For the first time today, a little over four months after Parks's birth, I donned a pair of regular jeans. Regular, as in non-maternity. Right.
Some of you may be ready to congratulate me, as it's quite a wondrous milestone to be back in one's pre-pregnancy jeans. Those of you, however, don't have all the facts. You see, these aren't my pre-pregnancy jeans. These are jeans that I shamefacedly bought last night at Steinmart. Jeans that are, unfortunately, 3 sizes bigger than those I wore before.
And yet, in spite of the embarrassingly large size, the muffin top effect still exists. You know, the way one's excess flab is squeezed in a pair of too-tight pants so that it billows over the top button, creating a roll the size of the giant weiner on top of the Oscar Meyer mobile. A roll that nothing but a flowy top over a tight camisole can hide, thus limiting my upper body wardrobe, as well. Sigh.
I knew it was time to bite the bullet when I saw Cal smirking at me as I pulled on my maternity jeans yesterday. "What?" I growled at him. He just laughed and shook his head.
Really, though, he should just be glad that I'm wearing anything other than sweatpants, seeing as how I don't leave the house a whole lot. And let me just tell you, ladies-without-kids: once you wear maternity jeans, you will NEVER want to squeeze into your skinny jeans again. Seriously. They're like pajamas, but no one ever knows, as long as you wear tops that are long enough to cover the elastic band at the waist. They are perfectly dreamy.
Anyway, if nothing else, perhaps having this unforgiving waistband digging into my gut will finally motivate me to get some of this baby fat off before it's completely out of control. Starting Monday, I'll be counting those points again.
Then again, our school-year routine won't start back until the next week. Maybe I'll count the points then, instead ...
8.04.2009
7.17.2009
Stepping back out
5 months. 5 months! I couldn't believe it when I logged onto my site a minute ago and realized how long it had been since I've written. I mean, I know I haven't since Parks was born, but 5 months? That's almost 6 months. And 6 months is half of a year. Wow.
My lack of posting is the consequence of several circumstances:
1) Time. For the first two months of his life, Parks didn't nap. At least not in his bed. Kinda hard to type a blog when there's a child in your arms, you know? For the past two months, he's napped, but only for 30 minutes at a time. Those precious 30 minutes (about 4 per day) are devoted to reading (but not responding to) email, eating, showering, sleeping. Usually in that order.
2) Prior to yesterday, I had 40 thank-you notes that were, as yet, unwritten. Any time that was not spent on the aforementioned four activities was spent feeling guilty (but not doing anything) about those 40 unwritten thank-you notes. Written, finally, yesterday. Yes, I'm currently taking a very deep bow.
3) Lastly, and equally important, is the lack of interesting events to write about. I have no problems with blogs written about a people's children. In fact, I read several, and it's a great way to keep up with out-of-town family members' kids, etc. However, when I started this blog four years ago, I did it with the intention of writing about MY life and MY experiences, not those of my kids. In other words, I don't want this to turn into a blog about Parks's first word ("Dumbledore," of course) or sentence ("Fly, you fools!") or steps or girlfriend or whatever, even though I'm sure it'll happen occasionally. While I may write about my take on motherhood, I want to use it to maintain my identity as Miriam, not as Parks's mother. Make sense?
So for my first blog as a mother, I thought I'd take it easy on myself and just make a little list of the ways my life is different now, for better and for worse.
-- I caught myself yesterday holding my bare hand cupped in front of Parks's mouth as he spit up his last feeding. I didn't have a burp cloth handy, and I had just put him in his clean pajamas. I had frightening flashbacks of seeing other mothers in my past use the same gesture to catch the gum that their children had been chewing. Hmmm.
-- Remember the Miriam who loved living by herself? Whose idea of a perfect day was holing up in her house alone to read a good book in her pajamas for hours? Since Parks was born almost four months ago, I have been really and truly alone for a grand total of two times, thanks to Cal's taking the baby on shopping jaunts to the sporting goods stores. Two times! 4 hours, tops. Sure, our parents and a couple of our friends (Elizabeth, namely) have kept Parks while I've run to Walmart or out to eat with Cal. But can a trip to Walmart be counted as alone time? Don't think so.
-- I have not slept a full night in four months.
-- I am on an antidepressant. (Yes, it's true.)
-- I have only seen one movie in the theater in four months. I cried when it was over and I had to go back home. No, the movie wasn't sad ... it was, actually, a comedy. Did I mention the antidepressant?
-- I, a pridefully independent person, have relied more on my mother in the last few months than I have in, perhaps, my entire life. The wealth of knowledge and insight there is amazing. From my sisters, too.
-- I know now just how sweet a sleeping baby can be, especially when he's in my arms.
-- I have not only learned what a breast pump is, exactly, but I've learned how to use it quite proficiently. Consequently, I've learned to hate it quite passionately.
-- I have also learned that I blessedly inherited my mother's gift for fast childbirth (3 hours). I also inherited her difficulty with nursing. See above re:breastpump.
-- I've occasionally found myself in the last few weeks wishing I were going back to school with everyone else in a couple of weeks.
-- I get excited when I suddenly remember another children's song from VBS or elementary school. I've got a repertoire of thousands, I'm sure; I just can't think of what they are.
-- Huge shocker: I actually have started to wonder if I might want to move back to Thomasville one day. Having a baby without family around to help out from time to time is a lot tougher than I thought it'd be.
-- I've discovered the difficulty in letting a child cry himself to sleep. Previously, I always thought moms were silly when they went on and on about how terrible it is. Yesterday, I wanted to take all those thoughts back ... as I was crying, too.
-- I have learned just how patient Cal, a self-described impatient person, can truly be. He's been wonderful.
-- I have also learned just how hard of a sleeper Cal is in the middle of the night. At least, how hard of a sleeper he PRETENDS to be ...
-- In the last month or so, I'm understanding what everyone said (and I never believed) about how you forget how hard it is in the beginning once the babies get a bit older. In spite of how dramatically my life has changed, Parks is stealing my heart more and more every day.
My lack of posting is the consequence of several circumstances:
1) Time. For the first two months of his life, Parks didn't nap. At least not in his bed. Kinda hard to type a blog when there's a child in your arms, you know? For the past two months, he's napped, but only for 30 minutes at a time. Those precious 30 minutes (about 4 per day) are devoted to reading (but not responding to) email, eating, showering, sleeping. Usually in that order.
2) Prior to yesterday, I had 40 thank-you notes that were, as yet, unwritten. Any time that was not spent on the aforementioned four activities was spent feeling guilty (but not doing anything) about those 40 unwritten thank-you notes. Written, finally, yesterday. Yes, I'm currently taking a very deep bow.
3) Lastly, and equally important, is the lack of interesting events to write about. I have no problems with blogs written about a people's children. In fact, I read several, and it's a great way to keep up with out-of-town family members' kids, etc. However, when I started this blog four years ago, I did it with the intention of writing about MY life and MY experiences, not those of my kids. In other words, I don't want this to turn into a blog about Parks's first word ("Dumbledore," of course) or sentence ("Fly, you fools!") or steps or girlfriend or whatever, even though I'm sure it'll happen occasionally. While I may write about my take on motherhood, I want to use it to maintain my identity as Miriam, not as Parks's mother. Make sense?
So for my first blog as a mother, I thought I'd take it easy on myself and just make a little list of the ways my life is different now, for better and for worse.
-- I caught myself yesterday holding my bare hand cupped in front of Parks's mouth as he spit up his last feeding. I didn't have a burp cloth handy, and I had just put him in his clean pajamas. I had frightening flashbacks of seeing other mothers in my past use the same gesture to catch the gum that their children had been chewing. Hmmm.
-- Remember the Miriam who loved living by herself? Whose idea of a perfect day was holing up in her house alone to read a good book in her pajamas for hours? Since Parks was born almost four months ago, I have been really and truly alone for a grand total of two times, thanks to Cal's taking the baby on shopping jaunts to the sporting goods stores. Two times! 4 hours, tops. Sure, our parents and a couple of our friends (Elizabeth, namely) have kept Parks while I've run to Walmart or out to eat with Cal. But can a trip to Walmart be counted as alone time? Don't think so.
-- I have not slept a full night in four months.
-- I am on an antidepressant. (Yes, it's true.)
-- I have only seen one movie in the theater in four months. I cried when it was over and I had to go back home. No, the movie wasn't sad ... it was, actually, a comedy. Did I mention the antidepressant?
-- I, a pridefully independent person, have relied more on my mother in the last few months than I have in, perhaps, my entire life. The wealth of knowledge and insight there is amazing. From my sisters, too.
-- I know now just how sweet a sleeping baby can be, especially when he's in my arms.
-- I have not only learned what a breast pump is, exactly, but I've learned how to use it quite proficiently. Consequently, I've learned to hate it quite passionately.
-- I have also learned that I blessedly inherited my mother's gift for fast childbirth (3 hours). I also inherited her difficulty with nursing. See above re:breastpump.
-- I've occasionally found myself in the last few weeks wishing I were going back to school with everyone else in a couple of weeks.
-- I get excited when I suddenly remember another children's song from VBS or elementary school. I've got a repertoire of thousands, I'm sure; I just can't think of what they are.
-- Huge shocker: I actually have started to wonder if I might want to move back to Thomasville one day. Having a baby without family around to help out from time to time is a lot tougher than I thought it'd be.
-- I've discovered the difficulty in letting a child cry himself to sleep. Previously, I always thought moms were silly when they went on and on about how terrible it is. Yesterday, I wanted to take all those thoughts back ... as I was crying, too.
-- I have learned just how patient Cal, a self-described impatient person, can truly be. He's been wonderful.
-- I have also learned just how hard of a sleeper Cal is in the middle of the night. At least, how hard of a sleeper he PRETENDS to be ...
-- In the last month or so, I'm understanding what everyone said (and I never believed) about how you forget how hard it is in the beginning once the babies get a bit older. In spite of how dramatically my life has changed, Parks is stealing my heart more and more every day.
2.24.2009
Bonus!
I got my second jury summons in a 2-month span of time the other day. The first time, I got a deferral because it was the last day of the quarter at school, and I couldn't get out of class. This time, I wasn't sure I'd be so lucky.
However, yesterday at my bi-weekly doctor's appointment, I was scheduling all of my visits several weeks in advance. Turns out that the only time they could take me for my 36-week appt (which includes a sonogram, doctor's visit, AND the 30-minute non-stress test*) was on the same day that I had been summoned. When I hemmed and hawed a bit about it, the nurse very nonchalantly said, "Oh, well, we'll just write you a medical excuse and get you on out of that jury duty." Nice.
I called the clerk's office today to see if I still needed to come in on the assigned day, doctor's note in hand. When I told her my predicament ("Um, I'm 8 months pregnant and have 3 procedures scheduled at the doctor's office that day."), the lady promptly and sweetly replied "Well, I think you'd better not come to jury duty, don't you?"
I explained to her that I couldn't take another deferment, as the next time I'd be even more out-of-commission with a newborn on my hands. After asking me my plans for post-maternity leave (ie, "Are you going to be a stay-at-home mom?") and hearing my affirmative response, she then gave me the best news of the day.
"Well, honey," she said, "a stay-at-home mom gets removed from the list until her child is 6 years old."
Hallelujah! So, not only am I out of jury duty for March 9th, but I'm out of jury duty until March 9th, 2015! Yes!
In other exciting news, I've saved up enough sick days that I can take off from work at 37-weeks pregnant (3 weeks before I'm due, and less than 3 weeks from today), starting on March 16th, and not lose any of my salary. I'll have to go back to work for finals week, but it'll just be a 4-day week consisting of one half-day and 3 two-hour days of exam proctoring. It's been a good day!
*Non-stress test not so bad after all; merely time consuming. I sit in a recliner with a little belt-like contraption velcroed around my stomach, reading my book and pressing a button (think Jeopardy buzzer) whenever I feel Parks move. I have to stay for a minimum of 20 minutes, maybe more -- it all depends on if he's cooperating and being pretty active. Either way, it's 20+ minutes in a recliner, reading a book. Not much different from my favorite summer days, with the exception of being able to hear the baby's little heartbeat steadily drumming on from the machine next to me. Kinda nice, actually.
However, yesterday at my bi-weekly doctor's appointment, I was scheduling all of my visits several weeks in advance. Turns out that the only time they could take me for my 36-week appt (which includes a sonogram, doctor's visit, AND the 30-minute non-stress test*) was on the same day that I had been summoned. When I hemmed and hawed a bit about it, the nurse very nonchalantly said, "Oh, well, we'll just write you a medical excuse and get you on out of that jury duty." Nice.
I called the clerk's office today to see if I still needed to come in on the assigned day, doctor's note in hand. When I told her my predicament ("Um, I'm 8 months pregnant and have 3 procedures scheduled at the doctor's office that day."), the lady promptly and sweetly replied "Well, I think you'd better not come to jury duty, don't you?"
I explained to her that I couldn't take another deferment, as the next time I'd be even more out-of-commission with a newborn on my hands. After asking me my plans for post-maternity leave (ie, "Are you going to be a stay-at-home mom?") and hearing my affirmative response, she then gave me the best news of the day.
"Well, honey," she said, "a stay-at-home mom gets removed from the list until her child is 6 years old."
Hallelujah! So, not only am I out of jury duty for March 9th, but I'm out of jury duty until March 9th, 2015! Yes!
In other exciting news, I've saved up enough sick days that I can take off from work at 37-weeks pregnant (3 weeks before I'm due, and less than 3 weeks from today), starting on March 16th, and not lose any of my salary. I'll have to go back to work for finals week, but it'll just be a 4-day week consisting of one half-day and 3 two-hour days of exam proctoring. It's been a good day!
*Non-stress test not so bad after all; merely time consuming. I sit in a recliner with a little belt-like contraption velcroed around my stomach, reading my book and pressing a button (think Jeopardy buzzer) whenever I feel Parks move. I have to stay for a minimum of 20 minutes, maybe more -- it all depends on if he's cooperating and being pretty active. Either way, it's 20+ minutes in a recliner, reading a book. Not much different from my favorite summer days, with the exception of being able to hear the baby's little heartbeat steadily drumming on from the machine next to me. Kinda nice, actually.
34 weeks (out of 40) and counting
2.15.2009
7th inning stretch
I'm currently sitting in my pajamas, sipping decaf coffee and staring out at the choppy waves of the Gulf of Mexico from the couch of my parents' condo in Destin. Mom and Dad are at church, and Cal is still asleep.
It's nice to be here; Cal and I haven't been able to make the 5+ hour drive since last spring break. On that trip, we stopped in Thomasville to pick up my sister Amy and her 3-week-old baby William. Now, William's 1-year-old birthday is coming up in 3weeks, and I'm nearly 30 pounds heavier and counting the days until the arrival of my own little boy. Who could've ever guessed?
Our lives have been a flurry of activity lately. On top of all the baby preoccupation, I've had a job interview for a teaching position at one of the local colleges, and I have another later this week. I'm trying to pick up a night class or two to teach in the fall in order to not only supplement our income, but also help keep me sane. We have, in case you're not aware, decided for me to resign from my teaching post at FPD so that I can stay home with Parks. If I teach at night, Cal will be able to be home, and the problem of paying for childcare is, theoretically, solved.
The folks at Macon State seemed genuinely interested, but they won't know until July (or, one of them said, possibly even two weeks before the semester starts) if they have any openings. It all depends on enrollment levels, so we're praying for strong student turnouts on registration day.
My doctor's appointments are currently coming every two weeks, although starting next week I'll have to visit twice a week for something called a "non-stress test" because of my chronic hypertension issues. Everyone assures me that it's a non-invasive procedure, but when they go on to describe the tubes, machines, etc that will be hooked up to my belly, the doubts as to their honesty begin to creep in. I'll let you know.
I'm 33 weeks along, which, in the non-pregnant world, equals about 7 1/2 months. You can thank me later for sparing you the math. In spite of our busy-ness, I feel like I've been pregnant for 10 years, and 7 months pregnant for 9 of those. It's not so much that I can't wait to have that little bundle of joy here for all the cuddling and cooing (I don't think I'm so naive to the trials of motherhood as that) as it is that I just don't really like being pregnant.
So many people go on and on about the blessings of the knowledge of growing a child in their womb, and, really, I am grateful that I can have this experience when so many women are unable to for one reason or another. However, I'm simply ready to have my body back to myself.
Due to the extra weight on the front side of my torso (currently about 28 pounds -- or a little more than one Nick the Cat, as I describe it to my husband), I find myself more clumsier than ever. Now, you all can vouch for the fact that I have never claimed to be anything more than the least graceful of all women, but lately it's gotten out of hand. Since getting pregnant, I have fallen 4 times. The first being the incident in the school cafeteria, the most recent being the parking lot in front of the Destin Steinmart just yesterday.
Aside from the slip in the lunchroom, all of the falls have been classic, fall flat on your face kinds of events. Two of them occurred while I was out walking in the neighborhood; yesterday's was a little more public and, therefore, a quite bit more embarrassing. For each I've managed to keep off my stomach. Yesterday's maneuver was at the expense of my poor chin: as I was going down face-first, I curled up my torso so that it wouldn't hit the ground and therefore ended up with my face on the asphalt. Sheesh. Two skinned knees, a scraped face, and a swollen ankle later, I'm fine and Parks is still moving violently (and visibly) within my belly, even as I type.
Cal, understandably, is quite concerned at my propensity to collapse at the first sign of a pebble in my path, although his solution of buying me a walking stick (even one of those "cool ones" that he insists exist in the world) just doesn't seem to appeal to me. He finally acknowledged yesterday that with the way things have been going lately, the additional, stabilizing "leg" might complicate my clumsiness even more by getting in the way and causing even more accidents.
Sleeping, too, has become much less pleasurable than it once was. For Christmas, Cal bought me one of those pregnancy body pillows, and it has worked wonders for my comfort levels. However, switching from side-to-side in the middle of the night with no stomach muscles and a nearly 30-pound weight anchoring my front side of the body to the mattress is still a challenge that I'm not sure how to overcome.
Whenever I mention this particular woe in public, all current mothers (and some aggravatingly "all-knowing" men, too) smile smugly and say, "Just wait, honey, until that baby gets here; you'll be wishing that turning over in the middle of the night is at the top of your list of sleeping problems!" Don't they realize that I know that? Reminding me of a fact that I'm well aware of --that my favorite pasttime is soon to be nonexistent-- doesn't help matters. It's the same as when Cal's friends laugh when he says he's busy, then say something like "Oooooh, just wait till the baby gets here! No more tennis for you!" We're aware of the sacrifices, all you joykillers out there. Just trying not to dwell on them. Thank you very much.
All jokes aside, I really have had it easy. I've been able to continue teaching and plan to up until spring break, which conveniently falls one week before my due date. My students aren't real excited about this fact. They keep asking when my baby is coming, not out of excitement for his arrival, but out of anticipation of my departure and the arrival of my fresh, young long-term substitute. "She's SOOOOO nice!" they all exclaim when they hear who's scheduled to take my place.
I've also felt pretty good the entire time, other than the normal fatigue, and Cal says my hormone-induced moodiness hasn't been too overwhelming, either. Of course, what's he going to say, right? He's been wonderful through it all ... cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. I don't know what I would've done without him.
This post, as usual, really has no point; however, I haven't written in a while and it'll be nice to have a record of these things a few years from now when Parks is older and these memories have all become distant. I should wrap things up, though. Mom and Dad are due home any minute, and I must go take care of this coffee stain that, like other food spills of late, has streaked down the front of my shirt instead of falling straight to my lap. The lap, you know, is quickly disappearing.
Bring on Parks!
It's nice to be here; Cal and I haven't been able to make the 5+ hour drive since last spring break. On that trip, we stopped in Thomasville to pick up my sister Amy and her 3-week-old baby William. Now, William's 1-year-old birthday is coming up in 3weeks, and I'm nearly 30 pounds heavier and counting the days until the arrival of my own little boy. Who could've ever guessed?
Our lives have been a flurry of activity lately. On top of all the baby preoccupation, I've had a job interview for a teaching position at one of the local colleges, and I have another later this week. I'm trying to pick up a night class or two to teach in the fall in order to not only supplement our income, but also help keep me sane. We have, in case you're not aware, decided for me to resign from my teaching post at FPD so that I can stay home with Parks. If I teach at night, Cal will be able to be home, and the problem of paying for childcare is, theoretically, solved.
The folks at Macon State seemed genuinely interested, but they won't know until July (or, one of them said, possibly even two weeks before the semester starts) if they have any openings. It all depends on enrollment levels, so we're praying for strong student turnouts on registration day.
My doctor's appointments are currently coming every two weeks, although starting next week I'll have to visit twice a week for something called a "non-stress test" because of my chronic hypertension issues. Everyone assures me that it's a non-invasive procedure, but when they go on to describe the tubes, machines, etc that will be hooked up to my belly, the doubts as to their honesty begin to creep in. I'll let you know.
I'm 33 weeks along, which, in the non-pregnant world, equals about 7 1/2 months. You can thank me later for sparing you the math. In spite of our busy-ness, I feel like I've been pregnant for 10 years, and 7 months pregnant for 9 of those. It's not so much that I can't wait to have that little bundle of joy here for all the cuddling and cooing (I don't think I'm so naive to the trials of motherhood as that) as it is that I just don't really like being pregnant.
So many people go on and on about the blessings of the knowledge of growing a child in their womb, and, really, I am grateful that I can have this experience when so many women are unable to for one reason or another. However, I'm simply ready to have my body back to myself.
Due to the extra weight on the front side of my torso (currently about 28 pounds -- or a little more than one Nick the Cat, as I describe it to my husband), I find myself more clumsier than ever. Now, you all can vouch for the fact that I have never claimed to be anything more than the least graceful of all women, but lately it's gotten out of hand. Since getting pregnant, I have fallen 4 times. The first being the incident in the school cafeteria, the most recent being the parking lot in front of the Destin Steinmart just yesterday.
Aside from the slip in the lunchroom, all of the falls have been classic, fall flat on your face kinds of events. Two of them occurred while I was out walking in the neighborhood; yesterday's was a little more public and, therefore, a quite bit more embarrassing. For each I've managed to keep off my stomach. Yesterday's maneuver was at the expense of my poor chin: as I was going down face-first, I curled up my torso so that it wouldn't hit the ground and therefore ended up with my face on the asphalt. Sheesh. Two skinned knees, a scraped face, and a swollen ankle later, I'm fine and Parks is still moving violently (and visibly) within my belly, even as I type.
Cal, understandably, is quite concerned at my propensity to collapse at the first sign of a pebble in my path, although his solution of buying me a walking stick (even one of those "cool ones" that he insists exist in the world) just doesn't seem to appeal to me. He finally acknowledged yesterday that with the way things have been going lately, the additional, stabilizing "leg" might complicate my clumsiness even more by getting in the way and causing even more accidents.
Sleeping, too, has become much less pleasurable than it once was. For Christmas, Cal bought me one of those pregnancy body pillows, and it has worked wonders for my comfort levels. However, switching from side-to-side in the middle of the night with no stomach muscles and a nearly 30-pound weight anchoring my front side of the body to the mattress is still a challenge that I'm not sure how to overcome.
Whenever I mention this particular woe in public, all current mothers (and some aggravatingly "all-knowing" men, too) smile smugly and say, "Just wait, honey, until that baby gets here; you'll be wishing that turning over in the middle of the night is at the top of your list of sleeping problems!" Don't they realize that I know that? Reminding me of a fact that I'm well aware of --that my favorite pasttime is soon to be nonexistent-- doesn't help matters. It's the same as when Cal's friends laugh when he says he's busy, then say something like "Oooooh, just wait till the baby gets here! No more tennis for you!" We're aware of the sacrifices, all you joykillers out there. Just trying not to dwell on them. Thank you very much.
All jokes aside, I really have had it easy. I've been able to continue teaching and plan to up until spring break, which conveniently falls one week before my due date. My students aren't real excited about this fact. They keep asking when my baby is coming, not out of excitement for his arrival, but out of anticipation of my departure and the arrival of my fresh, young long-term substitute. "She's SOOOOO nice!" they all exclaim when they hear who's scheduled to take my place.
I've also felt pretty good the entire time, other than the normal fatigue, and Cal says my hormone-induced moodiness hasn't been too overwhelming, either. Of course, what's he going to say, right? He's been wonderful through it all ... cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. I don't know what I would've done without him.
This post, as usual, really has no point; however, I haven't written in a while and it'll be nice to have a record of these things a few years from now when Parks is older and these memories have all become distant. I should wrap things up, though. Mom and Dad are due home any minute, and I must go take care of this coffee stain that, like other food spills of late, has streaked down the front of my shirt instead of falling straight to my lap. The lap, you know, is quickly disappearing.
Bring on Parks!
1.04.2009
Nesting
Given my track record for housework, I didn't know if it would ever kick in. However, throughout the last month or so, that nesting instinct that everyone goes on about seems to have taken root deep within me.
Cal and I have a wonderfully charming, old 1920's era house in the semi-historic district of Macon. Back before we were married, when Cal was looking to buy into the real estate here, I shamelessly (and hopefully subtly) pushed him in this direction, as I had hopes at the time that the house he'd end up buying would one day be mine, too. My efforts were successful, and I was ecstatic when he closed on what is now our home.
He has two big gripes about the old house style: small bathrooms and miniscule closet space. My gripe is confined to the latter, especially as I've never experienced the ensuite bathroom luxury that he had in his new, pre-fab home in Florida.
The lack of closet space didn't really bother me before I got pregnant. Cal had his tiny little closet in our bedroom, I had my tiny little closet in the spare room, and we shared a tiny little closet in the guest room for coats, formal attire, and other rarely-worn items. Now, however, things are different.
Seeing as how all of our closets (plus drawer-space) were stuffed full of our things, little Parks Powell was looking towards a future of baby clothes, shoes, blankets, pack-n-plays, strollers, bouncers, swings, etc. strewn throughout every ounce of open space in his little nursery. That just wasn't going to work.
So, starting at my Thanksgiving break, I set out on a mission to find space (any space) in which we'd be able to stash baby stuff. I began by cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers, putting everything that I'm not currently wearing (ie, all non-maternity or non-XL regular clothing) in the attic. I got rid of about 15 pairs of shoes and 10 or so purses, some of which Elizabeth took back to her house for her own use.
I then turned to Cal's closet. From that venture, we ended up taking probably 20 pairs of pants that he has never worn in the 3+ years I've known him to the Goodwill. It was difficult for him, a bit of a packrat, but he sucked it up and handled it pretty well in the end.
Today, we tackled our extra closet and ended up clearing it completely out (except for the clothes on the hanging rod), and hopefully its top and bottom will leave enough room for storage of the larger baby items like the pack-n-play and stroller. We'll see.
The Powells gave us an old armoire that they had stopped using, so Parks's hang-ups will go there. He's got my old chest of drawers for his fold-ups, blankets, etc. I hope, for all of our sakes, that it will be enough.
All total, we've filled up 5 large rubbermaid containers for the attic and supplied 96% of Macon's Goodwill shoppers with their wardrobe and accessories for the year.
On the other hand, we've got no diapers, Diaper Champ (apparently the better alternative to the Diaper Genie), diaper bag, bedding, mattress, mattress pad, changing table pad, moniters, pacifiers, burp cloths, infant tub, baby shampoo/soap/detergent, wipes, or any other such practical necessities for a newborn baby.
Less than 3 months to go. I'd best get back to nesting...
Cal and I have a wonderfully charming, old 1920's era house in the semi-historic district of Macon. Back before we were married, when Cal was looking to buy into the real estate here, I shamelessly (and hopefully subtly) pushed him in this direction, as I had hopes at the time that the house he'd end up buying would one day be mine, too. My efforts were successful, and I was ecstatic when he closed on what is now our home.
He has two big gripes about the old house style: small bathrooms and miniscule closet space. My gripe is confined to the latter, especially as I've never experienced the ensuite bathroom luxury that he had in his new, pre-fab home in Florida.
The lack of closet space didn't really bother me before I got pregnant. Cal had his tiny little closet in our bedroom, I had my tiny little closet in the spare room, and we shared a tiny little closet in the guest room for coats, formal attire, and other rarely-worn items. Now, however, things are different.
Seeing as how all of our closets (plus drawer-space) were stuffed full of our things, little Parks Powell was looking towards a future of baby clothes, shoes, blankets, pack-n-plays, strollers, bouncers, swings, etc. strewn throughout every ounce of open space in his little nursery. That just wasn't going to work.
So, starting at my Thanksgiving break, I set out on a mission to find space (any space) in which we'd be able to stash baby stuff. I began by cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers, putting everything that I'm not currently wearing (ie, all non-maternity or non-XL regular clothing) in the attic. I got rid of about 15 pairs of shoes and 10 or so purses, some of which Elizabeth took back to her house for her own use.
I then turned to Cal's closet. From that venture, we ended up taking probably 20 pairs of pants that he has never worn in the 3+ years I've known him to the Goodwill. It was difficult for him, a bit of a packrat, but he sucked it up and handled it pretty well in the end.
Today, we tackled our extra closet and ended up clearing it completely out (except for the clothes on the hanging rod), and hopefully its top and bottom will leave enough room for storage of the larger baby items like the pack-n-play and stroller. We'll see.
The Powells gave us an old armoire that they had stopped using, so Parks's hang-ups will go there. He's got my old chest of drawers for his fold-ups, blankets, etc. I hope, for all of our sakes, that it will be enough.
All total, we've filled up 5 large rubbermaid containers for the attic and supplied 96% of Macon's Goodwill shoppers with their wardrobe and accessories for the year.
On the other hand, we've got no diapers, Diaper Champ (apparently the better alternative to the Diaper Genie), diaper bag, bedding, mattress, mattress pad, changing table pad, moniters, pacifiers, burp cloths, infant tub, baby shampoo/soap/detergent, wipes, or any other such practical necessities for a newborn baby.
Less than 3 months to go. I'd best get back to nesting...
12.03.2008
A little light reading
Take a look at my reading list these days, and you'll find such books as the ever-popular What to Expect When You're Expecting, the delightfully graphic An Expectant Mother's Guide to Breastfeeding, and the oh-so-practical Baby Bargains. You get the picture -- no longer am I a recent graduate of a master's program in English literature, feasting upon the words of Jane Austen or William Faulkner. Nope, I've become a slave to a literature of a different genre: the "how-to" guides for raising babies.
It's not at all that these books are so fascinating. The compulsion to read them is not out of desire, but out of intense fear of the impending death of my child should I neglect to memorize every detail of each topic. I personally am beginning to think it's all a marketing scam.
You see, these books don't contain a whole lot of positive aspects of having a baby. Instead, they choose to dwell on all the different ways that your future baby could, perhaps, die because you didn't know one fact or another about how to care for him (and it is a him, in case you didn't yet know), either while he's still unborn or after delivery.
Apparently, the most common way for a baby to die is by suffocation. According to these books, any little thing I do or do not do may cause my baby to (accidentally, of course) suffocate. The Baby Bargain book is the worst about graphically detailing this particular tragedy. We've been looking into cribs and crib bedding lately, and, because of the warnings that I'm reading, I'm beginning to think that it's miraculous that any of us have been able to continue breathing unhindered for as long as we have.
Take these contradictory "suggestions," for example:
If I go against the Baby Bargains recommendation and choose to use baby bumpers (padded pillows that line the insides of the furniture) on my crib, the child may trap himself up under them in some way, thus smothering himself. Crib regulations all over the Internet, however, scream warnings of babies' bodies slipping through uncovered slats in the crib (which can only be 2 3/4 inches or less apart, apparently), thus meeting their untimely doom by way of hanging. Wonderful. Sounds like a lose-lose situation to me.
Other fun facts about infant death by suffocation:
- Mattresses that are too soft or plush can cut off the air supply to an infant not yet old enough to lift his head on his own.
- Pillows or blankets of any sort are dangerous and should by no means EVER be placed in a crib with a sleeping child.
- Stuffed animals, too, should also be avoided for the same reason, but try telling that to my 2-year-old niece Anna Claire. Yeah right.
- Strings attached to pacifiers or clothing may mischievously wrap themselves around the baby's neck at night, thus choking him to death.
- Posts on the corners of cribs may not rise more than 5/8 of an inch from the rest of the surface, just in case a child attempts to climb out and gets his clothing caught on the post, thus - you guessed it - hanging himself.
- Fitted bedsheets (the only kind allowed, of course) should have elastic all the way around the edges (and not just on the corners) so that it will stay securely in place throughout the time that your baby is naively napping in his crib (or should I say "death trap"?).
I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. The fear is this: what if I go back to my normal, what-I'd-rather-be-reading novels, and fail to learn one of these millions of rules provided in these trillions of miserably depressing books? And then, because of my apathy, my child becomes the one baby in the last 232 years (and the next 476) that has suffocated himself in his animal-themed crib bumpers?
Sigh. It's a racket, I tell you, this baby book stuff. All a corporate conspiracy designed to boost the rapidly-failing economy by having obsessive parents-to-be buy every book they can get their hands on.
I think I'll go back to reading my Twilight series now. Blood-thirsty, lonely vampires, unrequited love, and heartsick teenagers. Now that's what it's all about. Something uplifting for a change!
It's not at all that these books are so fascinating. The compulsion to read them is not out of desire, but out of intense fear of the impending death of my child should I neglect to memorize every detail of each topic. I personally am beginning to think it's all a marketing scam.
You see, these books don't contain a whole lot of positive aspects of having a baby. Instead, they choose to dwell on all the different ways that your future baby could, perhaps, die because you didn't know one fact or another about how to care for him (and it is a him, in case you didn't yet know), either while he's still unborn or after delivery.
Apparently, the most common way for a baby to die is by suffocation. According to these books, any little thing I do or do not do may cause my baby to (accidentally, of course) suffocate. The Baby Bargain book is the worst about graphically detailing this particular tragedy. We've been looking into cribs and crib bedding lately, and, because of the warnings that I'm reading, I'm beginning to think that it's miraculous that any of us have been able to continue breathing unhindered for as long as we have.
Take these contradictory "suggestions," for example:
If I go against the Baby Bargains recommendation and choose to use baby bumpers (padded pillows that line the insides of the furniture) on my crib, the child may trap himself up under them in some way, thus smothering himself. Crib regulations all over the Internet, however, scream warnings of babies' bodies slipping through uncovered slats in the crib (which can only be 2 3/4 inches or less apart, apparently), thus meeting their untimely doom by way of hanging. Wonderful. Sounds like a lose-lose situation to me.
Other fun facts about infant death by suffocation:
- Mattresses that are too soft or plush can cut off the air supply to an infant not yet old enough to lift his head on his own.
- Pillows or blankets of any sort are dangerous and should by no means EVER be placed in a crib with a sleeping child.
- Stuffed animals, too, should also be avoided for the same reason, but try telling that to my 2-year-old niece Anna Claire. Yeah right.
- Strings attached to pacifiers or clothing may mischievously wrap themselves around the baby's neck at night, thus choking him to death.
- Posts on the corners of cribs may not rise more than 5/8 of an inch from the rest of the surface, just in case a child attempts to climb out and gets his clothing caught on the post, thus - you guessed it - hanging himself.
- Fitted bedsheets (the only kind allowed, of course) should have elastic all the way around the edges (and not just on the corners) so that it will stay securely in place throughout the time that your baby is naively napping in his crib (or should I say "death trap"?).
I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. The fear is this: what if I go back to my normal, what-I'd-rather-be-reading novels, and fail to learn one of these millions of rules provided in these trillions of miserably depressing books? And then, because of my apathy, my child becomes the one baby in the last 232 years (and the next 476) that has suffocated himself in his animal-themed crib bumpers?
Sigh. It's a racket, I tell you, this baby book stuff. All a corporate conspiracy designed to boost the rapidly-failing economy by having obsessive parents-to-be buy every book they can get their hands on.
I think I'll go back to reading my Twilight series now. Blood-thirsty, lonely vampires, unrequited love, and heartsick teenagers. Now that's what it's all about. Something uplifting for a change!
11.06.2008
Random thoughts
One of the strangest parts about this pregnancy so far has been my appetite. Back in the first few weeks, I (along with everyone else who's ever been pregnant) couldn't eat a thing. I wouldn't get physically sick, necessarily; my stomach would just churn at the thought of most foods.
I made the mistake of going overboard with the foods that I could stomach. For example, about 5 or 6 weeks in, I made a batch of Rebecca's delicious tomato soup, and I ate it, along with a handful of goldfish crackers, for nearly a week. Cal even bought a HUGE, family-size goldfish carton for me to snack on, since it seemed at the time like it would be the food that would carry me through.
I haven't been able to even think about tomato soup OR goldfish crackers since that week. We still have the carton, 90% full, sitting in our pantry, now 3 months later.
I had similar experiences with a couple of other usually delicious foods. Cal's mom's recipe for homemade mac and cheese, for one (I ate an entire bowl of it for a meal during that period and haven't touched the stuff since), and the Mexican chicken soup from any of the Mexican restaurants that Cal likes to frequent. That's really too bad for him, of course ... the soup was pretty much the only thing I'd eat at El Azteca.
Nowadays, my sickness is gone, but my appetite is still not up to par. I keep waiting for the onslaught of cravings and hunger to kick in, but nothing's happened yet. I've had an aversion to meat -- chicken in particular -- and, perhaps strangest of all, I've not been a big ice cream fan of late. My ever-present sweet tooth seems to have disappeared. Cal will pick up a pack of cookie dough from Kroger, I'll bake him a few, and not ever have one bit of a desire to eat any myself. Kinda scary, if you ask me.
For lunch, I've been existing on peanut butter, mayonnaise, and banana sandwiches. Today at school I had my sandwich only partially prepared, with the PB on one side and the mayo on the other, the banana on my tray next to my plate. You should've heard the squeals from the kids in line around me. "EEEeeeew! Is that peanut butter and mayonnaise? Gross!" I think they contributed it to my pregnancy, but I grew up on that combo. I didn't even realize that the addition of mayonnaise was strange to others. It was just part of the banana sandwich in the Terry household.
Tonight, in an effort to cook more, I made my mother's meatloaf (the only kind I'll eat), much to Cal's dismay. He insists that he detests meatloaf, but when probed about it, he admits that the only time he ever ate it was in elementary school at his cafeteria and it was disgusting. I insisted that anything from the school cafeteria was pretty nasty, which prompted a starry-eyed look in his eyes as he told a far-fetched tale of the chef named Gloria who was, he proclaims adamantly, the best cafeteria-chef he's ever known. Fine. Whatever. More for me.
Anyway, the meatloaf turned out well, Cal didn't touch it, and I've got leftovers and a second currently freezing for later use. I just can't do chicken, and we're sick of the same old restaurants every night.
Supposedly, I can start feeling the baby kick any day now, but I might not recognize it when it happens. I've felt some "flutters" (similar to a little muscle twitch in your eyelid or something), but perhaps they've just been part of the digestion process, or remnants of the most recent iron pill working its sadistic magic. I figure that soon, I'll get one that's unmistakable. Currently, the reality of the baby hasn't sunk in, and maybe it'll happen then.
This has perhaps been the most random blog post, hasn't it? Oh well. If you've made it this far, you've done well.
In other news, Cal and I went to Jekyll Island last weekend for a wedding, and had a really good time. Our only regret is that we couldn't really justify splurging on a nice place to say, therefore ending up at the Days Inn. I'm sure it was fine for a place of its caliber. However, I'm a priceline.com girl, and for the same amount of money I was sure missing my down comforter, crisp white bedding, interior doors, and all the other luxuries of a fantastic hotel! We made the mistake Saturday night of going over to the Jekyll Island Club (where the wedding was held) and walking around a bit. After that, we really regretted not spending the extra cash for a bit of heavenly pampering.
We're talking about going on a "babymoon" of sorts around Christmas, kind of a last nice vacation before the kid changes everything. Maybe by saving a little money last weekend, we've got enough left over for a nice place in Charleston, or New Orleans, or ... I don't know ... Las Vegas. (You hear me, Cal? Bette won't be there much longer ... please?)
Guess that's it for the night. Cal's off playing tennis, and I have to stay awake long enough to watch Grey's Anatomy at 9, so this has been a good little diversion from the usual Food Network and King of Queens on the television. Until next time!
I made the mistake of going overboard with the foods that I could stomach. For example, about 5 or 6 weeks in, I made a batch of Rebecca's delicious tomato soup, and I ate it, along with a handful of goldfish crackers, for nearly a week. Cal even bought a HUGE, family-size goldfish carton for me to snack on, since it seemed at the time like it would be the food that would carry me through.
I haven't been able to even think about tomato soup OR goldfish crackers since that week. We still have the carton, 90% full, sitting in our pantry, now 3 months later.
I had similar experiences with a couple of other usually delicious foods. Cal's mom's recipe for homemade mac and cheese, for one (I ate an entire bowl of it for a meal during that period and haven't touched the stuff since), and the Mexican chicken soup from any of the Mexican restaurants that Cal likes to frequent. That's really too bad for him, of course ... the soup was pretty much the only thing I'd eat at El Azteca.
Nowadays, my sickness is gone, but my appetite is still not up to par. I keep waiting for the onslaught of cravings and hunger to kick in, but nothing's happened yet. I've had an aversion to meat -- chicken in particular -- and, perhaps strangest of all, I've not been a big ice cream fan of late. My ever-present sweet tooth seems to have disappeared. Cal will pick up a pack of cookie dough from Kroger, I'll bake him a few, and not ever have one bit of a desire to eat any myself. Kinda scary, if you ask me.
For lunch, I've been existing on peanut butter, mayonnaise, and banana sandwiches. Today at school I had my sandwich only partially prepared, with the PB on one side and the mayo on the other, the banana on my tray next to my plate. You should've heard the squeals from the kids in line around me. "EEEeeeew! Is that peanut butter and mayonnaise? Gross!" I think they contributed it to my pregnancy, but I grew up on that combo. I didn't even realize that the addition of mayonnaise was strange to others. It was just part of the banana sandwich in the Terry household.
Tonight, in an effort to cook more, I made my mother's meatloaf (the only kind I'll eat), much to Cal's dismay. He insists that he detests meatloaf, but when probed about it, he admits that the only time he ever ate it was in elementary school at his cafeteria and it was disgusting. I insisted that anything from the school cafeteria was pretty nasty, which prompted a starry-eyed look in his eyes as he told a far-fetched tale of the chef named Gloria who was, he proclaims adamantly, the best cafeteria-chef he's ever known. Fine. Whatever. More for me.
Anyway, the meatloaf turned out well, Cal didn't touch it, and I've got leftovers and a second currently freezing for later use. I just can't do chicken, and we're sick of the same old restaurants every night.
Supposedly, I can start feeling the baby kick any day now, but I might not recognize it when it happens. I've felt some "flutters" (similar to a little muscle twitch in your eyelid or something), but perhaps they've just been part of the digestion process, or remnants of the most recent iron pill working its sadistic magic. I figure that soon, I'll get one that's unmistakable. Currently, the reality of the baby hasn't sunk in, and maybe it'll happen then.
This has perhaps been the most random blog post, hasn't it? Oh well. If you've made it this far, you've done well.
In other news, Cal and I went to Jekyll Island last weekend for a wedding, and had a really good time. Our only regret is that we couldn't really justify splurging on a nice place to say, therefore ending up at the Days Inn. I'm sure it was fine for a place of its caliber. However, I'm a priceline.com girl, and for the same amount of money I was sure missing my down comforter, crisp white bedding, interior doors, and all the other luxuries of a fantastic hotel! We made the mistake Saturday night of going over to the Jekyll Island Club (where the wedding was held) and walking around a bit. After that, we really regretted not spending the extra cash for a bit of heavenly pampering.
We're talking about going on a "babymoon" of sorts around Christmas, kind of a last nice vacation before the kid changes everything. Maybe by saving a little money last weekend, we've got enough left over for a nice place in Charleston, or New Orleans, or ... I don't know ... Las Vegas. (You hear me, Cal? Bette won't be there much longer ... please?)
Guess that's it for the night. Cal's off playing tennis, and I have to stay awake long enough to watch Grey's Anatomy at 9, so this has been a good little diversion from the usual Food Network and King of Queens on the television. Until next time!
11.03.2008
I Heart Anemia
Yes, I know I've been gone awhile, but no, I'm not going to apologize for it. I'm pregnant. And working full-time. And sleeping when I'm not working. Blogging hasn't exactly been high on my priority list, if you know what I mean.
I'm currently 18 weeks along in pregnancy lingo. If you've never had a baby and you're like I was, that means absolutely nothing to you. I remember I used to get so irritated when people would refer to their pregnancy in terms of "weeks." You go your whole life learning "9 months" for human gestation, then all of a sudden you talk to a pregnant woman who tells you she's 22 weeks, and you have to spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out if that's 4 months or 5. (And I have no idea.) Basically, though, I'm about 4 months along, maybe a little over. We find out the gender two weeks from today.
Other than the constant "I've been hit by a Mac Truck" sensation, I'm feeling okay, or at least I was up until about a week and a half ago. That's when I had my 16-week (4 month?) appointment, and they told me I was anemic and nonchalantly handed me some iron pill samples and a prescription for more of the same. I headed directly to my local pharmacy (go local! hurray! -- shameless ad for your neighborhood drug stores!), forked over $30+ (we discovered a few weeks ago that our insurance doesn't cover vitamins of any kind, prescription or not), and took my first pill that night.
I promptly vomited.
That's right folks. I had gotten through the dreaded first trimester without losing an ounce of my food, and all of a sudden, I was hugging the toilet. What in the world? It had to be the pills.
The next day, it was coming out in other ways (sorry.). The day after that, I developed a severe cough on top of the queasiness. Cal got a fever that lasted a week. I'm still coughing like crazy, all the while keeping my fingers crossed that I don't accidentally push the baby (or something worse) out in one of my uncontrollable fits. I heard Cal telling his sister on the phone the other day that he can't remember there ever being a time when I didn't cough. I'm coughing right this very second, actually.
Therefore, in spite of what may or may not be legitimately attributed to them, I've now officially renamed my iron pills the "Pills from hell", or "PfH". (Is that blasphemous?) I'm remembering fondly the days when I was anemic, and I long to have them back. Was I tired then? Pshaw. I am tired now, AND have to fight off nausea every morning, AND am constipated, AND sound like I've been smoking for 73 years. So why am I not blogging? I'm just glad I'm alive.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I can hardly wait for a glass of wine as soon as I have this child. That, and a big ol' swig of cough syrup.
I'm currently 18 weeks along in pregnancy lingo. If you've never had a baby and you're like I was, that means absolutely nothing to you. I remember I used to get so irritated when people would refer to their pregnancy in terms of "weeks." You go your whole life learning "9 months" for human gestation, then all of a sudden you talk to a pregnant woman who tells you she's 22 weeks, and you have to spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out if that's 4 months or 5. (And I have no idea.) Basically, though, I'm about 4 months along, maybe a little over. We find out the gender two weeks from today.
Other than the constant "I've been hit by a Mac Truck" sensation, I'm feeling okay, or at least I was up until about a week and a half ago. That's when I had my 16-week (4 month?) appointment, and they told me I was anemic and nonchalantly handed me some iron pill samples and a prescription for more of the same. I headed directly to my local pharmacy (go local! hurray! -- shameless ad for your neighborhood drug stores!), forked over $30+ (we discovered a few weeks ago that our insurance doesn't cover vitamins of any kind, prescription or not), and took my first pill that night.
I promptly vomited.
That's right folks. I had gotten through the dreaded first trimester without losing an ounce of my food, and all of a sudden, I was hugging the toilet. What in the world? It had to be the pills.
The next day, it was coming out in other ways (sorry.). The day after that, I developed a severe cough on top of the queasiness. Cal got a fever that lasted a week. I'm still coughing like crazy, all the while keeping my fingers crossed that I don't accidentally push the baby (or something worse) out in one of my uncontrollable fits. I heard Cal telling his sister on the phone the other day that he can't remember there ever being a time when I didn't cough. I'm coughing right this very second, actually.
Therefore, in spite of what may or may not be legitimately attributed to them, I've now officially renamed my iron pills the "Pills from hell", or "PfH". (Is that blasphemous?) I'm remembering fondly the days when I was anemic, and I long to have them back. Was I tired then? Pshaw. I am tired now, AND have to fight off nausea every morning, AND am constipated, AND sound like I've been smoking for 73 years. So why am I not blogging? I'm just glad I'm alive.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I can hardly wait for a glass of wine as soon as I have this child. That, and a big ol' swig of cough syrup.
9.10.2008
An aunt, again!
My sister Julie, mother of the beloved Anna Claire, gave birth this afternoon to Mallory! 7 lb 11 oz, 21 inches long. Hurray!
9.06.2008
Two Pink Lines.
I couldn't believe it when I saw them. There they were, however: both as clear as day, and both appearing instantaneously (and not after the 3 required minutes). It was as if the Scary Little Stick had known that my nerves couldn't take the delay.
Five weeks earlier, Cal and I had made the big decision while we were out on one of our semi-regular neighborhood walks. Neither of us had really felt ready for kids, but we also had to be practical. I'm 30. He's 31. We didn't have time to wait until that ready feeling hit, especially considering the family members that we had who had taken months, years even, to conceive. If we wanted more than one, we'd have to take the risk now. Surely no one ever truly feels ready, we consoled ourselves. Plus, it'll be several months before anything happens. We can get used to the idea in the meantime.
And yet here I was, facing the reality that I, of the four of us, am Mom's Fertile Daughter. She had always warned us when we were in high school that "Girls, you come from a very fertile family!" And now, staring at me after one month off the pill, was proof that she wasn't just trying to scare her headstrong daughters into abstinence. She was telling the truth.
Cal wasn't home at the time. We had joked for a couple of weeks about the possibility, but neither one of us really believed it might be true. He got home from softball practice a couple of hours later and asked his usual, "Did you hear from anyone? Email? Phone calls?" And then, with a smirk on his face, "Are you pregnant?"
He couldn't believe it either. He wanted to know if that was possible. I told him that, obviously, it was.
Over 6 weeks later, and we've seen the baby and heard the heartbeat. So far, the only other sign that anything is different is that I've had waves of nausea (but no vomiting), not wanted to eat a thing (now that's a change), and experienced an ever-expanding waistline. My weight has stayed the same, but I can't button my pants. I am currently living without a pair of jeans to my name. I'm down to about four outfits, all of which are stretchy, empire-waist dresses. Thank goodness for the latest fashion and its friendliness to a poochy belly.
I read ahead in my What to Expect ... book to next month's changes and was shocked to see this line: "By the end of this month (next month for me, remember), you may start to outgrow your clothes." Seems I'm a month ahead as far as that's concerned. I told Cal the other day that I'm facing all the frustrations of gaining weight without the pleasures of food to appease me. Getting fat without eating milkshakes, french fries, and oreos? What a killjoy.
I've also felt the infamous "first trimester fatigue," although I wonder how much of it can actually be attributed instead to school starting back up. I'm always tired this time of year, and I usually have caffeine to help me through. Early mornings, no diet cokes, and a tiny parasite growing inside of my stomach? I don't stand a chance.
Cal hates it when I refer to the baby as a parasite, by the way. But, technically, isn't that what it is? Maybe if it were growing inside of him, he'd understand. Can I get an Amen, ladies?
I'm 10 weeks along and due the first week of April. The timing is perfect, as, theoretically, it'll enable me to stop work at spring break for my maternity leave and not go back until next Fall. We weren't going to tell the folks at school until the end of the first 12 weeks, but rumors started flying the first week of classes. Since only family at that time knew the news, it had to just be teenage speculation, but they happened to be right. Things had gotten so out of hand that we decided to go ahead and confirm it yesterday. Since then, news has spread like wildfire. Welcome to Macon.
So, how am I handling the emotions, the reality of it all? Well, I'll admit that I still don't feel ready. I'm in the midst of mourning the loss of spontaneous trips to the likes of Vegas and Puerto Rico, and sad to see our newlywed time come to an end. I'm grappling with the realization that things between Cal and me will never be the same as they have been in this last year as a married-with-no-kids couple. And I'm scared to death that my maternal instinct won't kick in like everyone says it will as soon as I see my baby for the first time.
I comfort my uneasiness, however, with this knowledge: if something were to happen and I were to lose this child, I would be very, very sad. So who knows? Maybe I'm ready to do this thing after all.
Five weeks earlier, Cal and I had made the big decision while we were out on one of our semi-regular neighborhood walks. Neither of us had really felt ready for kids, but we also had to be practical. I'm 30. He's 31. We didn't have time to wait until that ready feeling hit, especially considering the family members that we had who had taken months, years even, to conceive. If we wanted more than one, we'd have to take the risk now. Surely no one ever truly feels ready, we consoled ourselves. Plus, it'll be several months before anything happens. We can get used to the idea in the meantime.
And yet here I was, facing the reality that I, of the four of us, am Mom's Fertile Daughter. She had always warned us when we were in high school that "Girls, you come from a very fertile family!" And now, staring at me after one month off the pill, was proof that she wasn't just trying to scare her headstrong daughters into abstinence. She was telling the truth.
Cal wasn't home at the time. We had joked for a couple of weeks about the possibility, but neither one of us really believed it might be true. He got home from softball practice a couple of hours later and asked his usual, "Did you hear from anyone? Email? Phone calls?" And then, with a smirk on his face, "Are you pregnant?"
He couldn't believe it either. He wanted to know if that was possible. I told him that, obviously, it was.
Over 6 weeks later, and we've seen the baby and heard the heartbeat. So far, the only other sign that anything is different is that I've had waves of nausea (but no vomiting), not wanted to eat a thing (now that's a change), and experienced an ever-expanding waistline. My weight has stayed the same, but I can't button my pants. I am currently living without a pair of jeans to my name. I'm down to about four outfits, all of which are stretchy, empire-waist dresses. Thank goodness for the latest fashion and its friendliness to a poochy belly.
I read ahead in my What to Expect ... book to next month's changes and was shocked to see this line: "By the end of this month (next month for me, remember), you may start to outgrow your clothes." Seems I'm a month ahead as far as that's concerned. I told Cal the other day that I'm facing all the frustrations of gaining weight without the pleasures of food to appease me. Getting fat without eating milkshakes, french fries, and oreos? What a killjoy.
I've also felt the infamous "first trimester fatigue," although I wonder how much of it can actually be attributed instead to school starting back up. I'm always tired this time of year, and I usually have caffeine to help me through. Early mornings, no diet cokes, and a tiny parasite growing inside of my stomach? I don't stand a chance.
Cal hates it when I refer to the baby as a parasite, by the way. But, technically, isn't that what it is? Maybe if it were growing inside of him, he'd understand. Can I get an Amen, ladies?
I'm 10 weeks along and due the first week of April. The timing is perfect, as, theoretically, it'll enable me to stop work at spring break for my maternity leave and not go back until next Fall. We weren't going to tell the folks at school until the end of the first 12 weeks, but rumors started flying the first week of classes. Since only family at that time knew the news, it had to just be teenage speculation, but they happened to be right. Things had gotten so out of hand that we decided to go ahead and confirm it yesterday. Since then, news has spread like wildfire. Welcome to Macon.
So, how am I handling the emotions, the reality of it all? Well, I'll admit that I still don't feel ready. I'm in the midst of mourning the loss of spontaneous trips to the likes of Vegas and Puerto Rico, and sad to see our newlywed time come to an end. I'm grappling with the realization that things between Cal and me will never be the same as they have been in this last year as a married-with-no-kids couple. And I'm scared to death that my maternal instinct won't kick in like everyone says it will as soon as I see my baby for the first time.
I comfort my uneasiness, however, with this knowledge: if something were to happen and I were to lose this child, I would be very, very sad. So who knows? Maybe I'm ready to do this thing after all.
8.29.2008
Just call me Grace
When my sisters and I were babies, we could talk up a storm. We read early, processed ideas quickly, and could quote Shakespeare's 14th sonnet at 6 months. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but you get the point. We couldn't, however, walk.
When the twins were born, I was 19 months and still relatively immobile. My parents had not one baby, but three to carry around for a while. I'm sure my mom was worried about it when she talked to pediatrician.
His answer? "Well, Susan, some kids are mobile. Others are verbal."
And thus began life at the Terry household.
As I've mentioned numerous times before, we were a family full of nerds and not very athletic. For me, it wasn't merely that I couldn't play sports. I could barely get from one end of the house to the other without falling and breaking something. By the time I got to middle school, I had broken my collarbone, both wrists, and the main bone in the top of my foot. I was a walking accident.
The trend continued into college and graduate school, where I distinctly remember a 6-month period of time when I fell and sprained my ankle on four separate occasions. That ankle still gives me a bit of trouble when I jog (which is rare, admittedly), and every now and then will swell inexplicably. Wonderful.
I had hoped that in entering my third decade, I would be putting that everlasting awkward phase behind me. My hopes, however, were dashed just a few short days ago.
Picture, if you will, a cafeteria like all other cafeterias. It's high school lunch period, and I've made my way through the line, the salad bar, and the drink dispenser. I'm feeling quite sassy (and comfortable) in my little empire-waisted, knee-length dress and sandals, and I've said my hellos to fellow teachers and former students that have crossed my path. I'm now headed for the teacher's table at the very back of the room, weaving my way between tables and chairs filled with unbelievably gorgeous and graceful teenagers (no kidding; I don't think there's a kid here with a zit on his face).
Suddenly, my little sandaled foot hits a puddle of water. It slides slowly, but uncontrollably, in front of my body. My other foot stays in place. For the first time in my life, I've successfully completed a split. The only problem is that I'm in the middle of a bunch of 16-year-olds and in my once cute (now impractical) empire-waisted dress. In a split formation. On the floor. With a tray in my hand, surrounded by a puddle of pink lemonade and taco salad.
The room got quiet. (It really did!) Finally, one of the girls at the table nearby looked down at me and asked if I were alright, then quietly admitted that she's nearly done the same thing a million times. Nearly, being the operative word. I had ACTUALLY done it.
I mustered up as much dignity as I could manage, struggled out of the painfully awkward position I was in, stood up (all the while trying to keep my dress down), and gathered my tray and silverware. Next stop: the kitchen, where I had to let the cafeteria staff know that there was a mess that had to be cleaned up. Chef Joe is still teasing me about it.
The bright spots: I'm okay. I landed in a split, but still upright enough to not have flashed my undies to all interested parties. I've provided a reason for others to smile, laugh even.
I never thought I'd say it, but I'm currently looking forward to my forties. I'm bound to outgrow this phase sooner or later. For now, I'm off to attend a pep rally in the gym. Wish me luck with those bleachers ...
When the twins were born, I was 19 months and still relatively immobile. My parents had not one baby, but three to carry around for a while. I'm sure my mom was worried about it when she talked to pediatrician.
His answer? "Well, Susan, some kids are mobile. Others are verbal."
And thus began life at the Terry household.
As I've mentioned numerous times before, we were a family full of nerds and not very athletic. For me, it wasn't merely that I couldn't play sports. I could barely get from one end of the house to the other without falling and breaking something. By the time I got to middle school, I had broken my collarbone, both wrists, and the main bone in the top of my foot. I was a walking accident.
The trend continued into college and graduate school, where I distinctly remember a 6-month period of time when I fell and sprained my ankle on four separate occasions. That ankle still gives me a bit of trouble when I jog (which is rare, admittedly), and every now and then will swell inexplicably. Wonderful.
I had hoped that in entering my third decade, I would be putting that everlasting awkward phase behind me. My hopes, however, were dashed just a few short days ago.
Picture, if you will, a cafeteria like all other cafeterias. It's high school lunch period, and I've made my way through the line, the salad bar, and the drink dispenser. I'm feeling quite sassy (and comfortable) in my little empire-waisted, knee-length dress and sandals, and I've said my hellos to fellow teachers and former students that have crossed my path. I'm now headed for the teacher's table at the very back of the room, weaving my way between tables and chairs filled with unbelievably gorgeous and graceful teenagers (no kidding; I don't think there's a kid here with a zit on his face).
Suddenly, my little sandaled foot hits a puddle of water. It slides slowly, but uncontrollably, in front of my body. My other foot stays in place. For the first time in my life, I've successfully completed a split. The only problem is that I'm in the middle of a bunch of 16-year-olds and in my once cute (now impractical) empire-waisted dress. In a split formation. On the floor. With a tray in my hand, surrounded by a puddle of pink lemonade and taco salad.
The room got quiet. (It really did!) Finally, one of the girls at the table nearby looked down at me and asked if I were alright, then quietly admitted that she's nearly done the same thing a million times. Nearly, being the operative word. I had ACTUALLY done it.
I mustered up as much dignity as I could manage, struggled out of the painfully awkward position I was in, stood up (all the while trying to keep my dress down), and gathered my tray and silverware. Next stop: the kitchen, where I had to let the cafeteria staff know that there was a mess that had to be cleaned up. Chef Joe is still teasing me about it.
The bright spots: I'm okay. I landed in a split, but still upright enough to not have flashed my undies to all interested parties. I've provided a reason for others to smile, laugh even.
I never thought I'd say it, but I'm currently looking forward to my forties. I'm bound to outgrow this phase sooner or later. For now, I'm off to attend a pep rally in the gym. Wish me luck with those bleachers ...
8.10.2008
Another summer gone
Well, folks, tomorrow starts year #6 at my school. Hard to believe that I've lived in Macon that long (remember when I was only moving here for a year, till I could get a more glamorous job in a more glamorous place?), or that I've been away from Athens for more than, oh, 6 months. Where has the time gone?
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
7.29.2008
The financial ramifications of a bad mood.
The other day, I ventured out of my cozy, semi-cool house to brave the sweltering heat of Macon in July. I know, I know -- that statement doesn't seem to represent a real exciting newsbreak. However, if you know me-in-the-summer, you also know that my leaving home is, in fact, a rare occasion. I like to fully enjoy my break from school, and for me that means sleeping late, keeping on my pajamas, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray, reading a good book, and, well, not stepping foot out the door. At all. I could quite honestly go for the entirety of my two-month summer without a breath of fresh air except for the fact that I would end up drinking soured milk in my cereal and eating molded bread on my pb&j's.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
7.19.2008
A long way to go
My friend Carrie is passing through town tonight on her way from Tallahassee back to Athens, and she decided to stop over for the night in order to break up her trip.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
To sterilize jars and seals: Boil seals and tops, tongs, and whatever instrument you use to pour the jelly from the pot into the jar. Then put the jars in the dishwasher and run it. It needs to coincide with the jam on the stove. Need to keep the jars hot. So, if the dishwasher gets done early, keep it on a heat dryer cyle. Take jars out one at a time, fill it with jam, and then wipe down the lip of the jar and around. Using the tongs get a top and seal and place on the
jar. Twist it on but not too tight and then turn it upside down. Leave it upside down for about a minute and then flip it back over. Always replace the tong back into the pot of water to resterilize them between each use. Repeat.
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
6.28.2008
Puzzles
Somewhat out of boredom, and somewhat out of curiosity, I started a puzzle tonight. Cal, the stereotypical jock/bully, can't get over what a nerd I am. He walked in a few minutes ago from being on the Internet for an hour and promptly exclaimed, "You've got the border done! You're such a dork!" I remembered my tactics in dealing with kids like him from high school, and promptly ignored his cry for attention.
In my family, we may not have won any sporting events or run any marathons, but we sure could do a puzzle. We were a family full of "smart kids", not athletes. Every summer when we'd pack up for the beach, we'd be sure to include a puzzle or two to complete while we were there. We had dozens of them ... teddy bears at a tea party, seashells, exotic birds. You name it, we put it together.
My older sister Beth never really, truly got into the puzzle thing, or at least she never admitted that she did. She was always kinda the Wayne to my Kevin Arnold (although a more feminine, attractive version), and her favorite prank was to sneak into the puzzle room (our seldom-used formal dining room) and steal one piece of the puzzle.
The time that we all anxiously awaited would inevitably approach -- completing the last few pieces of the puzzle. Just as inevitably, we'd all start arguing over who had earned the honor of placing the last piece of the puzzle into its rightful position. "I did the entire boat!" I'd cry. "But I did the whole sea!" one of my younger sisters would respond.
The arguments always were in vain, however, as we'd get to the last piece, and, well, it wouldn't exist. We'd look high and low -- under the table, under the puzzle, in the cushions of the dining room chairs. Nothing. Then, using her flawless judgement of perfect comedic timing, Beth would waltz into the room (for only the second time in the puzzle period) and quickly slide the piece into place. Always. I'm not really sure why we never caught on before she was howling with laughter and we were (literally) crying in frustration about the unfairness of the whole thing. Maybe we weren't that smart, after all.
Anyway, my schedule is pretty open for the next week or two, so I thought I'd resurrect the old summer tradition and start a puzzle of my very own. Cal swears he'll have nothing to do with it. We'll see. My guess is that he'll be hooked soon enough. In the meantime, I have a boat to finish.
In my family, we may not have won any sporting events or run any marathons, but we sure could do a puzzle. We were a family full of "smart kids", not athletes. Every summer when we'd pack up for the beach, we'd be sure to include a puzzle or two to complete while we were there. We had dozens of them ... teddy bears at a tea party, seashells, exotic birds. You name it, we put it together.
My older sister Beth never really, truly got into the puzzle thing, or at least she never admitted that she did. She was always kinda the Wayne to my Kevin Arnold (although a more feminine, attractive version), and her favorite prank was to sneak into the puzzle room (our seldom-used formal dining room) and steal one piece of the puzzle.
The time that we all anxiously awaited would inevitably approach -- completing the last few pieces of the puzzle. Just as inevitably, we'd all start arguing over who had earned the honor of placing the last piece of the puzzle into its rightful position. "I did the entire boat!" I'd cry. "But I did the whole sea!" one of my younger sisters would respond.
The arguments always were in vain, however, as we'd get to the last piece, and, well, it wouldn't exist. We'd look high and low -- under the table, under the puzzle, in the cushions of the dining room chairs. Nothing. Then, using her flawless judgement of perfect comedic timing, Beth would waltz into the room (for only the second time in the puzzle period) and quickly slide the piece into place. Always. I'm not really sure why we never caught on before she was howling with laughter and we were (literally) crying in frustration about the unfairness of the whole thing. Maybe we weren't that smart, after all.
Anyway, my schedule is pretty open for the next week or two, so I thought I'd resurrect the old summer tradition and start a puzzle of my very own. Cal swears he'll have nothing to do with it. We'll see. My guess is that he'll be hooked soon enough. In the meantime, I have a boat to finish.
6.25.2008
Take Two
Following my Aunt Marylu's advice from my previous post, I decided to start again with a new tomato plant today. Following my uncle's advice (the reigning King of Roses in the Rose City -- Thomasville), I planted it in a bag of cow manure. His description of what would come of it (and I quote): unFRIGGINGbelievable. Sounds good to me!
6.23.2008
Reaping the flower garden benefits
I was relieved to find that most of my garden survived the week-long trip from which Cal and I just returned. 2/4 of my black-eyed susans seem to have kicked the bucket without the daily watering, but the two that are left are so huge that I had to stake them this morning. My tomato bush, sadly, is in dire shape. It has plenty of tomatoes on it left from when it was healthy, but it got too dry last week (even though I had a friend come by and water it a couple of times) and I'm not at all convinced that it is going to survive, much less provide any more delicious tomatoes than it already has on it. Even more sad ... the few that have already ripened did so the week I was gone, so I have only been able to taste one of the fruits of my labor and love. At least Elizabeth was able to make a fine pasta sauce with the others while I was gone. I'm glad they didn't go to waste!
Pictures below. The one of the full garden was taken after I had cut all of the flowers you see in the vases, so you can imagine how much fuller it was just a few minutes prior. And the black-eyed susans are still recovering a bit from the staking they received, so they aren't quite in top form. All those flowers coming from merely two plants! The shastas (b/w the susans and the coneflowers) are a late-blooming variety and are just barely beginning to blossom. And the sunflowers!! I'm thrilled, but can't get up the nerve to cut one or two for decoration. They keep blooming, right? Also, a photo of my sad, dying tomato bush, complete with unripened fruit. There are more tomatoes left than there are leaves, unfortunately. Any suggestions from my gardeners out there? It's too late to start a new one, isn't it?
Oh yeah! I almost forgot the most exciting news of the week. Many of you know that Cal does not eat vegetables unless they come in a can (green beans) or are fried (squash/okra). Yesterday, we took a trip to the farmers' market, where I picked up some okra to sautee (whole, with only a bit of olive oil) for myself. Unencouraged by me (as I had only cooked enough for myself), Cal helped himself when it came time to fix our plates for dinner. He loved it! I ended up cooking the rest of them so he could eat a full helping. He even wanted to buy more today at the Kroger, but he said he couldn't find them when he went. Hurray!
Pictures below. The one of the full garden was taken after I had cut all of the flowers you see in the vases, so you can imagine how much fuller it was just a few minutes prior. And the black-eyed susans are still recovering a bit from the staking they received, so they aren't quite in top form. All those flowers coming from merely two plants! The shastas (b/w the susans and the coneflowers) are a late-blooming variety and are just barely beginning to blossom. And the sunflowers!! I'm thrilled, but can't get up the nerve to cut one or two for decoration. They keep blooming, right? Also, a photo of my sad, dying tomato bush, complete with unripened fruit. There are more tomatoes left than there are leaves, unfortunately. Any suggestions from my gardeners out there? It's too late to start a new one, isn't it?
Oh yeah! I almost forgot the most exciting news of the week. Many of you know that Cal does not eat vegetables unless they come in a can (green beans) or are fried (squash/okra). Yesterday, we took a trip to the farmers' market, where I picked up some okra to sautee (whole, with only a bit of olive oil) for myself. Unencouraged by me (as I had only cooked enough for myself), Cal helped himself when it came time to fix our plates for dinner. He loved it! I ended up cooking the rest of them so he could eat a full helping. He even wanted to buy more today at the Kroger, but he said he couldn't find them when he went. Hurray!
6.13.2008
The end of a decade
Today is the last day of my 20's.
If I were to think about it too much, I'm sure I'd eventually make myself sad. You know, the whole passage of time, inevitability of death, can't ever go back to re-live a moment thoughts. However, much to the aggravation of first my parents, then my professors, and now my husband, I don't tend to worry too much about things in the future.
The good news is that my life has become more fulfilling as I've gotten older. I didn't gain much confidence until I was in my mid-20's, and the friendships that I developed in those years and since then are the ones that I truly believe will last a lifetime, along with only a couple from my younger days. I can only hope that this new decade ahead of me will bring other such friendships that I'll cherish just as deeply.
My hair stylist, Tommy, encouraged me the other day by claiming that "if you thought your 20's were good, just wait till your 30's!" He said that people take you more seriously when you're older, and that's a good thing. I asked him if it'd work with my 15-year-old students, and he gave me this kinda helpless look, like he didn't think anything would help for that situation. Oh well.
I hope Tommy's right, but my 20's will be a tough act to follow. The years included three trips to Europe, one of which inspired me to get out of my dead-end 6-year relationship with the high school boyfriend, which -in turn- inspired me to dump my dead-end major halfway through grad school and return to my first love ... Literature. The RUF clan, and living with Kelly at Tivoli apartments for three years. Nick the Cat. Boxing on a blow-up ring with Meredith at Ath-fest. Standing appointments at Mellow Mushroom downtown (9:30 Friday nights). Redeemer. My first job. The adoption of Bridget Jones as my pop culture, singleton heroine. Vegas, baby. Finding Cal. Marrying him.
My sweet husband attempted to throw a dinner party on my behalf for tomorrow night, but it's fallen through because, even though he invited nearly 20 people, no one (literally) except for he and Elizabeth (the two instigators) can come. He feels pretty down about it, I think, but I told him not to take it personally. Three years ago, Elizabeth and I invited about 10 or so people out for dinner to celebrate my 27th birthday, and no one showed up except for Charlie, who was over an hour late. It's something about summer birthdays, I think.
So tomorrow night, after a scheduled manicure/pedicure-for-one at noon, Elizabeth, Cal, and I will be having an intimate little celebration at my favorite Macon restaurant (local, of course). We'll have to make it an early night, as Cal and I leave very early the next morning to catch our 9 a.m. flight out of Atlanta to Puerto Rico for our anniversary trip! And next weekend? Rebecca's getting hitched in the oh-so-cool town of Asheville, so we're headed there straight from our flight back into Georgia Thursday night. Not a bad birthday/anniversary celebration in and of itself, I think. So forget those friends-with-plans-on-my-birthday! I'm gonna have a delightful time anyway.
Even if I will be 30.
If I were to think about it too much, I'm sure I'd eventually make myself sad. You know, the whole passage of time, inevitability of death, can't ever go back to re-live a moment thoughts. However, much to the aggravation of first my parents, then my professors, and now my husband, I don't tend to worry too much about things in the future.
The good news is that my life has become more fulfilling as I've gotten older. I didn't gain much confidence until I was in my mid-20's, and the friendships that I developed in those years and since then are the ones that I truly believe will last a lifetime, along with only a couple from my younger days. I can only hope that this new decade ahead of me will bring other such friendships that I'll cherish just as deeply.
My hair stylist, Tommy, encouraged me the other day by claiming that "if you thought your 20's were good, just wait till your 30's!" He said that people take you more seriously when you're older, and that's a good thing. I asked him if it'd work with my 15-year-old students, and he gave me this kinda helpless look, like he didn't think anything would help for that situation. Oh well.
I hope Tommy's right, but my 20's will be a tough act to follow. The years included three trips to Europe, one of which inspired me to get out of my dead-end 6-year relationship with the high school boyfriend, which -in turn- inspired me to dump my dead-end major halfway through grad school and return to my first love ... Literature. The RUF clan, and living with Kelly at Tivoli apartments for three years. Nick the Cat. Boxing on a blow-up ring with Meredith at Ath-fest. Standing appointments at Mellow Mushroom downtown (9:30 Friday nights). Redeemer. My first job. The adoption of Bridget Jones as my pop culture, singleton heroine. Vegas, baby. Finding Cal. Marrying him.
My sweet husband attempted to throw a dinner party on my behalf for tomorrow night, but it's fallen through because, even though he invited nearly 20 people, no one (literally) except for he and Elizabeth (the two instigators) can come. He feels pretty down about it, I think, but I told him not to take it personally. Three years ago, Elizabeth and I invited about 10 or so people out for dinner to celebrate my 27th birthday, and no one showed up except for Charlie, who was over an hour late. It's something about summer birthdays, I think.
So tomorrow night, after a scheduled manicure/pedicure-for-one at noon, Elizabeth, Cal, and I will be having an intimate little celebration at my favorite Macon restaurant (local, of course). We'll have to make it an early night, as Cal and I leave very early the next morning to catch our 9 a.m. flight out of Atlanta to Puerto Rico for our anniversary trip! And next weekend? Rebecca's getting hitched in the oh-so-cool town of Asheville, so we're headed there straight from our flight back into Georgia Thursday night. Not a bad birthday/anniversary celebration in and of itself, I think. So forget those friends-with-plans-on-my-birthday! I'm gonna have a delightful time anyway.
Even if I will be 30.
6.07.2008
Computer Woes
You all don't know this, but I've been without a computer for a few weeks. For some reason, my trusty (well, I guess it's not-so-trusty) laptop started acting crazy out of nowhere one night. It was running slow. Not I've-got-too-many-files-on-my-hard-drive slow, but mouse-won't-move-any-quicker-than-a-turtle slow. I got mad at it, put it away for awhile, and used Cal's computer.
If any of you know Cal's habits, you may know that he's, um, well, got an addiction. He denies it, of course. Says that he can quit anytime, but we've all heard that before, right? What is his addiction, you say? The Internet.
Cal can't go for one hour without checking his email. Heck, he can't go for 1/2 an hour, or even 1/4 an hour. He loves his computer. I've asked him several times what exactly he does for hours on end, and he just says that he checks news sites, scores, blogs, etc. Nothing much, he says. What appeal do you see in the Food Network? he retaliates.
Point taken.
One time, he was so bored of his Internet, but couldn't bear the thought of putting it down. Therefore, merely for the sake of something to do, he Googled "cat sounds" and played them for about 30 minutes to see if any provoked a reaction out of Nick the Cat who was sitting on Cal's lap at the time. Several did, and he was once again entertained.
Anyway, all of this rambling background is to say that my lack of a laptop really left me with his laptop as the only option for checking email, blogs, and other such sites, and with his Internet habits, I therefore have done very little of anything computer-related lately.
This morning, as he replayed the movie that he posted on his blog over and over and over again (laughing loudly each time), I decided to take matters into my own hands. I pulled out my crippled laptop, took 2 painstaking hours to make 3 data cds (saving all of my old files and pictures), then popped in the System Recovery disc* that came with my laptop to start the operating system over from scratch. Hurrah! It worked!
So I'm back in full Internet-force, thank goodness. Heading off soon for Cal's second match in his tennis tournament. Wish him (and me...) luck!
*To give him credit, Cal helped in the 1-hour search for the recovery disc, which involved two trips up to our atrociously sweltering attic, and ended up being the one to find it (buried under piles of bills right next to my computer, of course). Thanks, babe!
If any of you know Cal's habits, you may know that he's, um, well, got an addiction. He denies it, of course. Says that he can quit anytime, but we've all heard that before, right? What is his addiction, you say? The Internet.
Cal can't go for one hour without checking his email. Heck, he can't go for 1/2 an hour, or even 1/4 an hour. He loves his computer. I've asked him several times what exactly he does for hours on end, and he just says that he checks news sites, scores, blogs, etc. Nothing much, he says. What appeal do you see in the Food Network? he retaliates.
Point taken.
One time, he was so bored of his Internet, but couldn't bear the thought of putting it down. Therefore, merely for the sake of something to do, he Googled "cat sounds" and played them for about 30 minutes to see if any provoked a reaction out of Nick the Cat who was sitting on Cal's lap at the time. Several did, and he was once again entertained.
Anyway, all of this rambling background is to say that my lack of a laptop really left me with his laptop as the only option for checking email, blogs, and other such sites, and with his Internet habits, I therefore have done very little of anything computer-related lately.
This morning, as he replayed the movie that he posted on his blog over and over and over again (laughing loudly each time), I decided to take matters into my own hands. I pulled out my crippled laptop, took 2 painstaking hours to make 3 data cds (saving all of my old files and pictures), then popped in the System Recovery disc* that came with my laptop to start the operating system over from scratch. Hurrah! It worked!
So I'm back in full Internet-force, thank goodness. Heading off soon for Cal's second match in his tennis tournament. Wish him (and me...) luck!
*To give him credit, Cal helped in the 1-hour search for the recovery disc, which involved two trips up to our atrociously sweltering attic, and ended up being the one to find it (buried under piles of bills right next to my computer, of course). Thanks, babe!
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