 weeks, my life has taken a drastic turn, and not just the normal "we're having a baby" drama. In the past 40 weeks:
-I have interviewed more than 40 times, all of them while pregnant
-I have had four jobs and worked for three companies
-I have been laid off twice (yikes - is there a pattern?)
-I have moved 2,300 miles
-I have gone from a brand-new apartment to the Hobbit Hole
-I have gone from the world of big-business, high-stress career to tiny, quiet agency which is helping set me on course for independent consulting
-I have gone from my isolated "friends are family" life to "family is only a few hours away" life
That is in addition to all the fundamental changes that rush through you when you're confronted with the impending title of "parent." I've begun to see Himself in the light of a father (odd, since he's been a father the entire time I've known him - though it's somehow different when he is the father of your child, not someone else's). I don't think anyone thought it was possible, but I think I've become slightly more domestic (emphasis on the "slightly" part, don't get too excited). My priorites have shifted. My perspective has shifted. I've spent the past 40 weeks sharpening my worrying skills.
And there are other, more subtle changes - Mexican doesn't hold nearly the same appeal as it once did for me (it's been gone so long, I'm not sure the appetite I had for south-of-the-border food will ever return). My body is now the full-fledged body of an adult woman, bearing the scars of childbirth before I've even birthed a child. Having a few empty days on the calendar a week feels refreshing rather than feeling like indisputable evidence of a massive failure in social achievement. I turn my head at every pregnant woman or every infant I see - wondering how I look, wondering what Baby Girl will look like. My daydreams are of the kind of personality she'll have (though I have a good idea she'll be like her father - she's already going on stubborn and late), who she'll take after, what she'll do with her life, how many tears I'll shed over her.
40 weeks ago, I was on top of the world. Now, today, September 4, I am still on top of the world - it just happens to be another planet all together.
For the past 9 months, September 4 (or thereabouts) has been the countdown day - almost like counting down to Christmas or counting down to the day I finally turned 16. Except ... Christmas and my 16th Birthday were guarantees. The countdown ended at a specific time, with a specific result. I woke up this morning feeling a bit like I'd been taken advantage of by an oily salesman. Ta da! I have arrived - only to discover that there is no prize to be had today for patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently) counting down the months, weeks, days.
Intellectually, I knew that a due date, is in essence, the sort-of mid-point of a 5-week window in which you are "full-term." Yet when the entire world revolves around the calendar flipping each week based on an end date, it's a little disconcerting to arrive at said date only to realize nothing is happening.
And I mean nothing.
What this morning did bring was a lot of thought about how much my life has changed in the last 40 weeks. If someone would have asked me 40 weeks ago today what I would be doing on September 4, 2007, there are several words that would not have entered my answer: Pregnant. Baby. Labor. Childcare. The Frontier. New Jobs (yes, that is plural). Moving. And so forth.
I realized in the past 40 weeks, my life has taken a drastic turn, and not just the normal "we're having a baby" drama. In the past 40 weeks:
-I have interviewed more than 40 times, all of them while pregnant
-I have had four jobs and worked for three companies
-I have been laid off twice (yikes - is there a pattern?)
-I have moved 2,300 miles
-I have gone from a brand-new apartment to the Hobbit Hole
-I have gone from the world of big-business, high-stress career to tiny, quiet agency which is helping set me on course for independent consulting
-I have gone from my isolated "friends are family" life to "family is only a few hours away" life
That is in addition to all the fundamental changes that rush through you when you're confronted with the impending title of "parent." I've begun to see Himself in the light of a father (odd, since he's been a father the entire time I've known him - though it's somehow different when he is the father of your child, not someone else's). I don't think anyone thought it was possible, but I think I've become slightly more domestic (emphasis on the "slightly" part, don't get too excited). My priorites have shifted. My perspective has shifted. I've spent the past 40 weeks sharpening my worrying skills.
And there are other, more subtle changes - Mexican doesn't hold nearly the same appeal as it once did for me (it's been gone so long, I'm not sure the appetite I had for south-of-the-border food will ever return). My body is now the full-fledged body of an adult woman, bearing the scars of childbirth before I've even birthed a child. Having a few empty days on the calendar a week feels refreshing rather than feeling like indisputable evidence of a massive failure in social achievement. I turn my head at every pregnant woman or every infant I see - wondering how I look, wondering what Baby Girl will look like. My daydreams are of the kind of personality she'll have (though I have a good idea she'll be like her father - she's already going on stubborn and late), who she'll take after, what she'll do with her life, how many tears I'll shed over her.
40 weeks ago, I was on top of the world. Now, today, September 4, I am still on top of the world - it just happens to be another planet all together.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
[Insert select 4-letter words here ...]
Remember this?
I spoke too soon. I think Loving My Upstairs Neighbors is an abysmal failure. Because I try not to use them, and because I value self-expression, I will refer to this weekend as "The [Insert select 4-letter words here] Weekend. Think of it as a sort of choose your own wording essay.
I really should just say "It was Horrible," and stop, but writing is therapeutic, and I need to salvage the one remaining day in my weekend.
Friday night, after returning home, I heard the alarming sound of a waterfall in my bathroom. I like waterfalls - waterfalls that are OUTSIDE. Not waterfalls coming from my bathroom ceiling, cascading down the shower wall, ricocheting off the tub and streaming onto the floor. It had the lovely scent of laundry detergent mixed with gunk from the crawl space through which it passed on the way into the Hobbit Hole.
I yelled to Himself, who went upstairs to knock on the neighbors' door (still gone, still inhabited by adult children). We could hear them walking around and talking - but they didn't answer. The landlord is on vacation. I left a message on his vm, his home phone and then, in a moment of sheer desparation, I sent an e-mail that was, well, awfully honest about my frustrations. I then stood under the bathroom vent, as that is the room under which I could hear the neighbors' kids, and I vented LOUDLY about my frustrations with the third Great Flood in three weeks. It made me feel better, even if I can hear them better than they can hear me. [Insert 4-letter words]. I then shut off the main water, preventing any future flooding.
I opted to leave the gunky floor, the soaked towels and rugs (just washed a couple of days ago from LAST WEEK'S flood), the groty bathtub and icky scrubbies and shampoo bottles until Saturday, and I went to bed, finally, about 12:30 a.m.
At 2:45 a.m., I woke up in excruciating pain. I nearly panicked, until I extracted the cobwebs from my brain and realized that I am nearly 40 weeks pregnant - waking up in pain at this point is a good thing, in most instances. I lay in bed, wide awake and hurting, timing the rhythmic, intense pains. 5-6 minutes apart. Every single thing that I didn't have ready for Baby Girl's birth ran through my head (including the fact that I don't have my brother's new cell number programmed into my phone - random!). I couldn't sleep, and I hurt. I got up and moved to the couch so I could read. I was just getting to the point where I was contemplating waking Himself up to go to the hospital when the pains went away. [Insert more 4-letter words - 90 minutes of excruciating pain for nothing]. I never did go back to sleep.
At 6:30 a.m., I got up to begin scrubbing the bathroom, figuring I might as well take advantage of my wide-awake frenzy while it lasted. I tackled the bathroom floor, the kitchen floor (because if I'm mopping one, I might as well mop the other), scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen and threw all the wet, gunky bathroom linens into the washer (again). The disaster recovery people showed up (again) and proclaimed the ceiling "wet," necessitating an industrial-sized (and industrial-sounding) fan (again). In the process, they made a huge mess, after accessing the crawl space. I lost it and snapped at the poor crew (who should be family - this is their 7th trip to the Hobbit Hole in three weeks). I apologized immediately as they scurried to clean up the new mess.
I spent the day feeling wretched. Hurting, tired, violent headache - and feeling like a lousy older sister because yesterday afternoon my youngest brother, S, came to visit. I never cooked once the whole time he was here - he ate cold cereal and mac-n-cheese. Himself talked S and I into driving 30 minutes to the nearest Chipotle - that was the only semi-real food he had his entire stay. His entertainment included a trip to Target to purchase Baby Girl necessities (although we still failed to remember sheets - we own no baby sheets), though we also took him to the big area ski sale.
We arrived home only to discover the upstairs neighbors [insert long string of 4-letter words] had TURNED OFF THE A/C. AGAIN. No one was home (not that they answer the door anyway), so I left a note in the door. Although they came and went last night and this morning, I still sit in the Hobbit Sauna, basking in the warm glow of the hottest Labor Day weekend in The Frontier in 57 years. [More 4-letter words].
I slept fitfully for about 4 hours and woke up at oh-dark-hundred feeling like I was coming down with the flu - from a combination of weekend-, sleep-depravation- and pregnancy-related ailments. I forced myself to attend church, looking forward to an afternoon of rest, as Himself and I were going to a friend's house for dinner, where Himself was cooking.
Except ... [warning - insert more 4-letter words], Himself decided he didn't want to cook, but it was too late to cancel, so I spent two hours in the inferno of the Hobbit kitchen-sans-A/C slaving away on the dinner that Himself arranged and packaged it up to drive to the next county. The food was good, the company wonderful, and Himself humored me and only stayed a short time.
So, here I sit, not even able to compose something witty or well-written, sore, exhausted and extraordinarly upset with the upstairs dwellers ... hoping that tomorrow will bring sleep or at least a better day.
**I do need to note that the landlord has been wonderfully responsive ... my frustration does not lie with him.
I spoke too soon. I think Loving My Upstairs Neighbors is an abysmal failure. Because I try not to use them, and because I value self-expression, I will refer to this weekend as "The [Insert select 4-letter words here] Weekend. Think of it as a sort of choose your own wording essay.
I really should just say "It was Horrible," and stop, but writing is therapeutic, and I need to salvage the one remaining day in my weekend.
Friday night, after returning home, I heard the alarming sound of a waterfall in my bathroom. I like waterfalls - waterfalls that are OUTSIDE. Not waterfalls coming from my bathroom ceiling, cascading down the shower wall, ricocheting off the tub and streaming onto the floor. It had the lovely scent of laundry detergent mixed with gunk from the crawl space through which it passed on the way into the Hobbit Hole.
I yelled to Himself, who went upstairs to knock on the neighbors' door (still gone, still inhabited by adult children). We could hear them walking around and talking - but they didn't answer. The landlord is on vacation. I left a message on his vm, his home phone and then, in a moment of sheer desparation, I sent an e-mail that was, well, awfully honest about my frustrations. I then stood under the bathroom vent, as that is the room under which I could hear the neighbors' kids, and I vented LOUDLY about my frustrations with the third Great Flood in three weeks. It made me feel better, even if I can hear them better than they can hear me. [Insert 4-letter words]. I then shut off the main water, preventing any future flooding.
I opted to leave the gunky floor, the soaked towels and rugs (just washed a couple of days ago from LAST WEEK'S flood), the groty bathtub and icky scrubbies and shampoo bottles until Saturday, and I went to bed, finally, about 12:30 a.m.
At 2:45 a.m., I woke up in excruciating pain. I nearly panicked, until I extracted the cobwebs from my brain and realized that I am nearly 40 weeks pregnant - waking up in pain at this point is a good thing, in most instances. I lay in bed, wide awake and hurting, timing the rhythmic, intense pains. 5-6 minutes apart. Every single thing that I didn't have ready for Baby Girl's birth ran through my head (including the fact that I don't have my brother's new cell number programmed into my phone - random!). I couldn't sleep, and I hurt. I got up and moved to the couch so I could read. I was just getting to the point where I was contemplating waking Himself up to go to the hospital when the pains went away. [Insert more 4-letter words - 90 minutes of excruciating pain for nothing]. I never did go back to sleep.
At 6:30 a.m., I got up to begin scrubbing the bathroom, figuring I might as well take advantage of my wide-awake frenzy while it lasted. I tackled the bathroom floor, the kitchen floor (because if I'm mopping one, I might as well mop the other), scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen and threw all the wet, gunky bathroom linens into the washer (again). The disaster recovery people showed up (again) and proclaimed the ceiling "wet," necessitating an industrial-sized (and industrial-sounding) fan (again). In the process, they made a huge mess, after accessing the crawl space. I lost it and snapped at the poor crew (who should be family - this is their 7th trip to the Hobbit Hole in three weeks). I apologized immediately as they scurried to clean up the new mess.
I spent the day feeling wretched. Hurting, tired, violent headache - and feeling like a lousy older sister because yesterday afternoon my youngest brother, S, came to visit. I never cooked once the whole time he was here - he ate cold cereal and mac-n-cheese. Himself talked S and I into driving 30 minutes to the nearest Chipotle - that was the only semi-real food he had his entire stay. His entertainment included a trip to Target to purchase Baby Girl necessities (although we still failed to remember sheets - we own no baby sheets), though we also took him to the big area ski sale.
We arrived home only to discover the upstairs neighbors [insert long string of 4-letter words] had TURNED OFF THE A/C. AGAIN. No one was home (not that they answer the door anyway), so I left a note in the door. Although they came and went last night and this morning, I still sit in the Hobbit Sauna, basking in the warm glow of the hottest Labor Day weekend in The Frontier in 57 years. [More 4-letter words].
I slept fitfully for about 4 hours and woke up at oh-dark-hundred feeling like I was coming down with the flu - from a combination of weekend-, sleep-depravation- and pregnancy-related ailments. I forced myself to attend church, looking forward to an afternoon of rest, as Himself and I were going to a friend's house for dinner, where Himself was cooking.
Except ... [warning - insert more 4-letter words], Himself decided he didn't want to cook, but it was too late to cancel, so I spent two hours in the inferno of the Hobbit kitchen-sans-A/C slaving away on the dinner that Himself arranged and packaged it up to drive to the next county. The food was good, the company wonderful, and Himself humored me and only stayed a short time.
So, here I sit, not even able to compose something witty or well-written, sore, exhausted and extraordinarly upset with the upstairs dwellers ... hoping that tomorrow will bring sleep or at least a better day.
**I do need to note that the landlord has been wonderfully responsive ... my frustration does not lie with him.
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