Her name is Lola. She was a showgirl. February 28, 2007

Well, I’ve finally hop, skipped, and jumped my way into the 21st century. Yesterday, my lovely and beloved husband bought me an iPod for my birthday. Her name is Lola, and she’s a lovely apple green color (go figure). I’ve wanted one for a long time, but I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do with it…it’s not like I workout a lot and need music, it’s not like I take public transportation to work and need to zone out during my commute, it’s not like I’m not the Mommy and can control what gets played on our stereo…but I’ve wanted one for years, and I’ve always managed to talk myself out of one.

Apparently, M was tired of riding the “Will I or Won’t I” iPod rollercoaster.

So I’m excited. I’ve spent the afternoon browsing the iTunes store, buying some music, thinking about what songs we already own that I want to upload. I went and bought Lola a little case to protect her delicate noggin, as I’m sure I’ll drop her a time or two, and bonded with the iNerd working at the Apple Store who confided that he secretly thought the green one was the best color, and then he winked at me. Wow. Thirty-two years old, thirty-three weeks pregnant, no make-up, with french onion soup breath and I STILL get a wink?! Mama’s working it today, baby. Oh yeah.

Shopping in the iTunes store was like a jaunt down memory lane…they actually had Rick Astley on there. RICK ASTLEY! I am somewhat embarassed to admit that I owned two of his albums on cassette when I was in 8th grade. I was astonished to discover he produced MORE than two albums. Richard Marx…Fine Young Cannibals…Tiffany. That was some damn fine music I listened to. Thank God Kurt Cobain came along and saved me from my fluffy-pop self and introduced me to true angst. I also dated a lot of flannel-swathed young men in high school, something I also credit Kurt with. It must have been a law in Washington in the early 90’s–if you are a young man, you must wear flannel. And if you are a young woman, you must want to date young men wearing flannel. Snort. As if we had a choice. In my high school, it was either the guys in flannel, or the guys in Wranglers. It was an easy decision for me, since I could tolerate the smell of pot better than some guy with a wad of Skoal in his cheek trying to ram his tongue down my throat.

Mm. Fun memories.

I started having contractions last night. Mostly Braxton-Hicks (I’ve been having those for awhile), but I had a couple that forced me to stop and catch my breath. It’s early, and I stopped them just by laying down, but they’re encouraging because it means that stuff is starting to happen! Thank God. When we found out in August that we were pregnant, April sounded SO far away…and now, when I think that I’ve been pregnant since July, it seems like I’ve been pregnant for my entire adult life. I’m ready to get this kid out and get on with our lives. Hopefully, she’s listening.

Huh. They never mentioned this in any of my bazillion parenting books. February 20, 2007

What, precisely, is the proper parental response to the following scenario?

While sitting in the office, getting caught up on some blogs, I was interrupted by my VERY naked daughter. She clamped both hands on her bottom, jumped around while singing, “I’m Skippy the Squirrel! I’m Skippy the Squirrel! I’m Skippy the Squirrel!”, before removing one hand from the aforementioned buttocks, blowing me a kiss,  and scampering away down the hall.

Given my total lack of professional guidance in this situation, I opted to painfully bang my forehead into the desk as I dissolved in laughter.

Seemed like the the sensible thing to do.

Now why the hell didn’t I think of that?! February 18, 2007

I am FAT.

At just over 31 weeks pregnant, my belly is big, my lungs are squished, my heart is burning, and my pancreas isn’t producing enough insulin–that’s right: it’s the GD gestational diabetes (again). I had it with Nea. My doc was wonderful, helped me manage it, and I managed it very well indeed. This time around, they want me to manage it in a very different way and I’m not having as much luck. Granted, I’ve only been trying for a week, and my first week last time around was just as rough…but, like so many of the (sometimes literal) pains in your ass connected with pregnancy: you forget. I get to test my blood four times a day and my poor little fingers HURT. You can actually see little tiny red dots on them. Ugh.

Sarah is getting large enough that her rolls now cause my entire belly to gyrate, and quite frequently elicit an audible grunt from her poor put-upon mother. I’ve forgotten how ODD it is to be able to actually FEEL another person inside your belly…when they’re tiny, it’s just flutters and kicks and “oh, isn’t being pregnant fun”. At this point, it’s like, “Whoops! Sorry! I didn’t mean to squash your head. Could you please get your elbow out of my bladder and your feet out of my ribcage? Thanks!”

One night, Linnea and I were snuggling on the couch and Sarah was being particularly active. One of her movements made me wince, and Linnea said, “Mama! What’s wrong?” I said, “Oh, Baby Sarah is just kicking me.” Nea looked at me like I’d lost it, put her hands on her hips and said, “Well? Give her a time-out!” I asked, “How should I do that?” Very patiently, Linnea said, “Put. Her. In. The. Chair.” Now, why the hell didn’t I think of that? Clearly, my firstborn stands ready and waiting to solve all my parenting dilemas, and address all my parental inequalities.

M and I are fighting out the whole baptism/godparent issue. We’re not fighting, we’re working together, but it feels like it’s going to be a fight to figure something out. We feel very strongly about the role of godparents, so it’s a selection we take very seriously…and so far: we’re coming up empty-handed. We’ve got no idea who to ask to be Sarah’s godparents. As far as the actual baptism itself: it’s a difficult event to plan when it involves grandparents traveling from Washington State and Texas. Do we have it in Texas, thereby effectively exempting the Washington side from participating due to cost of travel and lack of vaction time? Do we have it in Washington, but only allow the Texas contingent in the state for a couple of days so that they don’t intrude on Washington’s time with Nea and Sarah (because believe me: those grandmothers keep careful track of who gets how much time with whom)? Do we hold it in Minnesota, right after Sarah is born so Washington can be there for it (they missed Linnea’s because of money, vacation, and travel issues) but Texas really can’t because of the aforementioned infringing on Washington time and because if Washington is here, we can’t accomodate Texas, AND because if we do it in Minnesota while Washington can be here we’d have to do it within the few days after Sarah’s birth and there’s no way in sweet loving hell I can deal with my mother-in-law that close to having given birth?

Incidentally, if you’re still reading: God bless you. This is what my pregnant mind is like. I just latch onto a “problem” and try and find all the possible ways to make it work, or not work, as the case may be.

It’s hard. Because we want to be fair. Both Texas and Washington love their granddaughter(s) dearly, and I don’t want to be seen to favor one parental unit over the other (even though my parents are obviously my favorite–better the insanity you were raised in, you know?). But it doesn’t seem much like either side appreciates how hard it is on us as a family, to constantly be taking THEIR needs into account, sometimes to the detriment of the needs of OUR family. We hear a lot of “Well, you always go to ______________ and spend more time with them than with us.” or “Well, ______________ should just be happy she lives as close to two of her grandchildren as she does. She should count her blessings because *I* will live 1500 miles away from ALL of my grandchildren.” or “You like _________________ more than you like us.” Usually when the conversation degenerates to that level it takes every ounce of my willpower to say, “At this point: yes, I absolutely do like them better. Wouldn’t you?”

But I think we’ve stumbled upon a solution. Every year, my family vacations on the Oregon Coast. It’s tradition. In fact, it’s moved out of the realm of tradition into outright necessity. We NEED to be at the Oregon Coast at least once a year. One of our most beloved friends and teachers has built his retirement home not far from where we’ll be staying this summer, and we’re thinking of asking Dr. J to do the baptism. Texas would not be invited (as I have NO interest in forcing my family to share their precious vacation with my in-laws), HOWEVER: we’d go down to Texas and have sort of a pre-Baptism reception for the Texas family. Hell, Sarah could even wear her baptismal gown. It’s probably not going to go over real well with the Texans…but it’s really feeling right to us. And I’m just pregnant and hormonal enough to say that’s all that matters at this point. We could do the baptism as the sun was sinking into the Pacific, celebrate with fresh crab and wine, and top off the evening with a soak in the hottub.

But this plan is less than 24 hours old. It could be subject to change. Or maybe not. That’s the beauty of being 31 weeks pregnant.

Hey now, I’m a rock star… February 5, 2007

The unpacking and resettling continues at Casa de Beege.

Linnea is the proud possessor of one totally kick-ass playroom. At 30 weeks pregnant, I’ve managed to take one of the little alcoves off our hallway and turn it into a kid-friendly wonderland, filled with toys, art supplies, books, color and light (heh, no mean trick since there are no windows). Frankly, I want a playroom now. And if Sarah didn’t already have a name, “Ikea” would be in the running, because that place is a huge reason why Nea’s space is so freaking cool.

And: I organized my yarn collection. I’ve been knitting for about 7 years now. Nothing fancy. Mostly rectangular, with the occasional baby hat or sweater thrown in to jazz things up. I made purses for a little while about five years ago. Eh. But, people: the yarn I have. Oy vey! I could probably open my very own snooty yarn shop. Yesterday I spent hours going through, organizing according to color, finding unfinished projects from YEARS ago, scrapping some and saving the yarn, scrapping others entirely. Went through and organized my patterns (yes, even though I rarely knit anything not rectangular, I’ve managed to collect quite a number of knitting patterns) and my knitting supplies (i.e–stitch holders, stitch markers, the little things you put on the end so your knitting doesn’t fall off, gauge tools, measuring tapes, etc.). It looks beautiful. It looks so organized. It looks like M was right, and I really SHOULD do something with all the yarn I have before I buy any more. It’s just such a sensual experience for me, buying yarn. I love the look, the feel, the scent of the yarn. It’s not just the buying of yarn. If it was just that, I’d have a ton of those “1 Pound of Yarn” skeins and call it good. But the yarn feeds something in me…a need to create and color and texture and design (another reason I tend to work free of a pattern). Luckily, he puts up with me.

The weather is cold, cold, cold, cold, COLD. Gotta love a day that starts with the weatherman saying, “Well, folks, if we’re lucky we’ll reach a high of zero today.” Gotta love a day that continues with a car that refuses to start because of the cold. Here’s hoping it’s just the battery (I called my Dad when the car wouldn’t start–nearly 32 years old, and I still call Daddy the moment I need help with anything. Being a Daddy’s Girl is a beautiful thing–and he diagnosed a dead/dying battery) because I’m not sure what we’d do if it was something more complicated. It’s the first time in 116,000 miles her highness Iron Goddess of Mercy, the Avian Death Machine, Pearl would not start. I was quite kerflummoxed by the whole event. I actually sat there and said, “But–but Pearl, you ALWAYS start for me. Always. You’ve never left me stranded. You’ve never even coughed and died at a stoplight. What the hell is up today?” As if the car were doing this on purpose.

It means, though, that I can stay home and keep unpacking today, and it means that I can finish watching Season 1 of “Big Love” or perhaps watch “Little Miss Sunshine” before I have to return them to the video store. It means I can keep working on Nea’s blanket that I’m knitting for her. And it means that M and I get to have an entire afternoon alone, without Linnea, and God only knows the kinky places that could go. With as tired as we both are: probably just a nap. We’re just so nasty.