The One Where the Pregnant Lady Ventures Into the Wilderness

Again.

No, the camping trip 4 weeks ago didn't cure me of my need to commune with the great outdoors this summer - though it did cure me of wanting to sleep on the ground the rest of the pregnancy. Himself's work schedule is a mess, so he couldn't get off. Grover was visiting relations in the Great Frozen North, so I took Woodstock and we set off on a 230-mile journey (36.5 miles of it on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere) to join up with The Parentals, my sister/bro-in-law/niece and a couple of other family members for four days of "luxury" camping.

It is "luxury" because I got to sleep in my parents' trailer. Although don't be too jealous - the bed was only slightly softer than the ground, and I did have to share a sleeping space with Woodstock, who would wake up each morning with the sun at 5:45 a.m. and declare, "All done sleeping mommy!" Um, sure. Me too ... I guess. It was also "luxury" because on this annual camping trip (I've gone 25 or so of my 30+ years), we eat like queens - an abudance of food was available at all times of night or day, in addition to the fabulous meals whipped up by The Parentals and my sister.

The only problem was at 36 weeks pregnant I got the a-okay to go from my Midwife only if I promised to not hike or take "long walks that other people would consider hiking" or do too much. The Parentals translated this as, "Sara should do nothing." Aggravation. I felt alternately useless and exhausted. The Parentals waivered between grateful I could come and paranoid that I'd go into labor at 9,000 feet, 2+ hours from the nearest (small) hospital.

On the way down, under strict instructions from The Parentals, I caravanned with my aunt who was also joining the family camping trip in the camping spot across the street. She told me I had to navigate, as she never could remember exactly how to get there. I joked that once we hit the dirt road, you spend the first 20 miles convinced you're on the wrong road (little to no signage) and the last 16 miles or so convinced you've passed the campground because the mileage sign (the ONE mileage sign) is wrong. I will admit, as fiercely independent as I am, I was a little nervous making the return trip today sans an escort - through nearly 40 miles of barren wilderness with no cell phone signal. I could just imagine getting a flat tire, being unable to change it due to my "condition" and having to hike (er, walk) the remaining lonely miles to the nearest town - population a few hundred people - with Woodstock on my back and a 9-month-pregnant belly.

Fortunately, lots of prayers and good fortune abounded and we made it home filthy, safe and only slightly grumpy.

Six hours later, I've unpacked, done three batches of laundry, bathed, gone to the grocery store (clean but unkempt), ordered Chinese food and tried not to think about how exhausted I am after four days of doing nothing but chasing Woodstock and sitting on my tail end.

Four weeks left (approximately), and I think I'm all adventured out.

The Great American Vacation

Himself and I have not taken a vacation in 34 months - not since we went to Boston to see Boston College take three overtimes to beat BYU in September 2006. Prior to that, we took a vacation to Newport, RI, in 2005. Before that our last vacation was our New England honeymoon in 2003.

Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.

Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.

Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?

Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.

So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.

Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.

It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.

Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.

As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).

It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.

Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.

Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.

It's Not So Much That I'm Perpetually Grumpy...

A sampling of my Facebook status over the last few days:

Sara is writing an e-mail to the Collin Raye fan club. Never thought she'd be saying something like that. ;)

Sara interviewed an awesome intern candidate today. Too bad nothing else has gone quite as planned.

Sara says seriously? Does everything have to go haywire the same week Dayna travels? Every single week he goes away, all hell breaks loose!

Sara is thinking positive thoughts so as not to be this grumpy the rest of the week.

Sara is Off to SMC of SLC Open Mic Night. Come join me. Starts at 5:30 at Neutron Interactive downtown.

Sara wants to know what happened to her kiddo who slept so well. Please tell her this not sleeping thing is a phase. Please!

Sara is wondering why she gets a burst of productivity an HOUR before closing time? It couldn't have come 7 hours ago?!

Sara is watching Woodstock try to clean up the huge mess she made on her kitchen floor. Papers and coins everywhere - and G saying "Wow! Cute! It's Funny!" Eh. Not so much.

Sara says the snow is not helping her Monday be any better. Aaarrggh.

Today, someone (not a reader of this blog) mentioned how grumpy I've been on Facebook lately, and suggested I try positive thinking.

To which I respond:
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm venting so I don't go insane.

It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that the week before last I spent 4 days travelling (mostly for work, then I got unexpectedly stranded at my parents' house) - and came home to being behind at work, behind at home and missing my kiddo like crazy.

It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that 11 hours after I arrived home for said trip, Himself left on a week-long business trip - sans his cell charger, which meant he was nearly impossible to reach all week. You can imagine the mental state one might dissolve into as a pregnant woman, temporary single parent to a sick Woodstock (bad cold/teething), full-time job, while trying to keep herself and Woodstock properly fed, clothed and clean (easier said than done). If you are a single mom and either a) employed full-time or b) pregnant - you have every ounce of sympathy I can muster. I can't imagine being you permanently.

It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm worried about half a dozen things - some in my control, some not.

It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I've been perpetually overwhelmed the past couple of weeks between a couple of big work projects, travel and all the normal stuff of life.

It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I'm re-living my life 2 years ago all over again - sitting on egg shells, wondering if we're moving, when and to which state. And what it means for my job and the pregnancy and everything else.

In short, I'm not grumpy. There's just a lot going on ...

Curses

Less than 48 hours after Himself and I got married, I left on a nearly three-week business trip that had me jetting from VA to CA to Florida. I was gone all but three weeks of our first three months as a married couple. For the next year, I continued to travel extensively - 8-15 days a month, on average, 7 or 8 months out of the year.

So it really is Himself's turn to go away on business trips to exotic (ha!) destinations, dine at new restaurants, schmooze with complete strangers, and sleep in some anonymous hotel room.

Except, when I was doing it, I left Himself to look after our cat, Rameses.

My payback is I get to play single parent to a toddler - which is more than fine. Woodstock is a lovely toddler and it's really only like playing single parent for a couple of hours a day anyway. Not a big deal. Plus, we get to eat pasta for dinner and we get to eat all of the blackberries I bought by ourselves, because they certainly won't be good when Himself returns at week's end.

However, I seem to be cursed to fall apart physically when Himself takes his (now) monthly business trips. I had felt like the typical lousy pregnant woman over the weekend - the "morning" (code word for "all day") sickness keeps rearing it's ugly head and anything other than sweats hurts my now very tender, VERY bruised mid-section. But yesterday was new ... I woke up with stabbing abdominal pains and all manner of digestive protestations. We'll leave what could be a very colorful (and gross) description at merely that.

I dropped Himself off at the airport, then ventured to Happy Valley to celebrate my mom's birthday with her family (my mom and sister were in town for the weekend). I managed to get through the lunch without eating more than a few bites and therefore saving myself (and others) from any mid-meal bathroom dashes.

I bid adieu to the family, then drug Woodstock (half asleep) to one of those department store having crazy sales to look for cold-weather gear for her for next season.

On the way home, I was struck with absolute searing pain and narcolepsy and had to pull over in a grocery store parking lot to sleep for 40 minutes (Woodstock, fortunately, was also napping) in the car. I awoke to Woodstock saying "Mommy! All done! Woodstock all done!" As much as I wanted to sleep for another month, Woodstock was not about to let me - something about being strapped into a carseat for half the day.

I made it home, fed Woodstock leftovers and collapsed.

I woke up this morning with the digestive issues at a slightly duller roar, searing pain still alive and well. At least I've kept down cereal, but liquids are another (strange) matter.

Just like last time - fine until the day Himself leaves, then WHAM! some sort of ailment hits me out of nowhere.

Friday cannot come soon enough. Or, maybe I should just be realistic and say August. I'm really looking forward to August.

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Running from Kites

I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.

My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.

I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.

I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.

We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.

Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.

I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.

Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.

Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.

All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.

Pausing.

It must have been the cooler air.

Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.

Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.

Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.

Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.

I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.

Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.

I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.

However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!

It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.

I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.

We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.

As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.

Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.

It was the perfect mid-week pause.

Mexican McDonald's Mayhem

Last night, Himself had to work until 9 p.m.

We had to return Nephew to the very top of the state by 8:30 p.m. Which meant the duty of getting him there fell on me.

It was Grover's last night at our house. He and Himself catch a plane at 11-something tonight to head East.

I got home from work, piled all three kids in the car and we headed north. We zipped along for the first 20 miles and then ... well, one thing you should know about The Frontier is that there are only two seasons - winter and construction. We hit the awful, painful, traffic-slugging, lane-reducing, disasterous construction in the next county up.

Stop and go. And stop. And crawl. I haven't been in traffic that annyoing since I left DC. Mostly annoying because on the other side of the big orange barrels was a 2-lane-width stretch of smooth new asphalt that really should not have been sitting useless.

Of course, Grover and Woodstock had conked out the minute we left the driveway. Nephew, surely bored by NPR's Marketplace on the radio, had shoved his iPod in his ears and was looking mournfully out the window. We were off to a wild beginning.

In order for Grover to not have to endure his last night with us in the car, stuck in traffic for the 162-mile round-trip excursion with nothing else, I took them all out to dinner. Me. One teen. One pre-teen. One baby. You can only imagine the looks we got.

I decided on Mexican. Eeasy enough to satisfy everyone, right? Apparently not. Our final tally at the Mexican restaurant was Grover's "burrito" with just meat and cheese, Nephew's bacon cheeseburger, Woodstock's rice and my Chicken Mole (which I only ordered because I knew Himself would ask me how the Mexican restaurant was, and I didn't want to have to admit that no one, in fact, had ordered anything Mexican).

Add to that a 10-minute wait between our drink order and the next time we saw our waitress (who arrived sans drinks), the 15-minute wait for a table when there were five completely empty tables when we arrived, Woodstock's insistence on happily flinging rice all over - encouraged by Grover and Nephew's giggling, the fact that my food was nothing more than mediocre, and I was seriously thinking we should have done a drive-through run at a burger joint.

We made it to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state, where we were meeting Nephew's dad, only 15 minutes late. As we were pulling in, Nephew said, "I don't really want to go home tonight." Grover said, "I don't really want to go home tomorrow." Woodstock clapped her hands in agreement.

The thought passed through my mind ... "Seriously? We've had the most convoluted, traffic-construction-mess, hot and sticky, mediocre food night of your entire stay and you don't want to LEAVE?!"

But I didn't say anything. Someday someone will say, "remember when?" and we'll all chatter about the happy adventure that involved not-very-Mexican food, road construction and a trip to the northernmost McDonald's parking lot in the state. Stranger things have happened.

F-E-V-E-R Spells Disappointment

I am, by nature, rather high strung. As a result, there are very few activities or places that I find relaxing. In fact, there is only one place where I feel absolutely, totally relaxed - where I can seperate all of the nonsense chatter in my head from complete serenity.

It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).

This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).

The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.

We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.

An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.

For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.

I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.

Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.

The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"

I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.

I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.

It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.

I will keep on running. Running and running and running.

(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).

Something Wrong With This Picture

(if I had a picture, anyway).

Everyone said we were crazy.

Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.

We tried to go camping.

Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.

The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.

The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.

Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.

Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.

After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.

Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.

I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.

Back Seat Yoga

I keep hoping to have a little extra money to start a yoga class one of these days, after an extremely successful venture into yoga during pregnancy. No such luck yet. However, this weekend I got 9+ hours of practice driving to and from The Parents' house. It's what happens when you try to haul a baby (and all the assorted paraphernalia) and all of Himself's assorted ski stuff in a compact car - necessitating that my 5'9" frame be folded into the back seat next to Baby Girl, smooshed behind Himself and next to the end of the skis, which got the passenger seat all to themselves.

There was no downward facing dog or warrior positions, but there were several others:

*Sideways facing professional: Buried in work, I took the opportunity to engage in some productivity on the way down, plugging my laptop into a power inverter and typing away, answering the occasional e-mail on my trusty Blackberry. Of course, Himself's seat was almost in my lap, necessitating that I turn almost sideways in order to be able to open my laptop far enough to actually be useful.

*Contoured feeding machine: Since Baby Girl eats every three hours and the drive is 4+ hours, I had to give Baby Girl a bottle on the way. In order to get the right angle with the bottle, I had to lean back to miss the skis dividing the back seat into two, twisting myself into previously unattainable positions.

*Sleepy mom: On the return trip I finagled a reverse sideways position, using the side of Baby Girl's seat and her soft pink blankie as a pillow. I actually think I slept more than Baby Girl did - until she started pulling my hair.

And here I was wondering what possessed people to buy larger vehicles upon the birth of just one child.

Silly me.

Ode to Connecticut (the Avenue)

Did you know the state song of Connecticut is Yankee Doodle? Does it really matter? Not so much.

Connecticut is a fine state (somewhere there is a photo of me at the Connecticut welcome center, just outside Danbury across from NY - on our honeymoon, that photo was taken to commemorate my first foray into the great state of Connecticut and New England itself. Himself still teases me about it - especially since I was wearing my Farmer John overalls, which he loathes).

But Connecticut, while a fine state, isn't the Connecticut I love most. My favorite street in DC is Connecticut Ave. I have many fond memories schlepping up and down Connecticut Ave. in a tour bus or school bus or other such vehicle when I worked as a youth tour guide in DC. I have some not-quite-as-fond memories about the street, from the times when I was commuting via train from Maryland to DC, there was a fire in the tunnel, and I walked several miles UP Connecticut Ave. from Dupont Circle to Brandywine, approaching the MD border. In the humidity of late June.

My trip to DC this past week took me to a hotel just off Connecticut, where the convention was held. To illustrate my nerdiness about DC, as I was carpooling in with a friend, I was crazy-excited about cutting through Georgetown to get to upper Connecticut Ave. because it brought back so many memories. Having lived with me for several years, she was gracious enough to realize it was truly heartfelt emotion rather than hormonal insanity and thankfully let it pass without too much mocking. On my last day at the convention, I set out to wander along Connecticut Ave. in the warm afternoon sun, after I completed my work.

I love Connecticut Ave. It is one of the most vibrant streets in the city, entering DC at Chevy Chase circle among large, expensive homes, small shops and tiny strip malls. It meanders south, passing the University of the District of Columbia, the Uptown Theater (where movies premiering in DC actually premier - and the only theater in the city with a working balcony), the strip mall across from the Uptown theater, which had the first off-street parking in DC - back when off-street parking was considered a developmental accomplishment instead of sprawl. Along the way it passes the zoo, the Taft Memorial Bridge, the fine homes and embassies south of Rock Creek Park, the shops and cafes of Dupont Circle, and the business district as Connecticut meets K street - home to DCs power brokers - lobbyists, lawyers and consulting firms.

My walk took me to the National Zoo. Having not paid homage to the baby (though not so little) panda in a very long time, I wandered into the zoo, drifted among families with strollers and small children and couples linked arm-in-arm using the zoo their own lovers' lane. I remembered all the times we brought Son to the zoo when he was little - back when I was the cool girlfriend instead of the wicked step-mother, back when he loved to ride the train so much, we'd sometimes ride it back and forth across the river - or up to the zoo - just for fun. I found myself anxiously awaiting the day when Baby Girl would be excited to go to the zoo - and longed to bring her to the places that are seared in my memory for a thousand different reasons.

For a moment, none of the stress of life existed - no bills to pay, no unemployment woes, no one needing me just then, no need to think about the future, or the time or what was on the perpetual to do list.

I basked in the sun, took in the scents of the handful of Indian, Lebanese and Mediterranean cafes, embraced the fact that not one person sharing the sidewalk with me was just like me and, for the first time in months, felt as if, even if only for a moment, that I belonged.

It's a good thing I got a dose of reality in the form of horrid Saturday-night traffic, or I might have missed my plane back to the real world.

Voyeurism

So much to write ... so little time.

I spent three days in DC attending a political convention for a client. I have always remained painfully neutral on paper regarding politics, so I can easily slide between one side and the other, voting my mind, feeling beholden to no one.

Going to this convention was not neutral. However, I approached it with a sort of open mind - going to test the waters again. I've been disenfranchised with politics and parties of late. As a friend said on Sunday, "I'm too passionate about politics to be this apathetic," which describes me exactly.

I left feeling as if my political ideologies had been crushed to smithereens. I left feeling almost personally attacked. I left, tempted for a moment, to do a radical about-face and run screaming to the other side of the aisle, before realizing that if I attended one of THEIR political conventions, I'd likely feel the same way.

It happens when you mix religion and politics, I guess, or try to.

During the course of a few workshops and interactions, I heard my religion condemned. In vicious, bold strokes, the panelists and attendees painted a picture of what the party's membership encompassed. They made it clear that as a member of this religion, I was not fit to hold the same political ideologies because I didn't share the same fundamental belief in God. They made it clear that they didn't tolerate diversity of theological ideology. They mocked someone challenging a tenet - in front of 100 people. They mocked another person for daring to label certain actions as religious and cultural bigotry. They insinuated that if one didn't believe the same way he or she was Godless, a liar and a poor excuse for an American.

I left, feeling stunned, shaken to my very core. When the emotion passed, I regained sanity and the realization that it was all just rhetoric and pomp. I've seen the other side do the same thing, though it's never been personal to me.

It made me sick. It made me shrink and wonder what happens to make people so convinced that they are the only people in the world who are right. It made me sick to hear specific attacks made. It made me sick to hear someone call someone else a liar, even if she was a bit eccentric. It made me sick to realize that, as Americans, we still don't embrace agreeing to disagree. We convince ourselves that we MUST recruit everyone to our side of the aisle, even if it means dragging out personal artillery - God, faith, emotion, specific attacks.

I left feeling as if I'd been a voyeur watching the dark characters of night through a lighted window, coming away with a soul stained by the ugliness of it all. I felt as if I had crossed into a secret enclave of rabid eccentrics, and it no longer mattered what political side they claimed. Indeed, it no longer mattered that it was politics at all. What mattered was the lingering feeling that I had entered into one side of the darkened shadows of American politics, faith and government.

Politics is still fascinating to me, but I am sill not anxious to identify with a party, an ideology or a cause. It reaffirmed that I stay safely in my observant neutrality.

Or, I move to Canada.

So if you are in Virginia, you MUST read this

I am coming to Virginia.

Beloved homeland (okay, not really, but possibly - and it's not the frontier).

I am coming TOMORROW as in 25 hours from now I will be landing.

I am FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT. FREAKING OUT.

I booked my ticket 30 minutes ago. I opened my big fat mouth, made a recommendation to a client, and *poof* just like that I'm leaving on a jetplane.

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH.

On one hand, I'm excited - it's Virginia, there isn't as much snow there. I get to see at least one friend.

On about 12 other hands, I'm panicked, terrified, and anxious.

Do I leave Baby Girl here? Do I take her with me? If I do, whatever am I going to do with her for the time I'm working at a convention? But I'm not coming home until the end of the weekend. Four days is a long time to be gone. I'm panicked at the thought of leaving her and panicked at the though of bringing her. I don't know how to fly with a baby. Good grief, the amount of stuff she required for a DRIVE four states away was enough to confine us to a small travel suitcase, because she and her entourage of stuff took up the entire car.

I don't have life insurance. I've never not had life insurance. Why this even bothers me, I have no idea.
I don't have ANY clean clothes. As in I'm wearing the last pair of clean dress pants I have right now.

I HATE FLYING. As in deathly afraid of flying. I usually have MONTHS or at least WEEKS to panic. I have - um - 16 hours.

Someone tell me that this is a good thing.
And those of you in VA - I might have time for a quick hello. And! I could return Oliver & Kristin's handy-dandy rubbermaid container they lent us the morning we left for The Frontier (if I'm not so panicked that I forget to pack it).

AAARRGGGGHHH.

Wait, I already said that.