Adorable Device of Destruction

Getting my mind back

2012-01-24T14:39:00.001-07:00

Shortly after Cora was born, I wrote a post about all of the bad television I had been watching.

I'm too lazy to look for it. Just take my word for it.

It was bad. Really bad.

Well, things have improved in the past two months, and I'm hoping that my renewed discernment in my television viewing is sign of things to come, namely my brain returning.

TV I found worth watching, and I watch quite a lot during feedings still:

Justified: First off, Timothy Olyphant is a very handsome man, and he does this thing with his eyes that goes beyond description. Second, I love the acting, the writing, the quirkiness of it all.

Shameless: This is a tricky show. You are sitting there laughing your ass off at people who are suffering in this economy (not to mention gross parental neglect). But then you start caring about the characters, and while you continue laughing at them as the first season comes to a close, you also start to feel incredibly uncomfortable and uneasy. That's good stuff.

Sons of Anarchy, Season Three: The entire season takes place in a short period of narrative time. And let's forgive for a moment the cheesy Irished-up theme music beginning the episodes where the Sons are in Belfast. The acting remains very good. And there's something interestingly subtle and telling about how the show depicts masculinity.

Homeland: This is my new favorite show. I'm a reluctant Claire Danes fan. I thought My So-Called Life overrated. But as CIA agent Carrie Mathison, she is raw, her body pulsing with tension. Of course, one of my favorite actors, Damian Lewis, shines as the returned POW who may or may not have turned. And, there's Mandy Patinkin, a secret old guy crush of mine ever since the days of Chicago Hope..... Did I just type that? Anyway, watch it. It satisfies.

Downton Abbey: Of course. It's amazing and fun and the guilt equivalent of really expensive candy wrapped in even more expensive packaging. It's soapy and smart.

Movies, I try my hardest to watch them. It just requires so much attention from my already addled brain.

But I am having a miniature movie festival of Ryan Gosling movies in my living room. He is a remarkable actor. I first saw him years ago in The Notebook, a drippy, overly sentimental movie saved by its actors. In the past week I watched Gosling play two vastly different characters in two very good movies:

Lars and the Real Girl: Gosling plays Lars, a very lonely and socially awkward man, who uses a "real girl" sex doll as a kind of transition object to ready him for a real relationship. Lars's relationship with the real girl is very "real" and completely innocent. As his community starts to accept the real girl (she volunteers and serves on the school board), Lars begins to understand just how complicated relationships can be. These lessons enable him to go after a "real" girl. It's a sweet movie.

Blue Valentine: Gosling and Michelle Williams play a married couple whose marriage is crumbling. Interspersed with scenes from their early days as a couple, the movie explores how far people can grow apart. It's heartbreaking and hard to watch mostly due to the performances. Gosling creates a character that is both infuriatingly childish and sympathetic.

I know that I've seen other movies, but I cannot recall them at the moment. With the recent announcement of Academy Award nominees, I think the Pilot and I will start having movie nights. I adore awards season!

I'm just relieved that I weaned myself off of Top Model reruns. I was starting to baby talk to Cora about "smizing." If you don't know what that means, you are better off for it.

Here's hoping my book list for 2012 will reflect my newly energized brain.

Quick note: In case you're wondering, we didn't find out today either.

And another note: Despite energetic proofreading, I cannot seem to catch even the most obvious of errors.

And we still do not know....

2012-01-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

It has become a routine.

If I do not hear from my husband on a weekday before 10:30, I assume for the rest of the day that I will not know any more than I did when I woke up that morning. I suspend worry for a couple of hours, and the terror of not knowing kicks in around eight o'clock at night.

I spend the weekends in planning mode. I do what I can and tackle the things that have to get done regardless of the decision.

I am someone who values information. I can handle most anything if I know what it is that I am facing.

And right now, I do not know if I should make a trip to Costco for paper towels and toilet paper or if I should just buy as needed until we all leave.

Of course, there are considerations much more pressing than my paper goods, but that's another post entirely.

When I picked up some cheese from Trader Joe's last week, the expiration date reminded me just how little time we have.

And I was so sure we would know today.

Last week, I had to turn down work because I did not know where I would be when the second Spring session starts.

If we do not go with the Pilot, then I will be needing that job to fund airfare. The job filled before I could confirm my plans with my employer. It's too long of a trip to take with a lap baby. That's three separate seats, people, and two separate trips in one year. That means a lot of classes for an itinerant adjunct like myself.

Tomorrow morning, I will get up. I will feed the baby and the toddler. I will try to eat. My heart will pound every time the phone rings. And I will be sick to my stomach. The symptoms will disappear around 10:30, and tomorrow night my heart will make its presence known. I will feel it pounding in my head and in the tips of my fingers when I go to sleep, and I will wake up every two hours with the vague feeling of needing to throw up and the not-so-vague feeling of someone sitting on my chest.

As I said, it is getting to be a routine.

The Grand Canyon Experience

2012-01-15T07:31:00.000-07:00

I'll make this brief. The baby is stirs.

Was this just a month ago? It seems like months, half a year even. This is how time works when you are waiting on news.

Anyway....

Back in early December, we traveled the South Rim of the Grand Canyon on our way home from the Polar Express.

The long way home, yes, but one well worth the time and miles.

I met this fella on my way to the restrooms. He was just hanging out.

For a while it was all fun and games. Gus loves the Grand Canyon!

But the mood of a toddler is changeable.

Sure, his cries were not nearly as annoying as the guy leading a tour of hobby photographers for the sole purpose of showing them where to take the best pictures and how. Seriously, is it not enough to enjoy the beauty around you that you have to experience it through a viewfinder?

Requisite couples picture.

The snow improves the toddler's mood.

Handsome husband.

One of the few pictures without people because I'm not a professional photographer, and clearly, I need a different lens. But I've always liked a river....

We ended our tour of the South Rim at The Watchtower, a funky and fascinating piece of 1930s architecture inspired by ancient Pueblo structures and designed by Mary Elizabeth Jane Colter.

Since we are most likely leaving Arizona soon (either in April or next April, together or apart), it would have been a shame to miss the Grand Canyon. And to say that we experienced it after a generous dusting of snow the week before is a lucky bonus.

Another week....

2012-01-15T07:12:00.001-07:00

We did not find out last week either whether or not we'll be joining my husband overseas.

Why another delay?

It's a long story.

Before we started in on this whole medical clearance process, we worked on getting Gus a referral to a speech therapist.

Two ear infections. One hearing test. One Speech Evaluation. Two long months.

Now the people reviewing our file need the notes from the speech evaluation Friday last. The therapist, a nice man who is great with Gus, has an enormous case load. He very kindly agreed to have the notes ready and faxed over today.

Taking into account that it's another holiday weekend, predicting that we'll know this Friday is an exercise in hopeless optimism.

But I've kept this weekend relatively free of worry. My descent into nervous wreck will commence on Tuesday.

The baking continues, however.

The other day I was making blondies. The recipe called for one egg and one egg yolk.

I cracked an egg with a double yolk.

What luck! I thought.

Little girls with dirty hair

2012-01-09T21:49:00.000-07:00

I was reading about war and having my hair painted varying shades of copper and red when the conversation started.

A thirteen-year-old girl was having her highlights retouched, and the two stylists working her over with foils began to chat about their clients. Their stories took on a thematic bent: little girls with dirty hair.

Apparently, a little girl had come in with her grandmother earlier that day. The girl’s hair hit her waist, and it was a rat’s nest of tangles and those awful hair feathers that seem to be popular as of late.

One of the stylists, a twenty-year-old woman with bleached hair, had just finished working on a man who complained that since the age of forty five his life had just been going all to hell. For eighteen years, life kept getting worse. Coincidentally and sadly, his oldest child was eighteen.

He asked the young woman how old she was, and after she answered in a voice that still carried traces of girl in it, he gruffly inquired, “How’s that working out for you? Life?”

“Oh, you know, it has its ups and downs. I can’t complain, really.”

I could feel his sneer. I didn’t have to see it to know it was there.

She had the good sense to change the subject, to ask him if the five blade was cutting his hair short enough.

After she finished with the man and he left the salon, she walked over to the stylist doing my hair.

“He wasn’t so bad. I didn’t feel that threatened. I just steered the conversation away when it got weird. Nope. Not threatened.”

I did not believe for one moment that she felt comfortable because the man unnerved me and I wasn't even talking to him. I’m pretty sure that my stylist didn’t believe her either, but my stylist is a nice person and complimented the girl on her handling of a difficult client.

And it was after this brief exchange that the young woman began talking with the senior stylist about messy-haired little girls.

“That’s a big pet peeve of mine, when people bring their children in here and do not bother combing their hair. I mean, I was mad at the grandmother for allowing that to happen. That poor girl, we had to cut those feathers out. It took three of us to get a comb through her hair, and that took an hour!”

Her client earlier that morning was not the first to walk into that salon with dirty hair.

Apparently, the older stylist took on one messy-haired girl as a kind of project.

She recollected that first visit when dirt colored the water rinsing the girl’s hair and left grit in the sink and when she took special care to wipe the sweat-stuck grime from the girl’s neck.

She taught the girl to wash her hair, yet the girl kept coming in dirty. She had a collar of dirt around her neck; the grease from her hair stained the towels.

I kept reading about the three types of atrocity committed during war, about heroism and how medals tell a woefully incomplete and unrepresentative story of war.

The stylist concluded, “Now. That woman just didn’t know how to raise a daughter, and that poor girl will grow up to become a bad mother, too. That is how it happens.”

I winced.

The business manager walked over to me and asked me if I wanted some coffee and or hot chocolate while the dye set.

“Why, yes! Hot chocolate. Thanks.”

The women continued their story about the mother and how she seemed shut down and closed off like she was a boarded-up business or a dangerous road.

The thirteen-year-old girl piped up, “Maybe the mother was just overwhelmed, and her daughter’s hair just became one of those things that she forgot to do.”

The two women seemed not to hear her.

“Oh, her husband was military. And she was, too. I just got the feeling that something was horribly wrong there. Yeah, she was rough. As I said, completely shut off. “

She paused, sighed, and affixed more foil to the thirteen-year-old girl’s hair.

“Just when I thought I was getting through to the daughter, they moved to another state.”

I sipped on my hot chocolate and continued to read about war.

Word

2012-01-06T15:10:00.001-07:00

We continue waiting on word, word that we're "healthy" enough to travel across the Pacific and live together as a family for two years.

We were supposed to find out today.

Today all we found out was that the folks at our next assignment have another week to review our paperwork due to the holiday delay.

I jump out of my skin every time the phone rings.

I've already eaten an entire bag of cookies this week.

My ass can't take much more waiting. Really. It can not. I just made more cookies, and I gave away all of my maternity clothes and bought all size 8s.

My pants cannot accommodate another week.....

I just had the damnedest time spelling the word "accommodate."

My sportsbra for ample-bosomed women came in the mail yesterday.

I should use it.

My body needs the exercise especially since it craves food to calm my nerves.

It's better than cigarettes which also sound very, very appealing at times.

The fact that I have very small children should keep that habit kicked away and dormant.

Music seems to help, and I keep dropping everything when I hear this song.

These lyrics seems especially appropriate:

How'd you know
where to go
and when to stop
to look ahead?

No one's ending up
with what they thought
they figured out.
Well, this what they get.

(I obsessed for about ten minutes over Buckner's line breaks. I give up. Apologies to the artist if they're inaccurate.)

I am fairly certain that Richard Buckner did not write this song about military families, but all of the words seem oddly appropriate.

2011: What is left of it

2011-12-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

I have about seven hours to play catch up.

Books. Advent Events. An anniversary. Christmas. My husband's birthday. Waiting for word on where we'll be going in April.

The end of the year has been a jumble of gatherings, travel, and sleepless nights.

But here it goes: my attempt to be semi-coherent.

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Back in January of 2010, I started a monthly post wherein I listed and reviewed in miniature the books I read. Well, life in the last quarter of 2011 has been so busy that I haven't updated my reading list since August.

I'm just going to skip the reviews and go for the list of what I remember reading in the past four months.

Just Kids by Patti Smith
The $64 Tomato by William Alexander
Doc by Mary Doria Russell
Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut
Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl
Korea... with Children! by Arleta Wohlrab
The Winter Sea by Susanna Kearsley
The Complete Poems and Collected Letters of Adelaide Crapsey
In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson
The Getaway Car by Ann Patchett
I Am Half Sick of Shadows: A Flavia de Luce Novel by Alan Bradley
I'm Dying Up Here: Heartbreak and High Times in Stand-up Comedy's Golden Era by William Knoedelseder

Grand Total of Reads in 2011: 39, or 13 short of my goal
(2010 Total: 42.5)

I will reach one book a week, but something tells me that 2012 is going to be a busy one.

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Advent Events

Ornaments

Making cookies

Rolling out the dough for hand ornaments

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My husband and I celebrated another anniversary driving to Texas. Actually, it was the best Anniversary #1 on record. We were not sick. The Pilot was not deployed.

(Anniversary #1: Making it legal anniversary as opposed to Anniversary #2, or Church wedding, on April Fool's Day. We count it as our spare in case the Pilot is deployed or TDY.)

Now it is New Year's Eve, and for the first time, neither one of us is sick and the Pilot is not deployed. I have champagne chilling in the fridge and formula to give Miss Cora in case I get tipsy and cannot feed her. I think I've earned it!

Earlier in the post, I left a little hint of where our family could be heading pending a medical clearance. I spent most of the past week jumping out of my skin every time the phone rang. No news. It looks like we'll find out next week whether we will be going with the Pilot oversees for two years or if he will be going without us for a year.

In any case, I keep this song in my head:

A very happy new year to everyone no matter where you may be spending it.

And I send best wishes and thoughts of hope and peace to those of you separated from your nearest and dearest. May your loved ones return home safe and soon.

Advent Event: The Grand Canyon Polar Express

2011-12-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

The second weekend of December we travelled to Williams, AZ, for the Grand Canyon Polar Express. Gus cannot hide his excitement.

Cora is skeptical.

I ordered the tickets to the Polar Express back in January before I knew I was pregnant. Once we found out that we were having a baby, I figured that it would be a fun thing to do with Gus, to make up for the fact that so much attention would be funneled away from him and instead would be focused on a squalling newborn.

Gus is still talking about this experience.

Of course, Gus wants to know all about the trains.

And, of course, Gus breaks the rules, unknowingly but aided and abetted by his father.

Me: Look! It's Teddy Roosevelt on his train tour.

The Pilot: You're such a nerd!

The train approaches.

Don't worry. This isn't our train. It's the stationary one that Gus keeps trying to climb upon.

The chef takes his ticket, and we board.

Now, I purchased tickets knowing very little about The Polar Express beyond it taking place on a train during Christmas. I ordered the movie and the book, and the movie was pretty awful and soulless. Even Gus found it plodding and uninspired. He played with his own trains almost the entire time. The book is different in that it's simply written and warmly illustrated, and the significance of the bell rescues the more awkward elements of the narrative. Everything gets lost in the movie which tries to stretch a children's book into an hour-and-a-half-long feature film. The extra characters, the long pauses, and the "adventures" take away from the message of the story.

We brought a copy of our book on board, and we followed along as a recorded Liam Neeson read the book. We ate blah cookies and sipped on not-hot chocolate, but the quality of the food didn't matter. Gus did not have time for such trivialities. There were songs to sing and a Santa to see.

I had read reviews of the Grand Canyon Polar Express before purchasing tickets, and most of them were positive. The negative reviews came from adults not appreciating the experience from a child's point of view.

I took my chances, and I'm glad I did. We all had a wonderful time.

Advent Event: Santas on a Plane (and a Helicopter)

2011-12-19T22:41:00.000-07:00

I made an advent calendar.

Given my limited crafting abilities, I have to keep things very simple.

The whole advent activity calendar idea appeals to me. It satisfies the compulsive list maker in me. But I must also credit my recent membership to Pinterest. I'm not entirely sure if I like Pinterest. It makes me do odd things like go to Michael's and buy Mod Podge.

What in the hell am I going to do with Mod Podge?

Anyway, two of the events included seeing Santa land in a helicopter at the Pima Air & Space Museum and watching Santa taxi in an A-10 to the children's Christmas party on base.

Wanna see some pictures?

At the Pima Air & Space Museum

At the Children's Christmas Party

Gus can decorate cookies very well.

He is equally talented at eating them.

This may sound odd, but the picture of him following Santa, though he is half obscured by other children, is one of my favorites. His earnest expression is the best.

Happy Holidays!

A prelude to a post

2011-12-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

Many pictures and even more words but so very little time to post them.

I continue to be my daughter's own personal Waffle House. I barely find the time to shower. Just how does that place stay clean operating all day, every day?

In the past two weeks, Gus has seen Santa arrive on a helicopter and an A-10 as well as board a train. We just need to see Santa on a boat.

My time to write is running out. Cora will be up and demanding food very soon. More to come, but in the meantime, here are a few photos.

Just a warning that the next couple of posts will consist almost entirely of photos of Gus.

It's very difficult to take photos of someone who nurses all of the time.

Gus is convinced that my breasts produce milkshakes.

Why else would Cora spend so much time there?

I'm still here

2011-12-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

But I'm really very busy and kind of sick with a lingering cold.

Between nursing and toddler wrangling and Thanksgiving and planning for a PCS in the spring, my hands have not been free to write.

Pending a medical clearance, we are crossing the ocean in April.

I'm afraid to type where we are going lest I jinx it and my ass ends up here, alone and raising two kids while my husband does his thing overseas.

There is much to report and so little time to do it.

And a part of me does not want to share what's ongoing beyond family and few friends not only due to superstition but also due to privacy concerns and my own reluctance to post on something in public that I'm still processing.

Most of the time, I think that the sharing of information that has not been fully considered or realized by the writer is a mistake. And not just a mistake of content or narrative. More importantly, it can impede the writer-person's integration of the information fully into one's life. It takes on a life on-line before it's dealt with in reality, and I do make a distinction between the two.

Committing something to words so soon can prevent flexibility or hasten disappointment or result in regret or create misunderstandings between writer and reader.

I'm not sure that makes sense. It's just that some things deserve serious reflection before they are shared and that's why I'm not a very good blogger. I have a hard time being spontaneous with my words when I know that I have to share them.

Yes, it all sounds so very major and so very obliquely dramatic (or dramatically oblique), but it isn't. Don't worry. It's just living life--a military life, at that.

We're still here. We're mostly healthy considering the season and mostly happy considering the sleeplessness and the hormones.

And I don't use the word "happy" lightly. I mean it. We are happy, and we'll look back on this fall fondly. It's just something I want percolating in my own tired brain, and maybe someday, when I have gathered more wisdom from reflection, I'll share more details from this wondrous and challenging time.

And this is a time in my life when I'm not just taking it day by day, but hour by hour.

That's what you do with a two-month-old baby who likes to eat around the clock and a tornado-toddler hybrid whose moods change like the weather in Texas.

As far as writing is concerned, this is what three hours of sleep a night looks like, and it will have to do.

Halloween 2011

2011-11-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

Or, a post (mostly) without narrative because if I start adding too many words, it will be 2012 before I get this thing posted.

Decorating for Halloween, finding an assortment of wigs and hats, and torturing the dog in the process:

Brother and Sister :: Pilot and Gremlin

Cora, The Gremlin

What is a gremlin?

According to Merriam-Webster: "a cause of error or equipment malfunction (as in aircraft) conceived of as a small mischievous gnome"

The onesie references Roald Dahl's The Gremlins.

See this classic Bugs Bunny cartoon....

Cora, The Gremlin, "I'll jack you up!"

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While the Pilot carved a pumpkin on the front porch, Gus found a long stick and imagined himself a helicopter.

Perhaps he wanted to be a helicopter for Halloween....

While I nursed Cora, the Pilot continued to carve and Gus kept flying around with his stick for a rotor. He puttered in a circle, "Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop."

But then he heard an airplane.

And once the plane passed over, my little helicopter went on his way, the Pilot finished carving his pumpkin, and Cora kept right on eating.

Catching up and falling behind

2011-11-12T06:46:00.000-07:00

I have a running list of things I need to write, but finding time to eat and bathe have taken priority lately.

These pictures were taken over two weeks ago, when Cora was almost six weeks old.

Here are a couple of stories, scattered impressions, and photos cobbled together during what precious little free time I get.

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A couple of weeks ago, back in those early first days I spent alone with the kids, those days in between having my in-laws here and my mom here, Gus locked himself in his room.

Exhaustion made panic impossible. And somehow Gus stayed calm, too.

For over an hour, I worked on different ways to get Gus out of his room. I stuck all matter of objects into the small hole in the doorknob after running my hand over the tops of every door frame in the house for a key, any key. Finally, I searched the Craftsman in the garage and found a set of hex keys. They didn't work either.

I found out later that our doors are not of the common "stick a clothes hanger in there and push" variety but rather employ the kind of lock that opens with a small flathead screw driver, one normally used to fix spectacles and the like.

Imagine me doing all of this while nursing because Gus would manage to lock himself in his room during a cluster feed.

It just occurred to me that Cluster Feed and Charlie Foxtrot share something in common....

Once I put Cora down, I determined to take the whole damn doorknob apart.

When we put the doorknob back together again, we made sure the lock was on the outside.

Before you start suggesting kiddie-proofing the doors, know that in our home the doorknob bulbs (the ones that cause house guests without children endless embarrassment when they try to use your bathroom) are absolutely useless.

My little engineer can take them apart and put them back together again.

(Written while Cora sleeps, Gus watches Word World, and I make chewy chocolate chunk molasses cookies.)

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Pictures taken about a week ago....

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On Wednesday we drove all the way to Roswell, and on Thursday we drove the rest of the way to Texas and family.

I now have a little more time to write and take pictures and post them, but that time will run out all too soon.

Upcoming Posts: Halloween, Great-Grandparents, and funny things said by the Pilot....

Binary

2011-10-20T20:55:00.001-07:00

The Pilot owns many flying toys.

I tried to fly one of them once, and it was during this attempt that the Pilot discovered something about his new-at-the-time wife.

I am hopelessly binary.

I either ran the flying contraption into the ceiling or I could not get it off the ground.

With it me, it's up or down, right or left, night or day.

01010101

Feast or Famine....

Perhaps it was the formula that made Gus sleep all the way through the night fairly early on. He had his upsets throughout much of the afternoon and early evening, but eventually he became a good sleeper.

Cora nurses all night long....

... and for much of the day.

... and during the greater part of an evening.

She is my "all or nothing" girl.

101010101010

Broke or "Hard Broke"

The week we came home from the hospital both our central cooling and our dishwasher quit working.

The Pilot took apart the dishwasher. He explained to me what was wrong with it, but I've been averaging about two hours of sleep a night, so my powers of recall are impaired. About twice a week, I now find the Pilot halfway in the dishwasher, which will be in pieces on the kitchen floor. Plates have to be free of all debris before they are placed in the dishwasher.

The landlord was not happy about having to replace the compressor on the cooling unit; however, he would probably be happy to learn that we're having to replace our entire unit in Georgia.

Our stroller broke on our first outing.

It broke again on the day the Pilot tried to fix it.

Now, it's not just broken; it's "hard broke," according to the Pilot.

We cannot buy a stroller until we know where we are going in the spring.

Yes, it is that time of uncertainty again. Decisions can be made but only up to a certain point in time.

We're supposed to find out this month where we are going, but we all know how that goes....

0000000011111111

Trash and Treasure

I must confess to something. The television that best keeps me awake while nursing at three in the morning is of the worst kind.

Here's a glimpse into what my mind is consuming in those early morning hours while Cora feeds and I struggle to stay awake.

Sex and the City 2: My mom and I watched this disaster in those early days, those days when I was pumping and nursing every two hours without end and floating around in a percocet haze. We would watch thirty minutes or so at a time. I'm not sure if this is the only way to watch such an offensive film about Ugly American behavior in the UAE, but I do know that these characters lost their souls a long time ago. The moral of the film seems to be "Kiss your ex-fiance and see what it gets you: A fabulous ring from your husband, that's what!"

Reruns of America's Next Top Model: Tyra. I don't know what else to say.

Rachel Zoe: What an awful mess of self-absorption that show is! See above.

Top Chef: Just Desserts: I admire the art of the pastry, and I've consumed my fair share of desserts, but this show is just lame!

But it hasn't been all bad....

I've been getting reacquainted with my boyfriend Jon Stewart. He's the only person who can get me to watch snippets of the Republican debates.

The Tudors: Yes, it's trash of the historical fiction variety (emphasis on fiction), but it's entertaining and the acting is good.

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia: I laugh so hard I cry. It sometimes makes nursing difficult.

Somewhere in between is American Horror Story which I've found that I absolutely cannot watch while nursing because it scares the piss out of me.

I promise to myself that I'll watch some TED talks or some News Hour or just shut off the TV and listen to NPR or read some meaningful articles/essays.

But I've yet to do that. I have an entire cycle of ANTM to record!

101010101010

0 to 1 Month

Cora is now one month old.

Last night I touched my nose to her nose, and she gave me the biggest smile.

The Pilot had to play the game, too.

He leaned over Cora, touched his nose to hers, and she immediately started crying.

Of course, she was hungry. Again.

She wears the same worried look that Gus had when he was hungry.

We do believe that Cora has a very deep dimple in her right cheek.

One day we will catch that dimple.

Working it

2011-10-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

The other day I took my daughter to the office where I turned in grades. I dressed her for the occasion.

(Cora wonders why in the hell I've put a garter belt on her head....)

The baby head band/garter belt did not last long. She finds it scratchy. I'm not sure how I feel about it.... Right now hair is easy, but I fear that very soon I'll have to get one of those hair dummies on which to practice making braids and ponytails.

But, yes, back to work. I turned in my grades for the one class I taught this past term. Yes, it was only one class, but I had a good deal going on what with the two or three appointments a week for a "high risk" pregnancy and the preparing for baby and the wrangling the toddler.

It was important for me to be working, if only part time, when I had Cora. I wanted to be able to say to my daughter that, yes, I did teach a class while loaded up on percocet less than a week after a C-section, that one must work or try to work or cultivate work no matter what (and if only part time).

After I had Gus, I once wrote that I had to redefine for myself the meaning of the word "productive."

Today I had to write "Take a nap" on my to-do list. After over a week of all-night cluster feeds, it was absolutely necessary.

-----

Gus can make a train from any object. He sees train tracks in the stitching on the couch. He has an eye for the linear.

In this case, Gus created a train from his no-no chair, a shopping cart full of vehicles, and of course, Cora's car seat.

Cora is not a willing passenger.

She hates her car seat most of the time.

-----

In other news, Cora loves tummy time.

She is already rolling onto her side. Like her brother, she is very strong.

Tomorrow Cora will be four weeks old.

Flight Suit

2011-10-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

It should come as no surprise that Gus will be a fighter pilot for Halloween. For the occasion, we ordered a flight suit. We could not resist letting him try it on as soon as it was delivered.

First, we told him to close his eyes.

No peeking!

Okay. Open them.

"Is that Gus's?" our child asks.

Why, yes, it is!

And we have the perfect costume for Cora, too, but I'm not sure how many people outside of the aviation community will get it. More on that later....

In the meantime, here's a hint:

Baby's first Oktoberfest

2011-10-10T16:06:00.000-07:00

We had to bundle her up in a double swaddle as the festival was held on Mount Lemmon where it was in the fifties. Glorious weather!

The Pilot enjoys some German beer and Cora ponders what's on tap.

Gus's first chicken dance (but by no means his first Oktoberfest).

This is how Cora spent most of her first Oktoberfest.

More pictures than words

2011-10-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

My dad believes very strongly that Cora is a thinker. I'm not sure what one can know about a person so early on, but I do have ideas about Cora's temperament.

So far, Cora is fairly easy going. She nurses very well. In fact, sometimes I call her "Bottomless Pit" because she just eats and eats and eats. And when she is not eating, she is curled up like a cat on someone's chest.

I also call her "girlfriend," "little bug," and "Gus."

Yes, I know. I should not be confusing them this soon. In my defense, I am exhausted.

She rarely wakes up just to cry. She just wants to eat and does so slowly and contentedly. There is no hurry in her world. I reckon it is a nice place to be. I've never felt so "slowed down" in my life, and I am surprised to be relishing this change of pace.

Gus does very well with Cora. He coaches her through tummy time and worries about her when she cries.

This early in the game I can tell how different they are.

But that is for another post, a post with more words, those things that, in order to make sense, require more sleep.

It's enough for me to write in complete sentences these days....

2011-09-28T23:25:00.000-07:00

Up all night! Sleep all day!

-- Slaughter

Gale: Why ain't you breastfeeding? You appear to be capable?
Ed McDonnough: Mind your own bid'ness.
Evelle: Ma'am, you don't breastfeed him, he'll hate you for it later. That's why we wound up in prison.
Gale: Anyway, that's what Doc Schwartz tells us.

from Raising Arizona (1987)

While on the nightshift with a newborn, the Pilot thought it lucky timing that he happened across Raising Arizona on one of the movie channels.

We watched it and laughed and laughed, especially at the breastfeeding bit from above.

Long-time readers of this blog know about my troubles trying to breastfeed Gus. I'll just say the struggle to produce milk was a brutal one and carried out long past the bounds of reason. Finally, my body just screamed "No more!" and the very little milk I could produce just dried up one day when Gus was eight weeks old.

This time around the struggle continues, but it's a manageable struggle. The doctors and lactation consultants are optimistic that it will work out.

I have much less to write about it this time, but last night proved that we can laugh about it.

But I will say this: Despite having a very nice breast pump that promotes milk production and that has enabled me to really nurse, I still think the device one comparable to medieval tools of torture. It's not painful and I'm lucky to have one handed down to me that is hands-free, but its appearance is alarming.

Gus is fascinated by it.

The appearance of the pump strapped to my chest is so troubling to the men in my family--when it comes to feeding a baby, I'm not all that modest--that I have to hide the working contraption under an udder cover. And I really don't blame them. Regular feeding phases my dad and my husband very little, but that pump....

Anyway, while I was pumping yesterday, Gus walked up to me and tried to hand me a red plastic Baby Bjorn bib. When I said I didn't need it, Gus tried to tie it around my neck.

After all, Gus is doing the best he can, and whenever I ask for something--a bottle, a burp cloth, or a blanket--he sprints to fetch whatever I need.

When I got home from the hospital, I marveled at Gus's size. He suddenly seemed gigantic to me, as if he had magically grown into a big boy overnight.

------

When Gus came to the hospital the first time, the large, funny looking bed scared him. He kept staring at me and the bed and showed very little interest in Cora. Then I asked the Pilot to give Gus his present from Cora, a small circus-themed train set with animals. It was the perfect distraction for Gus and gave him something to do while in the room.

Gus said thank you to Cora, a name he was able to say very clearly even though we never told him beforehand what we would be naming our daughter.

He looked over at his train and then at his sister, pointed to his train, and very clearly set the ground rules for his baby sister, "Don't touch it."

-------

------

Pictures of Cora doing what I should be doing right now:

More pictures to come.... The Pilot has many pictures from the hospital on his camera. He should be sending them to me soon (hint hint).

Cora Glenne

2011-09-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

September 22, 2011 at 7:59AM

7 pounds, 0 Ounces

19 inches

A change in plans

2011-09-19T14:58:00.000-07:00

(Hastily added photo from a party given about a month ago by dear friends in honor of our daughter....)

(I have little time to write.... No time to proofread, folks.)

This morning I had my final NST.

It felt like the last day of school with graduation looming on Thursday.

This time, instead of reading my book, I watched the machine scratch out the baby's heart rate and my uterine activity. Both baby and uterus were showing off. After all, this was baby's final show, and the last time that my uterus will ever have to do this ever again.

My girl's heart rate galloped along, and she moved the entire time. My contractions jumped all over the page. They felt uncomfortable, for sure, but not that painful. I mean, I know that they can be so much more painful. It's just strange that the discomfort and pain associated with contractions doesn't really alarm me all that much. It's pain with a purpose, and that in itself is comforting.

So I watched for thirty minutes, and the nurse came in and made her usual comment about the baby looking marvelous.

I remarked that her movements were big enough for people to see across a large room.

The nurse believed me.

Her eyes widened as she looked at the contractions.

"Do you feel those?"

"Oh, yeah. It's uncomfortable. Not horribly painful, just really uncomfortable."

"I'll go get the doctor to check your cervix."

Of course, my cervix had not done a damn thing, but the doctor was concerned.

"How do you feel about having this baby tomorrow around 7:30?"

"In the morning?"

"Yep. There's an opening."

"Holy shit. I mean, okay. Uh, sure. Let's do it."

She smiled, "Excellent. I just think you're not going to make it to Thursday."

I got dressed, met the nurse in the hallway to discuss tomorrow morning, and then scheduled my two-week and six-week follow-up.

I sprinted out to the car (yes, sprinted) and called the Pilot.

"Babe, get off the flying schedule. We're having this baby tomorrow morning."

The Pilot used his very calm but slightly concerned tone, the one that seems to be capable of uttering only the word "Okay" and with a slight inflection at the end.

I called parents. I called friends. My parents will be here tonight. My in-laws will be here tomorrow morning. I have backup sitters for Gus.

I got groceries and produce from Sunflower. I texted the Pilot to get some deli meat and cheese from the commissary.

I picked up Gus from Parents Day Out.

And now here I am at almost three in the afternoon. Gus is fighting his nap. The fridge needs to be cleaned out. I need to double check my hospital bag and make sure I have my boppy packed. And I should be getting ready to teach a very abbreviated class tonight.

But after I give my very short lecture, I will be eating with my son and my husband. A dear friend offered to bring by some pizza that she is making. I had planned on doing something special with Gus on Wednesday afternoon, but the strawberries and whipped cream on angel food cake I bought at Sunflower for dessert will have to do.

Then, I will try to relax. I will try to sleep. And I will try very hard to stay calm.

A need to know

2011-09-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

Two hours before Davis-Monthan AFB went into lockdown yesterday, a very nice man installed DirectTV into my home.

I was nervous about getting cable. Where would my time go? Would brain rot set in immediately? And would there be anything for me to watch besides reality television which I just can't abide?

Yeah. I know. First world problems here....

After I set a couple of shows to record (The Daily Show and Project Runway), Gus and I left for play group.

And, let me tell you, Gus was unusually out of sorts. He clung to a paper airplane that was hanging on a fake tree in his room. He would not let go of it, and he pitched a fit any time the string by which it formerly dangled from the plastic branches worked its way loose.

I managed to get him into the car. I had to get away from the television as if dreading what I would find.

We made it to play group. Normally, the myriad novelties of a different home sets Gus to rights. He is like his mother. He gets restless at home. But he remained tetchy. Normally good about sharing, he lost his mind any time the other boy his age reached out to grab Gus's airplane. And the boy would ask very nicely to play with it, but Gus was not only obstinate, he also appeared to be threatened, even jumpy.

I chalked the behavior up to Gus sensing all of the changes in our house which is now unusually clean and armed with cable. I apologized to the other little boy's mom, also pregnant with her second child, who immediately understood.

A little later Gus and I joined a friend of mine and her one-year-old boy (wearing an identical shirt) in the other room. We were chatting when my friend looked down at her cell phone. Her husband told her to stay off base, that there was a security situation. Another friend of ours could not get off base to join us at play group because base had been locked down. There were rumors that there was a shooter on the flight line.

My heart fell in my stomach.

"Shit. My husband's flying this morning."

"Do we tell anyone?"

I thought a second, "No. We don't have enough information."

We were both rattled. My friend, a voice of reason, reminded me that no one would be receiving texts if something was really wrong.

Our play group is a fairly large one, almost entirely made up of pilot's spouses and their spawn. I watched the women around me and waited for signs of recognition or alarm.

There were signs that a few starting receiving texts from their husbands about staying off base, but for the most part, no one really knew anything or they had damn good poker faces.

All was calm, but three of us were a little rattled.

I admitted to two of my friends, "If I don't find something out soon, I'm going to shit this baby out."

I am not always capable of putting things delicately.

I wrangled Gus, who was alternately losing his mind over the airplanes in the house and terrorizing small dogs and babies, and eventually, we left.

I sensed that the news was about the break.

And it did At first it was just local. The base was on lockdown due to a security situation. A possible shooter. No word yet if shots had been fired

Now armed with a big ass remote and access to cable news networks, I flipped back and forth between local news and CNN and Fox News which I knew family in Texas might be watching.

Then it became national news, and I began calling family. On the local news, some live coverage of A-10s landing assured me in some weird way that my husband was safe in his jet, that he was fine and would be fine.

I watched the local news do a mostly professional job of performing a public service. They instructed parents who had children attending school or childcare programs on base to stay away from base, assuring them that their children were safe. They updated everyone on road closures. They admitted that they knew very little.

Only one misstep by an anchor who commented on the looped footage of A-10s landing as A-10s taking off and landing and doing patrols marred the breaking news story. But at least it made me laugh out loud with a hearty snort, "Bull shit!"

Then, I looked over at my son and hoped he had not heard me. Language, Lee Anne. Language. But Gus only noticed his daddy's plane landing again and again. He exclaimed, "Touchdown."

Then, I switched back to Fox News.

I'm not sure I have to remind many people reading this that Shepherd Smith is a douchebag. I reluctantly watched Fox News in order to know what I would need to set to rights with family. It was the only national news channel reporting the story.

Smith agonized over the lack of information. He whined and complained petulantly, and then he starting spreading his usual misinformation. Shots were fired. Wait. Someone was shot multiple times. Wait. They're being transported to the hospital. Wait. Where's the information? We need to know.

No, you do not need to know, Mr. Smith, He of the Perpetually Botox'd and Plucked Eyebrows.

Shots were not fired. No one was shot.

Some poor woman on base had gone into labor at a most unfortunate time.

I called family back to tell them that everyone was okay. The Pilot called soon after to let me know that he was okay.

My nerves were shot to hell, but I was okay despite some irregular, wicked powerful contractions and the Pilot was okay and Gus was refusing to take a nap.

All was normal again.

They never found anyone with a gun, but those on base addressed the threat and did what needed to be done to make sure everyone was safe. It all ended well.

The Pilot came home. We ordered take out. The Pilot and I talked over a glass of wine and shared our adventures of the day.

What I had not considered was how worried that the Pilot would be about us. The fact that he landed right after everything started to break set his mind to imagining where Gus and I could be, that we might be on base running errands. He imagined another Fort Hood. He worried about his friends and colleagues.

Our night was mostly a calm one. We went to bed early.

Then the explosions came. Incredibly loud ones that rattled the windows and shook the house.

Needless to say, my shot-to-shit nerves went into overdrive.

I screamed and jumped out of bed. The Pilot continued to sleep soundly. He has slept through mortar attacks before. This was kid's stuff.

By the time the fifth one woke me up, I was no longer scared.

I was just pissed.

My bladder does a good enough job of keeping me up at night, thank you.

This morning I woke up to the Pilot laughing from the living room.

He was reading the news.

D-M, which did a great job of addressing a security threat, had been helping to dispose of hazardous materials by detonation last night until one in the morning. Here's the story.

What great timing! In the history of dochebaggery, this one makes the list.

They sure know how to keep us on our toes around here.

All about my daughter

2011-09-12T22:44:00.000-07:00

This was taken a month ago by the doctor who, during my weekly fluid checks, likes to print out a picture whenever she can. I'm not sure what I'm looking at here. I think I see a head and a face, and there was mention made of her hands resting in front of her chin.

A month later, just Friday, in fact, the same doctor got a better shot.

Little Robota is looking down as if waiting at the door of an elevator that takes forever to open.

Sorry, mija, you're not getting out that way.

Sure, it's a little Edvard Munch, but quite appropriate given the fact that her daddy's call sign shares the same title as Munch's most famous work.

-----

The cleaning crew I hired comes tomorrow.

I am too big to bend.

In fact, my belly has grown an alarming amount in just the past two weeks. I have gained five pounds.

The Pilot could not hide his amazement yesterday morning as he watched me get dressed.

"Jesus! You're huge! I mean your belly. Wow."

I wasn't offended. I am 37 weeks and five days pregnant after all.

Besides, just moments earlier, he had observed, when hugging me and pressing his hands along my back, "Wow. I can count your ribs.... I've never been able to do that before."

Thanks, babe.

-----

Last week, I helped the Pilot get his mobility bag ready, something we have not had to do in quite some time.

I have been packing a bag of my own, and I just realized thirty minutes ago that I need to put one together for Gus just in case we send him to a friend's house before family gets here.

I noticed the resemblance between packing for delivery and for an inspection/exercise/deployment when I was pregnant with Gus. I wrote about this observation when I was 32 weeks pregnant last time.

Yes, I was packing my bags at 32 weeks pregnant.

The Pilot usually has to do this before an inspection or exercise. The latter is what's keeping him at work until two in the morning tonight, a night following the very day that I start having irregular, yet somewhat strong contractions.

This time, I'm only halfway packed. It is true what they say....

----

I've been monitoring irregular contractions for the past couple of days. Today they showed up on my NSTs.

My cervix remains closed for business.

This happened with Gus, too, for an entire week.

There's a party going on in there, but the doors are dead bolted.

Not that it matters too terribly much as far as natural birthing is concerned.

I am having a c-section due to a host of minor complications and the ghosts of labor past that make me a fairly poor candidate for a VBAC. I am completely okay with this. Some people can do a VBAC. I cannot.

So, I'm scheduled for the 22nd, but ultimately, the doctors and I are not in charge.

-----

Reasons why Little Robota needs to wait a week or at least a couple of days:

1. My cleaning crew comes tomorrow morning. I cannot relax until this house is clean. I outsource my nesting.

2. I received my flu shot on Friday. Little Robota needs a little time to absorb that antibody goodness.

I can only think of two at the moment.

-----

Rejected baby names:

1. Josephine: The Pilot is just too indifferent to such a great name.
2. Georgiana: Too hard to spell, according to the Pilot.
3. Hazel: Too old fashioned, according to everyone but me.
4. Jess: I'm too indifferent to it.
5. Clara Pearl: We liked it for a week, and then it just faded away.
6. Harper: Too popular since the Beckhams's naming of their daughter.
7. Eleanor: Again, considered too old fashioned by everyone but me.

I think we have settled on a name, short and simple and a little old fashioned, but we're somewhat undecided on the middle name.

-----

I'm getting too tired and uncomfortable to sit at a computer for much longer.

Screw proofreading. Apologies for lapses in grammar and judgment.

I'm going to settle in on the couch and watch The Tudors on Netflix.

'Night, y'all.

Not just today but every day

2011-09-11T07:15:00.000-07:00

I could write about what I was doing that day, about how my life has changed in countless and unimaginable ways, but I won't.

Mary Gauthier will do just fine.

August Reads

2011-09-08T10:04:00.000-07:00

Could it be that I'm posting this on time?

Nope. I started it on the first of the month, and here I am, on September 8, resolved to post the damn thing already and move on with my life. I've been distracted by multiple appointments, teaching, and the six-pound human being using my innards like her own personal bouncy castle.

Here they are--the books I read last month.

But as far as little reviews go, they're not that thoughtful or insightful. I'm just doing it to get it done and check it off my to-do list.

On The Kindle:
The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr
I learned a great deal reading this book.

Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart
It gave me nightmares, but it's brilliant and funny and, yes, super sad.

From the Library:
A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
I liked this book far more than I thought I would. I thought about it for days.

In Progress:
The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter
I last read Katherine Anne Porter's "Pale Horse, Pale Rider" in high school. I loved the story back then, and I always resolved to read more of her stuff. Almost twenty years later, I'm finally doing just that.

Works I Did Not Finish
Shanghai Girls by Lisa See
A book club pick: I just didn't like the narrator. And while the circumstances of the story are very tragic (at least for the first fifty pages), I didn't care enough about the characters to go on the journey with them.

What I put on my Kindle for this month in anticipation of doing everything one-handed:
Just Kids by Patti Smith
Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut
The $64 Tomato: How One Man Nearly Lost His Sanity, Spent a Fortune, and Endured an Existential Crisis in the Quest for the Perfect Garden by William Alexander
Doc: A Novel by Mary Doria Russell

And, done.

Getting the skills

2011-08-28T17:08:00.001-07:00

The Pilot and I have this ongoing conversation regarding all the skills we think our children should have. This is mostly spurred on by something that one of us reads and sends to the other or by our own discomfort with what we see as an over-reliance on technology at the expense of practical knowledge and skills.

The Pilot has a subscription to Make Magazine, and he recently purchased an Arduino kit. The Pilot frequently claims that the first computers our children will have are the ones they build. I don't think he's joking.

Often, the Pilot will send me a link to an article like this one: "Basic Self-Reliance/Maker Curriculum for Kids." Or, he'll discover a book in the bargain bin and proudly bring it home because he knows that I'll love it: Storey's Basic Country Skills.

The articles I send him stress the importance of learning grammar and mechanics or of understanding the principles and practical applications of mathematics, something I'm wanting to review. Little known nerd fact: Doing math by hand relaxes me the way that Sudoku does for many. In fact, I do my grades by hand and then check them with a calculator. Both hopelessly old school....

As a nomadic adjunct English professor forever teaching composition, I'm becoming more and more alarmed by just how little my students read, and my students, for the most part, are about ten years older than traditional college students, that current generation of young'uns those of us thirtysomethings and up like to shake our heads at (often unfairly and hypocritically) for their digital addictions, numerous illiteracies, and lack of practical and mechanical know-how.

(However, what my students lack in reading background they more than make up for in technical and mechanical knowledge. This kind of knowledge is woefully unappreciated.)

Recently, I finished reading The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr. Near the end of the book, he comes to a startling conclusion. It's not just the young who are reading less and differently (more shallowly): everyone is.

Carr proposes, with some great hope and admitted naivete, that perhaps a younger generation will be the one from which an anti-digital counterculture emerges.

Carr's argument and my own thoughts about "practical knowledge" have been on my mind more and more since I finished Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad just last weekend and started Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story this weekend. The former concludes with a look into the recent future when the music industry is largely controlled by "pointers" or toddlers who use digital devices to determine what music is popular and therefore gets played. The latter novel, of which I'm about a quarter of the way through according to my Kindle (haha), envisions a very recent future of people ruled by their digital devices on which all human interactions and people are rated. People exist solely through their online content, credit rating, and "fuckability" quotient. And to make matters worse, books are referred to as "doorstops," and they literally stink.

So, yeah, I've been thinking about "things" lately, about raising a boy and about bringing a girl into this world in less than a month. The sex of our children will not determine who learns what. The Pilot and I have agreed to that, but we do acknowledge the unique challenges faced by each in our society. Mostly, we think about the knowledge that we want them to have, and we're building, if only mentally at this point, a kind of curriculum of practical knowledge and self-reliance.

Here are our top five, or the five that come immediately to mind anyway:

The Pilot's Top Five
1. Woodworking
2. Metalworking
3. Basic Machinery
4. Budgeting
5. Playing an Instrument (but only if they want to)

My Top Five
1. Grammar/Language
2. Music and Art Appreciation
3. The Lost Art of Memorization
4. Agriculture/Ecology
5. Cooking and nutrition

Of course, there are more, and these topics all seem fairly general and an odd assortment of them at that. I asked the Pilot to tell me the first five to come to mind, and I did the same. Ask on a different day, and you would get a different list out of us both.

Dear readers, what essential skills do you think are being neglected and that most people should know?

Four more weeks

2011-08-23T20:25:00.000-07:00

(Or, I'm pregnant, blah blah. Yes, I'm with child, blah blah blah....)

I was at a restaurant on Sunday at a farewell dinner of sorts when someone at the table reminded me of the date, "You do know that tomorrow is the 22nd."

Well, hell.

And now tomorrow is yesterday, and yesterday I had another NST.

The machine picked up contractions. Mostly, I'm aware of them, those infrequent tightenings under my ribs and around my abdomen that cause minor discomfort and a slight shortness of breath but little alarm.

The nurses were pretty underwhelmed, too. One said, "Hey! You're having a few contractions. Do you feel them?"

"Yeah. Just some tightness. Nothing major."

She nodded.

The contraction monitoring puzzles me; the numbers do, anyway. I've read that the numbers mean very little, that there's a baseline, and it's monitored from there. Contractions are not that alarming to me to begin with. I had wicked powerful ones with Gus for weeks, but my cervix was uncooperative or in denial or on strike.

During this pregnancy, I'm trying not to over-think things. I did with Gus (and perhaps I still do) because he is my first and because I realized that I had to do all the homework myself in order to be my own advocate. Of course, I have to be an informed patient with this one, too, but I'm not preparing for every appointment as if I'm cramming for a test or acting as if I must have the medical knowledge of an actual OBGYN. The nurses and doctors are monitoring me closely. They know when to worry.

And, besides, the main nurse at the office who checks my NSTs always says the same thing, "Baby looks marvelous!"

Don't I know it!

She kicks and stretches despite having very little room. I feel her at all hours just tumbling and spinning away. It's reassuring yet highly uncomfortable. I have been hovering around the same weight for about the last ten weeks. Total weight gain--about 12 pounds. I'm still wearing non-maternity tops.

Don't hate--it has come at a price. The Pilot doesn't have to indulge any odd cravings of mine. No midnight trips to the corner store to buy me a Hostess cupcake. He bought me a York Peppermint Patty the other night because I just had to have one. I ate half of it.

That end-of-pregnancy nausea is here, and I can't have buttery mashed potatoes or noodles.

But I can have butter, my new favorite food group.

Most of the time, I just chomp away on baby carrots, almonds, or cheese and scowl when I get a hankering for pie.

So, yeah, Little Robota is outgrowing her efficiency apartment. I'm expecting the movements to slow down some, but I doubt it. If she's anything like her mother, the lack of space will just piss her off.

And at the end of tomorrow it will be only four more weeks.

Then tomorrow will be yesterday, and I'll have another NST.

Rinse and repeat three and a half more times....

What "Uh-Oh" means to a two-year-old child

2011-08-18T21:34:00.001-07:00

Alison Gopnik begins The Philosophical Baby by explaining how children construct counterfactuals as a way to comprehend the world around them. Counterfactuals are "possible worlds," or the worlds of "what might of been" (the imagined past) and "what could be" (the imagined future). Gopnik's counterfactuals are important because they enable us to change (or perhaps influence) the future.

And according to Gopnik, children construct counterfactuals through knowledge: "If causal knowledge and counterfactual thinking go together, then this might explain how young children have the parallel ability to generate counterfactuals and to explore possible worlds. If children understand the way things work, they should be able to imagine alternative possibilities about them" (37).

In the first chapter of the book, I started to see Gus, especially in this quote: "'uh-oh' contrasts the ideal with the unfortunate real" (29).

Weeks ago (or was it months?), I had the Nightly News or the News Hour on while cooking and coverage from a riot in Libya (or was it Syria?) came on. Gus stopped playing with his airplanes, turned to the television, and watched for a couple of minutes. He pointed at the TV, looked back at me in the kitchen with big worried eyes, and said very seriously, "Uh-Oh!"

Gopnik explains that children's emotions run high because they are affected by the difference between the real and the unreal, between fantasy and fiction. It was previously thought that children became upset because they did not understand the difference.

They do.

Mostly.

When the Pilot's parents came out to visit in May, we ventured out to the Titan Missile Museum. We made our way underground to tour the only publicly accessible missile site in the nation. In the launch control center, we experienced a simulated launch of a missile.

At the moment of the missile launch, the sirens went off. Besides the noise of the sirens, the room was quiet with everyone waiting for it to end.

When it did, a greater silence followed; then Gus broke it.

"Uh-Oh."

Gus's awareness that sirens signal trouble, that footage on TV of chaos in the streets can mean danger for others demonstrates how Gus has assembled what Gopnik calls "causal maps" of how the world works.

There is no immediate danger from the sirens because the adults around him are calm, and he knows that the rioting on television is not actually taking place in his living room among his toy tractors and airplanes.

However, he saw real distress on the television. He did not see distress in the launch control center. His "Uh-Oh" in the presence of a simulated emergency came from the world of pretend.

Even at two and a half, Gus, like most children his age, knows the difference.

I look forward to applying some of what I learned from Gopnik to Gus's development and to the early days, weeks, and months of my daughter's life.

Indispensable: My foam cushion

2011-08-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

During the final class of the last term, I popped my butt donut.

It was becoming uncomfortable, and I was trying to shift in my seat discretely to readjust my inflatable donut when I noticed that I was slowly sinking into my chair.

Thankfully, since I teach on camera and every class is recorded for posterity, the sad death of my cushion was a silent one.

After numerous trips to every pharmacy I pass on the way to Gus's Parent's Day Out, I finally found a new rear cushion for my beleaguered tailbone.

A quick reminder: I do not have hemorrhoids; rather, I have a sore, possibly bruised, tailbone from being pregnant.

And a quick question: Is it just me or are pharmacies quickly becoming relatively useless retail spaces full of useless junk? Should it be that difficult to find a butt donut? Do pharmacies even sell medical equipment anymore? That's more than one question.

So, for $20 I found a more reliable cushion, one that was not inflatable and would not deflate on me at inopportune moments.

It was double what I paid for the cheap inflatable one, but well worth the money.

Besides the packaging was priceless.

Because freedom is being able to get out of your chair without screaming in pain.

(Possibly the first in a series of posts featuring what I found absolutely necessary to have during pregnancy.)

A long, rambling post about those long, rambling last weeks of pregnancy

2011-08-16T09:41:00.001-07:00

(Or, a post that should have been written during another bout with insomnia instead of written mid-morning surrounded by a very bored Gus who tried to color my white antique armoire blue and who is still in diapers and needs to be changed, dammit. Today I put him in a sleeveless shirt and he looked at me as if to ask, "Where in the hell are my sleeves, woman?" Will I get out of my pajamas before noon? Will this cold go away soon? Can I sit and write one damn thing in peace? That last question can be answered with a definite "No.")

Around the first of August, my doctor's office called and left a message.

I heard the message wrong the first time I listened to it: "I'm calling about your infection."

Huh? Infection?

Then I listened to it again: "I'm calling about your c-section."

I called the office back, and the receptionist gave me a time, date, and the name of the doctor who will be performing the surgery:

Report to the Women's Center at 10:30 AM on September 22, 2001 for a 12:30 PM C-Section with Dr. P.

So I sit here typing on August 16, a mere two weeks after the call, wondering where the time has gone and knowing that five weeks will pass by both very quickly and very slowly.

Time seems accelerated this time compared to those last weeks with Gus because my schedule is so very full of doctor's appointments, teaching, cleaning, cooking, and Gus.

I go to the doctor or the diabetes center two or three times a week.

On Mondays, I sit in a recliner for twenty minutes with a blue and a pink band wrapped around my belly. One belt measures contractions; the other keeps track of Little Robota's heart rate in response to her own movements. I do the same on Thursday mornings followed by an amniotic fluid check. Diabetes center appointments are a little more frequent, albeit regular. And I have another dental appointment soon that I need to reschedule because pregnancy gives me not only diabetes but gingivitis.

But I enjoy these NSTs, those forty minutes a week that I hear Little Robota's heart motoring along while I read Nicholas Carr's The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains.

Last Thursday, I asked the doctor to make sure that Little Robota was not a Little Roboto because I kept referring to the baby as "he" last week and some relatives remain skeptical.

"Still looks pretty girlish to me," joked the doctor.

With Gus, the doctor in Georgia did not find all this monitoring necessary. In fact, I did not even know that it was protocol with gestational diabetes. Apparently, my doctor would forget about my sugars, assuming, I guess, that the diabetes center was taking care of it. Good student that I am, I would come to appointments armed with my notebook full of questions and neat Excel spreadsheet documenting my sugars. He rolled his eyes whenever my notebook came out as if to say, "Oh great! Question girl!" and wouldn't even look at my spreadsheet.

My present doctors just assumed that I knew the drill for a gestational diabetes patient.

I did not.

I go to a practice with three doctors who rotate out seeing all of their patients. I like this. The doctors each bring something different and good to the table (with the stirrups). One is a take-charge kind of guy with a good sense of humor who always asks about my sugars and educates me about the role that the placenta plays in undermining my body's ability to process sugar. He reassures me that if my sugars get out of control that it will not be my fault. This happens.

Another doctor is very straight-forward, abrupt even, but she is thorough and makes sure that I have my thyroid checked regularly. She listens to my questions, gives me definite answers, and goes on her competent way. The other doctor is cheerful and warm, pays attention to my sugars, and tells me that I am doing a "good job" because carrying a hard baby is work, especially when you have to follow a meal plan. The last one will be performing my C-Section.

I feel that Gus and I are very lucky to escape Georgia relatively unscathed.

Everything is looking good so far, but previous experience makes me nervous. There was the disaster of trying to breastfeed, something I plan on trying again but I'll be damned if I drive myself sick and crazy again trying to do so. This time I'll know when to say when and listen to my body. When it's done, it's done. No regrets. No looking back. No biting random people's heads off at Target because I think they're giving my basket of formula the stink eye.

There was the nurse in Georgia whom the Pilot almost kicked out of the room because she said the following words, ones I will never forget: "We just got a kick out of your birthing plan. Yes, we just laughed and laughed because nothing went as planned. You're why no woman should ever write one!"

I worry about my platelet count which dipped down low enough that I was denied an epidural and I had to fight for a spinal and against being knocked out during surgery.

Besides all that, it's major surgery, something I willingly agreed to, even begged for, last time after twenty-some-odd hours of later and numerous narcotics later. Actually, it wasn't my choice. It was medically necessary last time, and I fully believe, after doing some research and talking to my doctors, that it is this time, too.

This time, I'm going in with eyes wide open, armed with previous experience and enough "know better" that I imagine myself checking in all business with little of the nervous excitement, glowing-eyed giddiness of first-time mothers.

But even then, I know enough about "know better" to know that you can still be bitten on the ass by it.

When it comes to birthin' and babies, you never really know enough, do you?

Scenes from a Summer, Part Two

2011-08-12T15:21:00.001-07:00

The bigger I get the harder it is for me to take good pictures of Gus. Taking pictures of a toddler requires a certain amount of agility and speed that I currently lack.

Less than six more weeks to go.... Really? Five weeks and five days!

Right. Pictures.

Gus watching the last space shuttle launch.

One weekend, I made a "Dinosaur Train" from an empty diaper box and some paper bags. I found some dinosaur cut-outs at the Dollar Tree. Gus decorated it with stickers and drawings.

The Pilot helped Gus attach a tow cable from his scooter to the train car. This provided an entire weekend of entertainment.

Gus's new pair of shoes. ATTACK!

Daddy and Gus play bumper cars.

This is quickly becoming a favorite past time for the two of them.

When we took apart Gus's bed, we discovered that one of the legs had started to splinter. Besides the fact that it was an ancient drop-side crib that had been recalled, we finally decided that we would need a new crib for Little Robota. (Pictures to come later.)

Gus helped his dad take apart the crib and put together his toddler bed. The Pilot is very excited to teach Gus and our daughter a certain amount of manual competence, and Gus has been a willing and enthusiastic student so far.

Drilling makes him very serious, and it is very serious business.

A bedtime story, one that probably features tractors or construction vehicles, from his new bed.

Scenes from a Summer, Part One

2011-08-06T06:50:00.000-07:00

Gus and an increasingly round mama make the rounds at the Garlic and Onion Festival hosted by the always lovely Agua Linda Farms.

Gus climbing in and out of the chicken house.

Blackmail photos. He was quite distressed when we took it away as he lamented, "My flower! My flower!" (Carrie, we still have your little girl's flower headband!)

Gus has taken a liking a colored pencils. He colors a tracing of his hand to make shinky-dinks for the grandparents.

Clearly, the excitement is just too much.

Tomatoes from our garden about to sit in the oven for a nice, long roast.

We got so busy eating them that I almost forgot to take a picture of the finished product.

Gus routinely puts down chocks in front of his pedal plane every time he brings it back into the garage after taking it for a spin. He discovers that his blocks make excellent chocks for his toy airplanes.

He is quite pleased with his discovery.

July: Library and Kindle, a 3-3 tie

2011-08-02T14:34:00.000-07:00

How, during the busiest month of my year so far, did I manage to read six books? At least, I'm posting this in a more timely manner. Yeah, I' wouldn't be getting used to that whole "timely completing of tasks" just yet....

On the Kindle:
Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins
This second book in The Hunger Games trilogy sees our hero, Katniss Everdeen, trying to adjust to life and celebrity after competing and winning the Hunger Games, but before she settles back into her life in District 13, she and other victors are called upon to participate in another tournament amid growing tensions throughout the country. Collins writes fight scenes very well, and she makes Katniss an admirable, yet flawed, character with much more depth than certain other female characters in young adult literature (I'm talking about you, Bella! Katniss could so kick your ass.)

The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara
The Pilot and I read this as part of our own private book club. Actually, the Pilot continues reading but is making good progress. Shaara's novel examines the men behind Gettysburg. In each chapter, he gives the major players--Lee, Longstreet, Buford, Chamberlain, and a few others--their own voices. To me, it's a less about the battle and more about the personal struggles that each man confronts regarding war.

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
The country of Panem is in chaos after rebels declare war on President Snow and his Peacekeepers in this last book of The Hunger Games. Katniss is faced with many decisions in which she has to not only determine her role in the rebellion but also confront her feelings for both fellow victor Peeta and her childhood friend Gale. Honestly, I just wanted the whole thing to be over. That said, Collins writes a nuanced portrayal of war and the suffering that comes with it.

From the Library:
The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman
I sped through Goodman's novel about two sisters living in California's Silicon Valley in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Through each sister, we see values emblematic of that time at war with one another. Since I did not know much about the book when I started it, I read it with growing unease the closer the narrative began to build toward September 11. I wouldn't call it a 9/11 novel; it is entirely too light, and it doesn't come near McCann's superb Let the Great World Spin. It's something else entirely, and I do believe I liked it.

The Bayou Trilogy by Daniel Woodrell
So, I finished the remaining two novellas in this collection. I liked them okay.

The Philosophical Baby: What Children's Minds Tell Us About Truth, Love, and the Meaning of Life by Alison Gopnik
Gopnik's fascinating study attempts to explain just what it is like to be a baby. What is consciousness like for a baby? How do babies use statistics in order to learn about the world around them? How are memories constructed and recalled by babies before they have a uniform sense of identity and the capacity for an autobiographical (narrative) memory? Ultimately, what do babies teach us about what it means to be human? I will write more about this later. I learned quite a bit from this engaging read.

Third Trimester? Really?

2011-07-29T07:16:00.001-07:00

Pet Peeves

Barley breathing over my shoulder and down my neck while I change a dirty diaper.

Barley burping on me after he has eaten. He thinks he is thanking me, and he will walk across the room to do so.

Barley losing his shit around one in the afternoon just when I get Gus down for a nap and when the UPS truck makes its rounds. I swear he can hear that damn truck from blocks away, and he HATES it.

Poor Barley.

*****

At play group a few weeks ago one of the mamas asked me if I was ready, if it really and truly dawned on me that July is almost over, that it will be August soon and then September will be it.

No. I am not ready.

Just last night, the Pilot realized, "Holy shit. July's almost over."

Before we left for Texas a week ago, I had a doctor's appointment, and as I was making my next appointment, the receptionist handed me two business cards filled with the dates of my remaining appointments. Because I am high risk, I have to go twice a week starting in August for nonstress tests and for ultrasounds to check my amniotic fluid levels (like I'm a car, I guess). Between the obgyn and the diabetes center, that's a lot of appointments. Around week 36, I go to the diabetes center once a week.

That's three appointments a week.

*****

I started this post two weeks ago and had to adjust "last night" to "a few weeks ago."

Between teaching and traveling to Texas and then returning and ending the term, I have had little time to write.

I am now 31 weeks and two days pregnant.

Yesterday I discovered our new crib, lately in a box, assembled and ready to go as if by magic.

Count on a particularly ugly breakdown from a pregnant woman to get a husband's ass in gear.

There is so much to do and so little time to do it.

I have a one-week break before teaching begins for the next term. My go-to babysitters are unavailable. (Tucson people, I need a babysitter!)

Gus stirs. I hear him and his toys making an unholy racket over the monitor.

He loves this one particular toy, a speaking car that lights up from Cars 2 that is voiced by Michael Cain.

"Time is of the essence. Fin McMissile. British Intelligence."

How I once loved Michael Cain's voice.....

The Pilot sleeps through it all.

I think I will make them pancakes.

I love my brat: A Response to LZ Granderson

2011-07-10T15:33:00.001-07:00

(Brought to you by Sunday morning insomnia and edited later.)

Last week, the Pilot told me about an article on CNN.com about parenting.

He did not know what to think about it.

I read it, too, and it stuck with me. And then it just stuck in my craw.

In "Permissive Parents: Curb Your Brats," writer LZ Granderson assumes that parents of children who misbehave in public lack the "fortitude" to discipline their "brats," that these spineless parents are incapable of that magical "look" that can stop a tantrum or hissy before it has begun.

Well, Mr. Granderson, I know that you have children, but maybe it has been a while since you've had a toddler.

Let me remind you of a few things since it seems that you have what I like to call "Toddler Amnesia," a condition that afflicts parents of older children. I'm sympathetic to the condition. You probably want to remember those years fondly, but here's the truth: These years can be hell.

Toddler Amnesia just keeps those memories rosy, and there will be fond memories that I keep stored away of Gus discovering new things and giving me hugs and kisses and constructing trains out of every imaginable object.

It helps that you have good children, and for that, I congratulate you on a job well done, but before anyone starts talking about how one's children shit bubblegum drops and lollipops, take a little time to remember what it's like to have a two-year-old tornado or a three-year-old terror empowered by his or her own newfound facility with language and armed with the ability to talk back. Mix in with a lack of impulse control and you've got disaster on your hands.

1. You cannot embarrass a two year old. Around two, maybe even earlier, a child will realize that you, the parent, actually give a damn about how you appear in public, and that you, the parent, want to honor that social contract to keep your "brat" in line. But you know what? That child will use that newfound knowledge to his advantage because he does not give two shits about being embarrassed. Your embarrassment will just make him wail louder because he knows that it's getting attention, and even negative attention is good attention.

The trick for me? Don't act embarrassed. Try the look. Just say, "Tough. Life isn't fair." And carry on. Now, I would take my child out of a restaurant immediately for such behavior, but grocery shopping is a different story. I will not leave a cart of essential groceries unless the meltdown goes nuclear. Besides, since when have grocery stores been classified as "adult spaces" only?

The other day at the commissary Gus was having a bad day. I don't know what set him off. Maybe he was tired or hot or hungry. I know I was, and it was just ten in the morning. He screamed. He threw produce. He hit me multiple times. It was all I could do not to slap his hands, something I do at home when he slaps or punches or kicks. He has figured out that I will not do this in public.

Even if he doesn't know that some busy body might call CPS on my ass, he realizes that he has some power here. (As I told one friend, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't.) Granderson himself seems to advocate spanking in such cases, but can a parent spank a child in public anymore, even if it is that last resort?

Anyway I ignored Gus, and the tantrum subsided even if, for a minute or two, it got worse before it got better. Does he get his way? Hell, no. Is it unpleasant? Hell, yes.

I got a couple of looks from retirees in the produce section, but I just looked right back at them, smiled, and gave them my usual response, "Sometimes life isn't fair, is it?"

They usually smile back in return, understanding that my child is unhappy because I am working hard to keep him from being a spoiled brat in the first place.

2. This brings me to my next point. You see a young child pitching a fit or hear a young'un caterwauling, the parent probably said no to something and stuck to his or her guns.

If there's a tantrum, chances are the parents are trying to do the right thing by the child by not giving in and letting the child have her way.

3. Sometimes there just isn't a quick escape.

And, if that parent and his or her brat is in a crowded restaurant, he or she will do what can be done to either quiet the child down with food (sometimes bad behavior is due to low blood sugar) or will take the child out as quickly as possible.

Before I had children, I was out with some friends who did have very young children at a restaurant on a weeknight around five in the evening. I consider this time "fair game." It was a touristy Greek restaurant in Savannah on River Street, not a place that anyone would consider fine dining, but the area at the time in the evening is generally good for kids. Again, it was fair game.

When we arrived at the restaurant, one of the children was asleep, and just as our food arrived, the sleeping child awoke to find herself in a strange place and immediately set to crying. I finally saw up close what a parent goes through during such a time.

The mom stayed calm and did everything she could to comfort her child, but then the knowledge set in that this situation was unrecoverable. She immediately asked for a to go container and went about settling her bill while trying to pack up. The waitress was sympathetic. But then we couldn't find the little girl's shoe and that made her even more upset. The mom knocked water over into her food, and I'm pretty sure that mom and both her daughters left the restaurant in tears. But, here's the thing: She tried to make her exit as quickly as humanly possible.

As soon as the door closed behind her, an older man at the table next to us started clapping loudly.

I looked over at him, caught his eye, and deadpanned, "Oh, screw off!"

The table of women next to us were equally furious with the clapping man and hurled their own colorful remarks at him.

And the waitress remained sympathetic because she saw the effort and the panic.

It's obvious when a parent is trying, and no parent who is should ever have to hear someone clapping when they leave a place with an upset child. A child caught in an unfamiliar place doesn't know any better, but one would expect more from an adult.

And don't even get me start about air travel. That's a whole other post....

4. In order to learn how to behave in public, children have to be out in public.

Sure, discipline begins at home, but it is essential that children, from very early on, be exposed to public places and situations. It is both a test and a learning experience for both parents and children--those trips to the museum or the restaurant.

We try to go to family-friendly places, i.e. any place with a children's menu or places that schedule family days. We look at the menu online before we leave the house and know what we are ordering. We do not order appetizers. We have a game plan, and for the most part, it goes fairly smoothly. But sometimes it doesn't. One cannot predict the behavior of a toddler, but what we can do is teach that toddler that we will leave if he doesn't behave. This is just part of it.

The other day Gus and I were in the Dollar Tree where I was picking up coloring books. I told him he could have one toy. Well, Gus wanted two. I explained that he would have to make a decision, and Gus just threw himself on the ground and started screaming. I placed my items on the counter, apologized, grabbed my kicking and screaming son, and hauled him out of the store.

It took me fifteen minutes to get him into his car seat.

And I was so involved with trying to load him into the car that I failed to notice the gentleman trying to get into the car next to me. Just try to strap a wiry, yet strong toddler who tenses up straight as a board during tantrums into a car seat. Try to do it on a Tucson summer morning while 28 weeks pregnant.

I left my son flailing on the floor of the car, shut the door, and apologized to the man.

He just smiled, "Don't worry about it. Unfortunately, it doesn't get any easier."

I climbed inside my car, turned on the AC, and waited for my son to calm down enough to be able to strap him in. Sure, it's what I should have done in the first place, but mama can be just as stubborn as her son sometimes.

5. Finally, "How about a little 'Love thy neighbor'?"

This is how a dear friend of mine responded to the Granderson article, and she's right.

You do not know the situation or circumstances of every family, Mr. Granderson. Nor do you know of the challenges that some families face. Most parents really do try their hardest to raise decent little humans, and I admit that there are some whose inattention to their children's bad behavior makes me downright livid. But you cannot assume that a parent is spineless the moment that his or her child misbehaves in public. The "look" does not always work. And for some children, the look means absolutely nothing at all no matter how hard the parents try to enforce it.

I can give you a little example of what "Love thy neighbor" might mean, especially for you, a parent yourself.

Gus tends to get fussy in long lines. I try to play games with him, but sometimes I am the last person with whom he wants to interact. A number of times that this has happened, I will notice someone, usually an older woman and sometimes an older man behind me in line, trying to placate my son by playing peek-a-boo with him. My son will immediately forget his displeasure and start flirting back.

Am I relying on strangers to handle my child? I don't think so. In fact, I think it teaches my child to interact with others and to be friendly. That awful catch phrase "Stranger Danger" has done much to ruin the relations between adults and children; however, I have been helped by many strangers who just offered a smile or kind face to my son.

Some have even opened doors or helped me with my groceries. I've had both men and women generously offer to watch my kid on a plane while I run to the bathroom. Gus is usually delighted to interact with the new person. On one harrowing descent into Lubbock when Gus's ears seized up and he was inconsolable despite my efforts to distract him with every toy and nursery rhyme at my disposal, a very nice gentleman patted me on the shoulder and told me I was doing a good job, that the descent always got to him, too.

It doesn't take a whole hell of a lot of effort to be nice, and in trying to make some parent's rapidly deteriorating day pleasant or at least easier, you will improve your own.

It may even shut that brat up.

My sometimes

2011-07-09T22:29:00.000-07:00

A long rambling post. I have a couple of things on my mind.

Lately, I have found that I cannot read articles on my laptop. For one thing, I have a two-year-old child who knows that something is different about his mama--the way she moves, the way she interacts with him, the way she feels (overwhelmed, tired, hungry). The computer is just one more object that takes her away from him.

Understandably, he is clingy. He knows that big changes are looming.

So, I let him cling sometimes. During those rare moments when he is awake and I am sitting in front of my laptop, I sometimes close my laptop, and I get down on the floor with him and play (and then have a hard-ass time getting back up). But, I also realize that I do have to turn him away sometimes, that he has to understand rejection and be resilient about it, that, sometimes (and sometimes will become often more and more) he has to make his own way and find his own solutions to boredom or loneliness.

And, during those other times when I can handle neither playing with him nor ignoring what Rudolf Dreikurs calls his "mistaken need" for "undue attention," I turn on Dinosaur Train and continue e-mailing students or importing and naming slides into my meeting maker for class. Or I just sit beside him and read a book--one made from trees--because I know that at the very least it is good for him to see me with a book even as he watches dinosaurs board a train for another adventure.

For the longest time I scoffed at the idea of e-books or owning a Kindle. Then my husband, with not a little hesitation, gave me one for Christmas in 2009. I was hooked and felt liberated by the fact that we would have less to move, at as far as books. But even as I loaded up books on my Kindle and sold those I likely would never revisit, I continued to reserve books from the library or purchase "classics" or ones that I would want my children to read. And I continue to like the Kindle because it is for reading only.

But back to why I can't read an article on my laptop.

Since having a child, I seem to have lost a certain kind of technical literacy that allows me to read and think deeply on a subject that I encounter on one window while other windows (and a toddler) beg for my attention as well.

So, I've taken to printing out about five articles that catch my fancy every week, and I read them during free moments. I take notes, underline, reflect, think, and file away thoughts for later just in case I ever get around to writing something in response. Very little comes of it all, but it's something for my sometimes.

Today while at my new favorite coffee shop, Le Buzz on Tanque Verde, I read an article by Johann Hari from The Independent titled "How to survive the age of distraction." Thankfully, I was unable to connect to any network there, and I read the article in its entirety in peace. MacBook closed.

Hari writes about how "it is becoming almost physically harder to read books." He compares reading a book with our ever-present laptops or tablets nearby to "trying to read in the middle of a party."

He argues that now more than ever we need physical books if we are to maintain any ability to think deeply on a subject.

I nod my head in agreement. I double underline passages, and I think about Gus, who just wants me to close my damn laptop so badly sometimes, he knows how to shut it down without breaking anything.

Earlier in the week, I read a very brief post on Motherlode that simply asked the question, "iPad Apps for TODDLERS??????" I second Lisa Belkin's multiple question marks and her instinct to use caps even if she is asking the question a little late in the game.

Now, I would never judge any parent who lets a toddler play with an iPad or phone, but it's not for our family who only this past year upgraded from flip phones to the first generation Blackberry (and only because they were practically free and my phone was being held together with tape for going on two years).

And sometimes I wonder if Gus is missing out on a particular kind of literacy, a specific brand of motor development offered by newfangled gadgets.

(By the way, when Gus looks at my closed laptop and the illuminated fruit cutout on the cover, he points and says, "Apple. I eat it.")

But then Gus will sit on the floor and flip through one of the Pilot's airplane magazine for a solid half hour just looking at airplanes and identifying airplane parts.

"Propeller."

"Engines. Hot engines." He blows on the magazine.

And, tonight, he grabbed a shoebox, stood on top of it, and started "reading" from multiple counting books. He pointed out pictures of insects and imitated their sounds, practiced "counting" in numbers that sounded a little like one through ten at least in rhythm, and flipped through heavy cardboard pages. When finished one book, he would return it to the table and grab another one and do the same thing. He did this for four books.

Whether he was conducting his own story time from his shoebox pedestal or just performing and showing off, he had my attention.

And it is during these sometimes, when I haven't seen cell phone or laptop for hours, that I stop worrying about what he is missing and start realizing what I do.

Five months worth of books

2011-07-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

I am behind.

Last year, I did a pretty good job of posting what I read every month or so. This year I did it in January, but then the all-day sickness hit. By the time I started working again, I was okay. And I just lost track of time.

By the way, who starts a newish job right smack dab in the middle of one's second trimester?

I do! I do!

So, here they are: My mostly one-sentence reviews of what I've read so far.

February
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins: It's exciting, suspenseful, and dark; what else do you expect from a young adult novel?

Hoboes: Tramps, Bindlestiffs, Fruit Tramps, and the Harvesting of the West by Mark Wyman: An interesting look into the agricultural work of hoboes and their place at the margins of society during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that I hope will one day be useful when I restart that big project currently languishing in some folder on my desktop.

Stateside: Poems by Jehanne Dubrow: I have so much more to say about this volume of poetry than I can fit into one sentence, but I will say that Dubrow (who also happens to be a military spouse) does remarkably sly things with form in this collection centered around the themes of deployment and the work of waiting for one's husband to return home. I highly recommend this collection. If you're someone looking to branch out and find new things to read, check out the work of a contemporary poet for a change. Start with this collection while you're at it. That's way more than one sentence....

March
A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley: As always, Bradley gives us a very entertaining even if I'm having a difficult time remembering it at the moment.

The Wind by Dorothy Scarborough: Set in the late nineteenth century and published in 1925 (when it created a great deal of controversy), this neglected novel features a fragile heroine who travels to Sweetwater, Texas, from her home in West Virginia only to lose her damn mind because of the relentless wind.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith: We read this classic for our book club, and I enjoyed revisiting a book as an adult that I had read and adored when I was thirteen.

April
Fertile Ground, Narrow Choices: Women on Texas Cotton Farms, 1900-1940 by Rebecca Sharpless: Sharpless uses the accounts of women who lived and worked on farms in the Hill Country during the first half of the twentieth century to give shape to a lively and comprehensive cultural and social history.

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri: I read the wrong Lahiri title for book club in March, but I did find this collection of short stories mostly heartbreaking.

We're Just Like You, Only Prettier: Confessions of a Lapsed Southern Belle by Celia Rivenbark: For a couple of nights, I read this right before I went to bed and, for the most part, enjoyed Rivenbark's humorous take on what it means to live and raise children in the south.

May
Bossypants by Tina Fey: Another book club read, this one made me laugh most heartily, and since I'm having a daughter, her letter to her own daughter may be one that I print out and have on hand. (It was also helpful to read about someone else's failures in breastfeeding written in such a lighthearted manner.)

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot: One of my favorite books of the year so far, I cannot compress its brilliance into a single sentence, but it is an incredibly humane, heartbreaking, and well researched look into the history of medical ethics in the last century.

June
Torn: True Stories of Kids, Career, and the Conflict of Modern Motherhood by Samantha Parent Walravens: Yeah. I'm still not sure what to think about this one. I'm mostly glad I read it, but I'm not sure if it helped.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman: Rocked my world.

Under the Bright Lights, Book One of Daniel Woodrell's Bayou Triology: Entertaining and fun, this early work from a very talented writer isn't great but it'll do.

Yeah, I ran out of steam on the last couple of entries, but when it takes two weeks to write one post, it's just time to wrap it up or let it go.

2011-06-25T05:35:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's 4:25 in the morning on another Saturday, and my pregnant self is up and at 'em yet again.

The Pilot sleeps on the couch. He keeps waking up groggily and offering it to me because it provides way more comfort than our bed which rocks like a jon boat in six-foot waves any time one of us moves. The Pilot sleeps soundly on the couch. We didn't have a fight. He just passed out there. If we did have a fight, the bed would not be victor's prize; rather, determining who would sleep on the couch would spur a new argument in itself.

I had numerous posts planned this past week, but every waking moment I can spare has been spent grading papers and planning lectures. I'm not sure whether this is an actual "waking moment" that should be spared or if I should just amble back to bed and claim the entire thing for myself.

Potential posts:

About eighteen months ago, I read in the New York Times blog Motherlode a post titled "Where does a mother's time go?" about the "leisure time" of mothers and the division of labor within the home. It has been in the back of my mind for a very long time, and I've thought about doing my own month-long study of how I spend my hours. I would not make my blog an account of my every waking moment. As interesting as I find the minutiae of my life, I don't expect others to feel the same. Something I read recently has made me think about how I spend my time (see the item immediately below.)
On a very similar note, I just finished Motherlode's inaugural book club selection, an essay anthology titled Torn: True Stories of Kids, Career, and the Conflict of Modern Motherhood, edited by Samantha Parent Walravens. Well, I am "torn," conflicted, (insert your own rending adjective here) about this book. Some of the stories provided relief that others feel the way that I do about motherhood (and these feelings depend on my mood, amount of sleep, and on Gus's mood, too) while some stories, especially one on the financial vulnerability of SAHMs or even those of us who work part time, reawakened an old terror that lives in the back of my mind always. Still others annoyed me and made me wonder if books like this serve only to make women feel even more ambivalent about motherhood, if it feeds into the idea that we should feel conflicted about motherhood. Many of the essays that irked me, mentioned the shear boredom of being a mom. I'm not sure I understand what boredom feels like or if I've felt it since my teen years. Obviously, I'm still working out my thoughts on this one....
More Gus stories. I'm seeing connections between my son's development and learning and the opening chapter of another book I am reading, The Philosophical Baby: What Children's Minds Tell Us About Truth, Love, and the Meaning of Life by Alison Gopnik. In the first chapter, Gopnik examines how children use their imaginations and, in particular, counterfactual thinking in order to learn. I'm still wrapping my head around counterfactuals at the moment, but as I watch Gus play I think I understand them more and more.
And, yes, I am reading quite a lot lately. I have a book for when I must sit down for fifteen minutes and put my damn feet up (Gopnik). There's the nightstand book, Daniel Woodrell's Bayou Trilogy. And then there's the treadmill/weekend read, a classic, The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. The latter I suggested to my husband as the inaugural selection for our own little husband-wife book club. He has read 14%. I have read 50%. Something tells me it's going to be like other book clubs I've attended, and I'll be the only one wanting to discuss the book. Maybe it was a bad idea.... But I do remember why I loved the book back when I read it in high school. The Pilot read it for the same class, at the same time I did....
And I really should play catch-up on all those books I read in the last five months and post my monthly reading lists. I'm averaging about three to four books a month.
Finally, I should post ideas for the nursery and Gus's bedroom. Back when I was pregnant with Gus, I did not get to plan a nursery. It seemed that for many this was the real tragedy of having to move within weeks of giving birth. "Oh, how awful! And you don't even get to plan a nursery!" I heard frequently. While I was just trying to get my boobs to be more than merely decorative during a cross-country move, the lack of a color-coordinated, themed nursery seemed to bother others much more than it did me. I find it funny now that I am really getting into decorating and planning for both Little Robota's nursery (also the guest room) and Gus's room. I just wish we weren't renters (who will likely be moving in the spring/summer) and that I could paint.... Anyway, pictures, maybe, soon.... if we ever take apart the crib, move it into the other room and put together Gus's bed which has been sitting in the hallway for a month.

This post took way longer than I hoped it would. It is 5:30. The Pilot snores comfortable from the couch. He looks so comfortable.

Now, should I go make some rhubarb muffins or go back to bed?

Thoughts from a pregnant insomniac....

2011-06-18T06:08:00.000-07:00

Why am I up this early, at 4:30 in the morning?

Because I have insomnia brought on by pregnancy-induced leg cramps and tailbone pain.

Yes, you heard it. I have major ass pain, and there is very little I can do about as it is likely bruised. No, I didn't fall. I'm just one of the rare, lucky ones to get a bruised tailbone just from being pregnant. Lovely.

Anyway, here are my thoughts from the past week presented in some semblance of order, all in some tenuous way connected.

-----

The Pilot insisted for days that I watch the South Park episode, "You're Getting Old." Fortunately, I was able to watch it late one night in bed before it was taken off the South Park website. (It will be available again for streaming on July 8.)

I didn't want to watch it that late at night, but the Pilot, who goes to bed with his laptop like it's one of his pillows (he sleeps with four of them--you would think he is the pregnant one), turned to me, placed the laptop between us, and started the episode.

It blew my mind.

You're Getting Old
Tags: SOUTH
PARK Stan Marsh,Randy Marsh,more...

This is just a clip from an episode in which Stan turns 10 and suddenly everything he once enjoyed becomes trite and, well, shitty. And I mean that last thing literally. The episode is about getting older, about the hard work of growing up and the things that get lost along the way.

The episode ends with a dramatic parody montage of Stan's childhood and family falling apart set to Fleetwood Mac's very sad and lovely "Landslide." While it operates as parody, it is also truly heartbreaking. Creators Parker and Stone intentionally use the tired convention of concluding an episode with a montage set to sad music while also acknowledging its undeniable power. I would stream that clip, but one needs to see the entire episode.

It's an episode unlike any other South Park episode, and I have been thinking about it all week.

-----

I am reading a longish article from 3 Quarks Daily called "Mr. Nobody: How Children Use Metaphor to Get to Sleep, Cope, Grieve and Grow" by Kate Fincke.

As with most things that require more than ten minutes of my attention, I am just chipping away at it, but it is fascinating and sad and ultimately affirming, so far.

Fincke examines through thoughtful, even poetically written case studies of her own patients how creativity and the imagination work to help children make sense of their world, especially when that world is threatening or unreliable. And, at a certain point and to certain degrees, the world slowly becomes a scary place for most children.

(For South Park's Stan, the metaphor "piece of shit" becomes literal to him once he starts seeing the world embodied as shit, even hearing music and dialogue as a series of farts. One could argue that his growing older has taken away (or even warped) a crucial coping mechanism: the childhood world of the imagination that still exists for his friends. Without even the imaginary to comfort him, Stan is utterly alone and must find his own way to make sense of the world.)

I will finish Fincke's beautifully written article and file it away for later and look for more work from Fincke, a therapist whose instinct for decoding children's narratives of emotions is as remarkable as the narrative she writes.

-----

Speaking of metaphor and the world of the imagination, I just finished Neil Gaiman's American Gods.

It rocked my world.

-----

To return to my original South Park-ian note, Wednesday morning my husband and son exchanged farts as if they existed beyond providing relief for intestinal distress and were, instead, a form of communication.

My husband let one rip, and Gus looked right at his father and farted quite loudly and with intent.

I found both of them laughing hysterically when I walked in the room. The Pilot could not speak or explain what was so funny lest he encourage the behavior further, but Gus explained it instead.

He just pointed to his little rear and laughed, "Poot! Poot! Funny!"

My boys....

-----

And in the world of cartoons I refuse to let my son watch Caillou even though it is on PBS and I adore all things PBS since I often turn on the television so I can grade and do teaching stuff and rest my weary pregnant ass and that is the only channel I let Gus watch during weekdays. Weekends are another story, another post. Let's just say I'm losing the TV war against my boys.

Now, I am not normally a shallow person nor am I all that interested in fashion as I prefer going to the dentist over shopping for clothes.

But Caillou's mother....

She doesn't make me angry. The character's creators do. How dare they dress her like that?

However, as much as I detest her clothes, I am at least comforted by the fact that while I rarely leave the house with makeup on, I do dress as well as I possibly can.

Like Stan, I was hit early with the cynicism. Or maybe it's just hormones....

-----

But, then, something like this song, which I saw on the Elvis Costello's show Spectacle thanks to Netflix, clears that cynicism right up.

It is now 6:00AM. I think I will go back to bed now.

The Gus Chronicles, Bugging Out

2011-06-10T18:07:00.001-07:00

We slept in late that Saturday morning. Gus played nicely in his room where he has been enjoying his new-to-him play table handed down from a cousin. The table concentrates his play, but it doesn't keep him from messing up his room.

Anyway, the Pilot and I were sleeping lightly and listening to Gus over the baby monitor. We were being lazy and loving it. Thank you, play table.

Then, over the monitor, we heard Gus starting to rattle his door. The Pilot got up to use the restroom, and I put on my shoes and made my way to the door.

I was distracted by a sound, one that did not come over the monitor but seemed fairly close to my bedroom door.

My first thought: Gus got out.

My second thought: We're gonna have to buy those childproof doorknob bulbs. Crap.

So I opened the door and saw Gus at the end of the hallway walking towards me. I did not have my glasses on, so everything was a blur. However, I did notice that he had something in his hand, and he was very excited about it. I walked closer, leaned over, and a very giggly Gus stuck a tight little fist in my face.

And I'll be damned if the first thing I saw wasn't a pair of cockroach antennae batting wildly around. Before I reacted, I happened to notice the very proud look on my son's face.

Then I let out the most horrible scream.

And I was screaming still when the Pilot, who had been taking a leisurely pee and was in the unfortunate position of being startled midstream, came barreling down the hallway bare-ass naked.

"What? What?"

I'm not even sure if I said anything to explain myself. I may have pointed wildly at our son, but I think I stopped screaming around about then.

The Pilot grabbed the cockroach out of Gus's hand. I'm not sure how he disposed of it, but he was clearly annoyed.

"I thought somebody died. Scared the piss out of me! I have to go clean the bathroom now."

And Gus giggled the entire time.

Finishing Touches, Part Two

2011-06-10T06:30:00.000-07:00

And before we all knew it, the Pilot finished the plane and Gus took it for a ride. Unfortunately, Gus's feet do not quite reach the pedals. The Pilot later attached a broom handle to the back that enables us to push Gus around in it. It may not be used very often in the coming months as the temperature continues to rise.

Gus loves his pedal plane that his dad built just for him, and I know the Pilot loved working on it. It's now back to the shop to continue work on that RV-8, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Pilot ordered plans for a little pedal biplane for our little girl.

I would add more photos of the plane, but I think Gus's expressions say so much more.

Finishing Touches, Part One

2011-06-10T06:23:00.000-07:00

Could it have been two weeks ago that the Pilot was still working on Gus's pedal plane?

Gus can say the word "propeller" with some ease. He can say "wing" and "seat" and "tire." We are working on "vertical and horizontal stab" and "aileron." I cannot believe that I spelled that last one correctly on the first try.

This is the plane before the Pilot attached the propeller and affixed the decals.

And, yes, this is our son holding a plane while he sits in one.

There is something in his expression here that says so much.

More to come very soon.

The Gus Chronicles, Part Three: Chocolate Milk

2011-06-03T08:50:00.000-07:00

(Quick Note: Thank you, Dinosaur Train, for allowing me to write for at least ten minutes.)

It happened in April when I was losing entire afternoons to general queasiness and crippling fatigue, but on this afternoon, I happened to feel okay enough to make a trip to Sunflower Market for groceries.

Shopping itself was uneventful, and I was in a good enough mood to purchase a diet Hansens soda and a box of organic chocolate milk for our drive home. I was excited about introducing chocolate milk to Gus even though I found out later that the Pilot had already done so along with Dr. Pepper and god knows what else.

So I loaded Gus up into the Tahoe and gave him his chocolate milk. He wore a look of sweet contentment on his face and could not get enough of the tasty beverage. I was mother of the year.

We made our way home.

About ten minutes later, I heard a great belly laugh erupt from the backseat. I smiled and looked back to see what caught my sweet little boy's attention.

My smile fell.

There was chocolate milk every damn place: on the seats, on the windows, in the carpet, on his clothes. And he continued to shoot great fountains of it.

"Gus funny! Gus funny! Funny Gus!" he shrieked.

I had to keep driving. It was around five on Pantano. There was no stopping.

"No! Gus is not funny! Stop that right now!"

At a stoplight, I even took off my sunglasses and looked at him pointedly, hoping that he knew just how unfunny he was being.

The laughter continued, "Gus funny!"

I drove on home. There was no more chocolate milk. My new-to-me Tahoe was wearing it. Gus is no stranger to crushers or juice boxes or capri suns. Normally, he sips them contentedly and without incident. Earlier that week I had made fun of those juice box protectors that keep kids from using their beverages as super soakers.

"God! Parents will spend money on anything, won't they?"

Before we got home, I had added "Buy juice holder" to my mental to-do list. This is what I get for being judgmental, even on a small scale.

The Pilot had come home from work early that evening to attend Aggie Muster. We pulled into the driveway to find the Pilot, dressed handsomely in a maroon shirt, walking to his truck.

He took one look at me and knew something had happened.

He opened up the back door on Gus's side and started laughing hysterically.

"I gotta go. I'm going to be late. See ya!"

"It's not funny!"

"Gus funny! Gus funny!"

"I would help, but I really have to go."

The Pilot watched me mop up the chocolate milk for a moment then kissed me goodbye and left, chuckling the entire time, probably in appreciation of his son's well developed sense of comedy.

Me time

2011-06-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

Yes, there are Gus stories. There will always be Gus stories.

But this one post is about me, mostly.

Last night I started a newish job teaching a familiar class but in a completely different venue: from my home. It's not an online class run primarily on Blackboard; rather, it's a web conferenced one with a set class time and everything. I have a webcam and a headset, and I teach for four hours and forty-five minutes every Wednesday night.

Yes, that's right: four hours and forty-five minutes.

Fortunately, I have a small class full of motivated students who seem to be willing to interact and talk during that time. It helps that I schedule in a small break every hour to stretch my legs, eat, and do all the other things that pregnant women need to do on the hour, every hour. I miscalculated and ended class an hour early last night, and my students, who attend class from various time zones, appreciated this greatly.

******

Little Robota was very active today in a very visible way. She had been quiet the last couple of days, moving infrequently but consistently enough to prevent any real worry.

While my daughter becomes increasingly active, my energy level stays fairly low, which is frustrating because I tend to have quite a bit of energy and I seem unable to adjust my expectations of what needs to get done each day.

If I don't nap for at least an hour every afternoon, there's hell to pay in the evening.

However, my overall mood is much improved after meeting with my dietician and the diabetes educator. They gave me a meal plan that is much more flexible. In Valdosta, they had me on what amounted to an Atkins diet. Imagine my amazement when I found out I could have more than one serving of carbs per lunch and dinner again. I can think again, and I'm not wanting to rip everyone a new one.

And what's more, my blood sugar is doing just fine. Somehow I had it in my head that I wanted the lowest blood sugar possible within my desired range. I wanted all of my post meals to be under 100. It's the competitive side of me, I guess. But now I'm no longer alarmed if I have a post meal sugar of 115.

Enough of that. It's really not that interesting. But it highlights a point that my husband made the other night while we were out eating at a really nice restaurant: "Can we please stop talking about your damn diet?"

******

Two lessons recently learned:

1. Check the television listings before scheduling a class time. So You Think You Can Dance? is on Wednesday nights. I teach on Wednesday nights. We do not have a DVR. Doh! Here's hoping they'll continue to stream it online.

2. When around industrious toddlers, put up your necklaces. Do not leave necklaces on the side table unless you're okay with your two-year-old son using one as a tow chain for his bulldozer and gleefully making a trail of itty-bitty beads behind him.

******

There will be Gus stories. There will always be Gus stories.

Two on deck:

1. The Great Chocolate Milk Explosion

and

2. Mom, Meet My Friend the Cockroach

Project: Garden

2011-05-27T09:25:00.001-07:00

The Pilot and I have managed to grow and maintain a container garden wherever we have lived. In North Carolina, we had our most successful garden that produced more tomatoes, jalapenos, and fresh herbs than we could handle. Georgia was a different story. We lived next to a very small swamp, and while we consumed our fair share of homegrown tomatoes and peppers, we had to fight the bugs to do it. In addition to the insects, we had to move plants around because the position of our house and some rather large trees only allowed varying amounts of shade and sun.

We spent two summers in Arizona before we started a serious garden. The Pilot purchased a large wooden planter from a young former Marine selling them on the side of Houghton.

We even constructed some grow tanks called "EarthTainers" based on some plans I found on Slate. As soon as I sent the Pilot the article about how to construct the best container for a tomato garden, I knew we were in for a it. A real project. The Pilot came home from work that day with some of the supplies and the next day I drove all over Tucson looking for all of the components to mix the grow media. Within days, we got down to business.

The EarthTainer uses two large plastic containers to create two chambers, one for soil and one for water. The soil chamber has tiny holes in the bottom. The plants absorb water through a wicking basket in the bottom water container. It's a self-watering system since the plants only take as much water as they need. (Read more and see a diagram of what it's supposed to look like here. You can find a PDF of the plans here.)

I drilled about 150 holes in the soil container. The Pilot made fast work of the other one. It took me forever.

The finished product. Well, almost finished, save the soil and actual plants.

The Pilot and I spent hours mixing the grow media, filling the containers in layers of it followed by generous waterings, and finally, at last, transplanting. I showered and went to bed around 12:30 in the morning and paid for it the next day. This pregnancy is proving to be a sore and achy one.

A month or so later, we have signs of life....

Two heirlooms.

Basil, Vietnamese Cilantro, a caribe pepper plant, and a cherry tomato plant added as an afterthought. I fear it's overcrowded. Where I am a fan of being spare and giving space, the Pilot prefers crowded abundance. Somehow we make it work.

The Pilot ordered cages for the tomatoes over a month ago, and the company is giving us the runaround. The company keeps promising to send the cages in four or five days, and it never happens. They sent the Pilot another e-mail informing us that the cages have been shipped. Yeah. I'll believe it when I see it. Once we get the cages in, the Pilot will construct a sunshade for what will prove to be an unforgiving Arizona summer.

Our wooden planter has about two weeks on our plastic containers. The tomatoes are starting to come in, and we've already eaten a few jalapenos.

Our garden. It's not pretty, but it's ours.

Mother's Day 2011

2011-05-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

The Pilot and Gus took me out to The Cup Cafe in the Hotel Congress for Mother's Day Brunch.

The food was quite good, and Gus devoured his chocolate pancakes.

The Pilot dressed Gus that morning for the occasion. Gus so loved his outfit that he refused to take off his shirt at nap time.

Here we are outside the Hotel Congress.

And here I am around 20 weeks pregnant.

The Reveal

2011-05-10T19:19:00.000-07:00

The perinatal assessment suite was running behind yesterday morning, and for the one hundredth time in two days I asked the Pilot, "So what do you think? What are we having?"

The Pilot rolled his eyes. "I don't know."

"Yeah. I don't either."

Finally, someone called us back to the sonogram room.

The sonographer thanked us repeatedly for not yelling at her about how late the office was running. We shrugged. I will never understand this. Yelling accomplishes nothing. Waiting is a part of life, but then again, I am a military spouse.

We got right down to business. Basically, she gave us a head-to-toe tour of our child's body and took extra time with us because we weren't assholes about having to wait. It was incredible.

But the baby was being difficult. Apparently, all of the babies were being contrary that morning. She said that this was typical of Monday mornings. The babies did not want to cooperate, but not only did ours not want to cooperate, the baby kept batting at the transducer and trying to play.

We got a good shot of the cranium and brain. The hands, the feet, the spine.

She lingered around the thighs and observed, "Usually, if it's a boy, there's a penis there. We'll get a better shot later."

But the baby kept moving.

After I shifted positions and she changed wands/transducers, we were able to see something.

"That definitely looks like labia."

"Oh! There's the hamburger."

"Yep," she continued. "That's a hamburger. See? Labia, clitoris, labia. Bun, patty, bun."

Vulgar? Maybe.

Descriptive? Absolutely.

"I'm pretty sure the Mitchell family will finally get their girl," she concluded.

The Pilot and I started laughing quietly.

Later, when I was talking to the Pilot about posting the sonogram photos, he cracked, "And may this be the only time she shows her lady bits on the Internet!" I must say, the Pilot was feeling a little dizzy all day yesterday. In a family full of mostly men, he's a little overwhelmed. Happy, but overwhelmed.

And the sonographer got back to the real business at hand: our daughter's development and health.

She showed us the stomach and all the chambers of the heart. She demonstrated how the blood flows correctly through those chambers. Our own hearts almost stopped when she couldn't find the other kidney, but she found it eventually.

"I cannot guarantee anything as far as development goes. Everything's still pretty small, but it all looks great so far."

We started breathing again, and our daughter continued giving the sonographer hell.

She sucked her hands.

She saluted her father.

The sonographer attempted one of those 3-D ultrasounds because we didn't rip her a new one after waiting forty-five minutes, but our daughter was done. She wanted to be left alone.

I checked out of the office, and the Pilot and I walked outside where we started laughing hysterically. We laughed all the way to the car.

We are still a little in shock. I truly had no inkling one way or the other beyond the same sciatic nerve pain I had with Gus. But that one symptom had me guessing maybe boy. One of the Pilot's brother was skeptical: "I'll believe it when I see it," he texted. A sister-in-law posted on facebook, "I'm so going to laugh if that penis was hiding!"

I'm convinced we're having a girl, but I'm keeping the receipts for any and all dresses or flowery rompers that I buy in the next couple of months.

The Gus Chronicles, Part Two (and the conclusion of our trip to CA)

2011-05-05T21:39:00.001-07:00

Gus loves hotels. He goes into full explorer mode. He bangs his hands on any and all objects just to see what sound they will make. He climbs stairs and punched hotel buttons, and runs down hallways, just relishing the echo of his voice. Imagine Eloise as a boy.

The hotel staff noticed him before we even checked in, and as soon as we made it to our room, the front desk called to say that we had been upgraded to a suite. Ten minutes later we found ourselves on the top floor of a luxury hotel in downtown San Jose.

The hotel staff assured us that they did it all for Gus.

I have no doubt that they did.

After meeting his Aunt Mandy, we ordered room service. Gus refused to eat. He wouldn't even touch the quesadillas or the french fries. Was he suffering Lunchable withdrawal? I swear, the kid does ingest fruits and vegetables and organic yogurt.

He was too distracted by the airplanes coming to and from the airport to care. We had floor-to-ceiling windows, and Gus ran from one to the next to look at airplanes.

We ran into real problems when Gus refused to go to bed. The hotel provided a roll away, and while Gus loved playing on the bed, he did not want to sleep there.

The cooler we brought was the perfect size for a time-out bench, and since he refused to go to bed, we gave him a choice: Go to bed or sit on the bench.

He chose the bench.

And he sat there quietly staring at the Pilot and me for thirty minutes. We were both tired and wanted to go to sleep, but there was Gus, sitting on his cooler-bench and just staring at us, his eyes glowing in the dark, the lights from downtown illuminating our room like a stage.

He was neither sad nor mad; he was simply determined, eerily quiet and still as stone.

"What do we do?" I whispered to the Pilot.

"I don't know. He's just staring."

"I know. Make him stop. It's creeping me the hell out, and I'm tired."

We continued whispering and tried to avoid making eye contact with our son. Every now and then, we would ask Gus, "Would you like to go to bed now?"

"No."

When Gus says "no," he does not spit the word out like a well aimed dart. Rather, he draws it out as if to say, "No. I don't think so," or even "I politely decline your request."

I came up with a plan. I gathered his wolf and lamb and read them Gus's favorite bedtime books, sang songs, and put them to bed. I even pretended to help them brush their teeth. I ignored Gus completely.

I climbed back into bed.

"Was he watching?"

"Yes. But now he's swaying."

We waited a few more minutes and watched Gus sway back and forth until he almost fell off the bench.

"Okay, buddy. Let's go to bed."

And he did.

The next morning we visited Happy Hollow Park and Zoo. It was more amusement park and less zoo, but Gus had a great time. Almost all of the rides are for the preschool set. Gus learned some hard lessons that day. Namely, once the ride is over, you have to get off and move on to the next one. The end of every ride brought a small tantrum.

The park also featured a gigantic wooden playscape. Gus and the Pilot climbed all the way to the top and went down the tallest slide together. They did this about a dozen times. Then, they tried the very twisty and somewhat narrow slide. I watched the slide jolt from one side to the other. About halfway down they got stuck. The slide swayed and rocked violently, and father and son made it the rest of the way down. Gus was elated. The Pilot was relieved. I was amused.

For lunch, we met my sister at the very tasty Dia de Pesca for fish tacos.

Gus slept well that night. We moved his roll-away bed into the gigantic closet, and he had his very own room. He needs alone time, too. I understand this.

The next day we traveled to San Francisco. It was truly a day of transportation for Gus: trains, buses, and ferries. On the way, he observed everything in his quiet way. The bus traveled through Chinatown, and it was incredibly crowded. Finally, we made it to our stop and walked the rest of the way to Alcatraz Cruises.

Now, I have never really desired to visit Alcatraz. I thought it too touristy. But the Pilot wanted to go very, very badly, and I think he just wanted to see my reactions to all of his The Rock references.

Now I understand the appeal of Clint Eastwood's Escape from Alcatraz. I understand the appeal of Clint Eastwood anything, but the awfulness of Nicolas Cage tends to ruin most things for me (except, of course, Raising Arizona).

So, my expectations were low. It would be crowded, full of people taking pictures at every stop with their cell phones, and I would be grumpy.

It wasn't too crowded, and the people taking pictures with their phones didn't annoy to the point of making me angry and confrontational. I quite enjoyed myself. The audio tour is quite good.

The Pilot knows that Nicolas Cage irritates the hell out of me. You can see the amusement shining through. Not even Ed Harris could make that stinker of a movie smell better.

After traveling by train to San Francisco, catching busses across town, and ferrying to Alcatraz, Gus fell immediately to sleep. He woke up when we got back on the boat.

The next day we drove the entire way back to Tucson.

And Gus was the most well behaved one in the car.

Interlude: The Way to San Jose

2011-05-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

There are very few places to stop between Los Angles and San Jose, so we picked up some banh mi (Vietnamese Sandwiches) at Banh Mi Che Cali before we left Little Saigon.

Around lunchtime, we stopped at a roadside park and unpacked our lunch. The Pilot had made an impulse buy, something he saw all the people in front of him purchasing. He had no idea what it was.

He tried it, made a face, and concluded, "I don't know."

This should have kept me from trying it myself. It didn't. I immediately spit it out. It was sweet with a taste of coconut. Maybe whatever this was wasn't what I expected. Perhaps I found the sweetness off putting. The Pilot decided that he did, too.

I was glad I had a pork sandwich to get the taste out of my mouth.

And the whole time Gus was thinking, "Really? Another damn lunchable?"

Does it count that we offered him some banh mi?

After lunch and some playtime, we continued on to San Jose.

Little Saigon

2011-05-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

On our way to San Jose, we stopped in Westminster in Orange County, otherwise known as Little Saigon. Gus, as always, did wonderfully on the ride, but he was tired when we got to the hotel room.

Since there was no way in hell that we were going to sample some of the best Vietnamese food in the country at a restaurant with a very tired two-year old, we ordered take out and brought it back to the hotel where Gus thoroughly enjoyed his introduction to Mythbusters.

After a little research, some consideration of my pregnant state, and lots of driving around, we settled on Brodard, a very popular, tucked away bakery/restaurant. Some say it's overrated; others dismiss it because of its popularity. We enjoyed our food.

I ordered the Lotus Stem Salad. Of course I ordered a salad, and this was before the sugars. Sigh. It was fresh and filling.

Brodard is known for its spring rolls and the accompanying sauce. The Pilot ordered some egg rolls at the last minute. I must admit to liking the egg rolls, wrapped in romaine and accented with sprigs of cilantro, most of all.

Here is Gus holding the remote and watching Mythbusters after a dinner of Lunchables. We are parents of the year....

The Pilot ordered the BBQ pork bun bowl. He approved.

The next morning I kicked everyone out of bed early because this is what I do when I'm on vacation. I am my father's daughter. I may be the last one to bed, but I'm always the first one up.

We stayed at Huntington Beach where we walked around and watched surfers.

After checking out of the hotel, we drove back to Bolsa Avenue for some beignets and coffee at Lily's Bakery. I ordered a dozen beignets and one hazelnut coffee. I asked the Pilot what he wanted to drink, and he ordered coffee, too. The Pilot hates coffee.

After the first sip, the Pilot could not stop talking about the coffee.

It was amazing. I normally do not like sweet or flavored coffee, but it was just right. I will have to make it one day and attempt that balance of sweet and strong. Clearly, the Pilot liked the beignets which left a dusting of powdered sugar on his shoulder. They left the beignets from Cafe du Monde in the dust.

What did Gus think of the beignets?

He ate most of them, including the very last one.

Up next: Vietnamese Sandwiches, San Jose/San Francisco

Reminder: If you want to guess the sex of Little Roboto, visit my poll on expectnet.com.

Guesswork

2011-05-02T22:10:00.000-07:00

I am behind.

I read about ten books total in February, March, and April, but I haven't written a thing about them. I hope I remember what I actually read. It's written down somewhere around here. One day this month I hope to get around to it along with some photos of our California trip as well as some damn funny Gus stories.

(A photo for the grandparents and for Kelly who bought him this fantastic piano book for his birthday.)

Whenever I encounter a major life change, I buy a new journal or notebook. Lately, I've been shopping around for notebooks.

Our Little Roboto inspired this one, picked up at Target on clearance:

I almost bought this one to record my food intake and my sugars:

But here's the deal: it's a very difficult thing for me to buy anything that pink even if the message does appeal to my twisted sense of humor, which seems to get even more askew now that I find myself a diabetic pregnant woman for the next 20 or so weeks. The lack of sugar is making me "froggy" as my husband would say.

Anyway, to some people this dislike of the color pink could imply that I'm mightily ill-fit to have a girl. But I don't look at it that way. For one thing, I'm not big on the whole boys-are-blue-and-girls-are-pink thing.

And I just don't like the color all the much. I never did. As a kid, I preferred blues, yellows, and greens, and most predictably in my teens, black. As an adult, any color, even pink, paired with brown has been fine by me. That said, if any child of mine, whether it's this one be it a boy or girl or even Gus, decides that pink is the greatest hue known to humanity, that will be fine by me.

In one week, we will know the sex of our Little Roboto. When I was pregnant with Gus, I wanted the experience of being surprised, of having the doctor or midwife call out "It's a...." However, I don't regret finding out since the Pilot was deployed and I never had any doubt that our little Kuato was a boy from day one.

Knowing the sex helped the Pilot bond with the baby, and it made the experience seem more real for him somehow. It's a hard thing for a parent to be absent during a pregnancy. Sure, it sucks ass for the pregnant person, too, but in some ways, parenthood becomes a more challenging adjustment for the partner who cannot be around during gestation.

It is most likely that the Pilot will be here for this entire pregnancy. I never speak definitively about the Pilot's travel plans lest my words come back to bite me in the ass. Let's just say I'm mostly optimistic.

And so the Pilot and I will go to the perinatal assessment suite early Monday morning not only to check out the goods but also to do a full anatomy check. All of the fun guesswork surrounding the baby's sex takes some of the tension out of what is in the back of every parents' mind: "I just want this baby to be healthy." While there is much fun to be had at this ultrasound, it's also scary as hell.

So to take some of the hell out of scary, I am going to open up the boy vs. girl poll. Follow this link and make a guess if you're so inclined.

I've rambled long enough. It's time for my bedtime snack: a slice of Ezekiel bread (it's low glycemic, y'all) with peanut butter.

The Gus Chronicles, Part One

2011-04-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

Two days before our trip to California, on the first day of the Pilot's leave, the Pilot decided to unwind by trying out his new PS3 games. He seldom plays video games; that he bought two in one day surprised me. But he had a gift card and he had found a flying game on discount that he thought Gus would enjoy watching.

We brought home Chinese from his new favorite restaurant, Ba-Dar, and settled in to what looked like a promising night.

The Pilot placed the disc in the player and nothing happened. The network was fine, and Netflix played its streaming movies. But we could not get any game or movie to load. The Pilot figured that Gus had stuck something in the console.

While I stared at the food and wondered just when in the hell we were going to eat, the Pilot became increasingly agitated. He found videos on YouTube showing him how to take apart a Playstation. Gus walked circles around his dad, who was sitting on the floor with his computer and his console in front of him. Sensing his father's anger, Gus tapped the Pilot on the back or rubbed his shoulder during each round.

"Honey, he knows you're mad and he suspects that it might be at him."

The Pilot gritted his teeth, ignored his son, and watched the instructional video. He contemplated getting a new player but ultimately decided to take the damn thing apart in the morning and find out what was wrong himself.

We finally ate.

The next morning the Pilot operated on the Playstation.

And he found the source of the problem: a price tag from some clothing Gus received for his birthday.

The Pilot came in from the garage with his evidence. Gus was sitting in his little rocking chair when his dad walked up to him and showed him the price tag.

"Gus did you stick this in the Playstation?"

Gus slowly nodded his head and very remorsefully confessed, "Yes."

The Pilot looked over at me. Neither one of us were able to keep a straight face. I think I made the couch shake from my efforts not to laugh out loud.

"Thank you for telling the truth, Gus. Do not stick anything in the Playstation. Ever. Do you understand?"

Again, Gus nodded his head.

Later that day the Pilot played his flying video game, and Gus watched.

Collision course

2011-04-25T22:10:00.001-07:00

The nap battles began last week, specifically on Friday, a very bad day that capped off a mostly bad week.

We fought for a solid hour. I put him to bed. He protested. He sat on his bench. We read books. Repeat this process about seven times. Finally he fell asleep sitting up, his head slumped over, his diaper down around his ankles.

It had been a hard week.

On Wednesday Gus and I were driving home from Parents Day Out. I was late picking him up because of a wreck on Craycroft and Broadway. I saw at least three wrecks that morning alone, and the night before I kept having these uninvited visions of getting into a really bad wreck. I sometimes do this spontaneously. I think about something bad happening and then imagine how I would respond. Disaster preparedness or something like it. I wonder if it's endemic to military spouses and to those in farming families. It seems I have done this my whole life.

Besides that, Tucson is not the safest place to drive....

I picked Gus up, and we headed on our way home.

About two miles away from home, I was stopped at a red light waiting to turn right. It was the noon rush hour, so Houghton was pretty busy. I pulled forward slightly to get a better look at traffic, saw a white car coming from a ways away, and decided not to go. I'm a fairly cautious driver now that I have a toddler in the back and a baby protected only by a low lying seatbelt. It was maybe a second later that a gigantic white pickup slammed into the back of me. The driver got out of his truck while I hit my hazards and just sort of sat there collecting myself and assessing the situation.

"Sorry, darling. My fault. I thought you had gone on ahead."

I didn't answer.

"Why don't you pull on over and we'll exchange information?"

I did just that and called the Pilot.

Normally, I would handle this on my own and tell the Pilot all about it after work. I've been in fender benders before. But this time was different.

We exchanged our information. The Pilot drove up and took down the driver's license plate number and took pictures, and we drove home where the Pilot had USAA on the phone and I finished reporting it.

It was when I sat down that I started to feel incredibly rattled. I called my doctor, and they told me to come in as soon as I could. The Pilot, who was on his way to work, decided to come straight home to take care of Gus while I went to the doctor to get checked out.

Everything was fine. The heartbeat sounded strong; Little Roboto moved. I felt fine despite a slightly high blood pressure the doctor considered remarkably good for someone in car accident only two hours earlier. The doctor assured me that it was early enough in the pregnancy that it was unlikely that the placenta had been harmed. However, at eighteen weeks, I'm on the late side of early. I rested and watched and waited for the rest of the day and night and woke up with only a sore neck.

The next day made everything better. The Pilot met me at Stewart Boot Company where I picked up my Christmas present.

And while the day after would prove difficult for a Gus on nap strike and, as a consequence, hell on me as well, it all felt much more manageable with a kick-ass pair of boots.

Self preservation

2011-04-17T20:09:00.001-07:00

I'm way behind on posting, on uploading those photos from San Francisco, on everything blog-related it seems.

And I'm okay with this. This digital life seems to have created its own plagiarized aphorism: "The undocumented life is not worth living." It's something I'm a bit uncomfortable with. When we go on vacation, my former irritation with slow-walking people has been replaced by an angry annoyance with those who have to take a photo of every single blessed thing that they see. My public place rules: Don't block doorways or walkways. Don't hold up traffic taking a photo of some artifact whose significance you probably won't remember anyway.

When we visited Alcatraz, it seemed that every visitor with a prosumer SLR camera slung around his or her neck had to take a picture of all of the artifacts, especially the ones artfully arranged in select cells to represent the many facets of prison life in the mid twentieth century. I do not need to have photographic evidence proving that I've seen where Al Capone took a shit.

------

I have thousands of pictures of Gus, but when we are on vacation or just out having fun, I often forget my camera or I take very few pictures. I do not regret this.

One day Gus and I went to the zoo, and I noticed that the splash area, a small space for children to play in fountains and a little splash pool, was open. There were kids everywhere, and Gus alternated between watching the other kids closely and getting right in there and playing. This is what he does. Observe. Interact. Observe. Interact. It's a very definite and so very deliberate pattern.

One father watched his little boy play in the pool and work a water pump. Caught up in the moment, the father encouraged his son, about Gus's age, to pump harder. Suddenly, the father dove for his bag, turned to me, and exclaimed, "I almost forgot to take pictures!"

And so he grabbed his camera, fiddled with the settings, approached his child from every approachable angle as if capturing some animal in the wild, and messed with the settings again.

I have been this person. Sometimes I miss the good old point-and-shoot.

The kid became distracted, even uninterested in the activity, and just moved on to another fountain.

------

Yesterday we went to the county fair, something that the Pilot and I attended in our own small town every year when we were growing up. Sure the Pima County fair is much bigger, the rides grander and probably safer, but the idea remains the same: home arts, stock shows, old tractors and engines, fried food, and a whole lot of random.

We had a wonderful time. Gus enjoyed the antique steams engines and tractors. He worked the controls of a model train. He marveled at the sheep and the goats and the chickens.

I elected not to bring my camera.

While looking through the stock barns, the Pilot suddenly realized that we had become those people, people living in the city traveling to the outskirts of town to look at the Ag exhibits.

"It always pissed me off, the way people looked at me at the San Antonio stock shows, like I was part of the exhibit. Just some country boy and his sheep, both caged animals. God! We're those people!"

But at least when my husband was showing animals in the early- to mid-1990s, he didn't have to worry about someone posting a picture of him, some seemingly unsuspecting country boy and his show animal, to a blog.

It's that time again!

2011-04-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

(Really, you need only watch the first seven seconds. Go any further and you may be willing to part with your endocrine system or your mind.)

On Monday I had another thyroid test and an early oral glucose tolerance test since I am at risk for gestational diabetes. It was quite the day for my endocrine system.

Basically, the test involves fasting, drinking a super sugary orange concoction, and then waiting for an hour before your blood is drawn.

Am I repeating myself?

Probably. I wrote a similar post last time I was pregnant after I found out about my gestational diabetes with Gus.

So, there I was chugging hell's orange juice in the waiting room and thinking I would be fine until my third trimester because I barely failed the tests last time. I chugged that awful drink so quickly I surprised the nurse. I waited, saw the doctor, heard the baby's still strong heartbeat, and sat in another waiting room to make an appointment for the anatomy ultrasound and next appointment. Before I knew it, a timer went off and it was time for the test.

Last time, I sat in suspense for days before the nurse called with the results. Not this time. The phlebotomist, who happens to be a lovely person who could find my tiny, crooked veins with her eyes closed, told me she would take my blood for my thyroid test and then use the blood dripping out of my little kid veins to test my sugars on a good old One Touch Ultra glucose meter.

I admired the efficiency.

Why get pricked twice?

While she was taking my blood, I asked her, "So, what number are we shooting for here?"

I couldn't remember from last time.

"130. If you're more than that and less than 180, you'll do the three-hour test. Greater than 180, and you're diabetic."

"God. I really don't want to go through this again."

"Maybe you won't have it this time. We'll think good thoughts."

And I almost believed her.

She finished taking my blood and readied the testing strip. She caught the blood easily on the testing strip. I watched the meter count down.

Three.

Two.

One.

190.

"Shit."

"I am so sorry," she gasped.

She meant it.

I ran out of the office and called the Pilot.

"Guess what, babe? You're going on a diet."

An incoming call from the doctor's office interrupted us. Apparently, I had forgotten to finish making my follow-up appointments and had just run out of the office.

On May 9, we should know whether or not we are having a boy or a girl. Last time, I had no doubt our little Kuato would be a boy.

This time?

I haven't a clue about Little Roboto.

That's gonna leave a mark....

2011-04-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

(Part of an ongoing series examining Eastman's Expectant Motherhood, a book given to my mother by her physician in 1977. It was first published in 1940 and reprinted multiple times, including in 1977. Part One here.)

According to Eastman's Expectant Motherhood, the fetal heartbeat could not be found by a physician until the end of the fifth lunar month. My doctor found the heartbeat using a transvaginal ultrasound at eight weeks. She detected the heartbeat with no trouble at all at twelve weeks using a doppler.

At thirteen weeks, we had an ultrascreen, mostly for reassurance and because I'm one of those people who likes to be prepared for things. Everything went fine, and the screening did not indicate further testing for genetic abnormalities. What we were able to see at just thirteen weeks amazed us.

The Pilot was gone for much of my pregnancy last time. He attended one very early ultrasound that revealed a tiny peanut. Sometimes I wonder if all the new-fangled technology takes the mystery out of the miracle of life, but then I get to see a profile picture when the baby is the size of a NutterButter.

And we're looking at arms and legs, hands and feet.

Still, some views look a little alien (or robot-like), but it's our little alien robot.

-----

When I think back to the stressors I had during my pregnancy with Gus--a dissertation, a deployment, a looming cross-country move, I wonder how I did it at all.

Eastman's Dr. Keith P. Russell reassures mothers that they cannot "mark" their babies with their own mental state during pregnancy. He traces this old wives tale to the story of Jacob in the Bible. Russell implicates Shakespeare and Dickens in furthering this belief that he works hard to reverse. "There is not the slightest nervous connection between mother and child," Dr. Russell states. Moreover, Dr. Russell asserts that such marking would be impossible since the infant is fully formed at six weeks. No mental shock or experience following this first six weeks could possibly mark the child.

Obviously, we now know that no infant is completely formed, organs and all, by six weeks, before most women even know they are pregnant. Most recent medical research implicates maternal stress in pre-term birth as well as other future health problems including high blood pressure, heart disease, and depression. Everything the mother feels and experiences, even her personality and temperament, "mark" the baby, apparently.

All of this does make some sense, and I do wonder how I ended up with a little boy that others routinely describe as "such a happy child" considering all the stress I had while I carried him. Still, it makes me worry about what future damage I wrought on his development and future health during such a stressful period. I remember literally making myself sick with worry when one of my dissertation readers did not return a chapter draft just days before my dissertation had to be filed.

But, what if all this information about maternal stress just further stresses the mother out, especially when anxiety seems to define modern motherhood in the first place?

Post-Something

2011-04-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

We are back from California where I did not have time to post a single thing. Actually, I was too damn tired to even move once we returned to the hotel early every evening.

Here are some potential posts, half of which I hope get written:

Little Saigon: Food. Lots of food.
How to get upgraded to a suite on the top floor of a fancy hotel (Hint: Show up with a toddler at the beginning of the week when all the business travelers are there. Watch hotel staff quietly panic.)
The Bay Area: Or, How I wore my pregnant ass out walking all over San Francisco
The Toddler Bedtime Stand-Off
Coming home to laundry and a government shutdown: Text from the Pilot who braved the commissary this morning--"Commissary madhouse. Like hurricane about to hit. I almost took out a cottonhead with my basket. Pandalerium."

Before all of that, I must post some very special pictures, ones that I have been sitting on for over two weeks. And I did read in February and March. The All-Day Sickness, while long gone, destroyed my house and put me way behind on blogging and work. I am back despite the fatigue and the painful stretching of the ligaments. And, yes, that last one is as bad as it sounds.

Waiting for the sun

2011-04-04T05:29:00.000-07:00

It is a little after five in the morning. My boys sleep while I type and wait for the sunrise over Huntington Beach.

Yesterday we hopped on I-10 and drove on over to California. Save that part of I-10 between Houston and El Paso, the Pilot and I have traveled most of that interstate together. It was a mostly uneventful trip, marred only by lunch at a Hardees, where Gus ran his little legs off around the playscape and where we waited for about an hour for predictably bad food. There are not many dining options between Phoenix and Palm Springs. I-10 gets a little desolate, and I'm reminded that, while convenient, the interstates really do suck the life and soul out of a road trip.

We made up for all of that with a trip to Little Saigon in Westminster, just minutes from where we are staying on the beach. We ordered some food to go and ate at our hotel. We discovered, though the power of cable television, Gus's new favorite show: Mythbusters. This is not surprising.

I will post more about the food later. I'm too sleepy to mess with photos, and it's too early for descriptions of food no matter how delicious.

Today: Watch the sunrise and hit the beach. Head back to Little Saigon for pastries at Lily's and then to Bahn Mi Che Cali to pick up some sandwiches for the road that will lead us to San Jose.

Only one more hour until sunrise....

To my Pilot on our fifth anniversary

2011-04-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

I walked down the aisle to this song:

And we walked back up the aisle together to this one:

I love you, my dearest, and what's more, I actually still like you.

Cake

2011-03-30T16:49:00.000-07:00

While I set out the presents and tied the balloons to the table, Gus visited his work-in-progress airplane and contemplated its construction.

Gus was delighted to see a room full of balloons; however, the fact that they were tied down disturbed him greatly. I had this thought in the back of my mind, but I pushed it away. I should have heeded it.

While we attempted to open presents, he quickly grew downright despondent and demanded that he have all the balloons clutched in his little hands. A couple of meltdowns and timeouts later and the realization that it was his birthday after all, we managed to tie together all of the balloons which he guarded steadfastly while wearing a perpetually worried look on his face as if to say, "Don't you dare take them away from me. I will lose my shit, people."

Gus continued to open his presents, but nothing could compare to his bunch of balloons. We managed to convince him that the balloons needed a nap but that they had to nap in the other room. Gus enjoyed his favorite meal, cheese quesadillas, and, for the most part, went quietly to bed.

And he woke up to cake which I did not bake. It's from the excellent Nadine's Bakery. In fact, I felt guilty for not making him a cake and for not getting my sick and tired ass together enough to fill out invitations for a party and put together favor bags. Then I said to myself, "Wait. He's two."

The Pilot lit the candles, and Gus, ever mindful of his helium-filled friends, pondered the cake and dove right in.

The Pilot tried to show him how to blow out the candles, but Gus preferred actually eating the cake to blowing on it. Smart boy.

It started out dignified enough. He used a fork and everything.

But it was just taking way too long for the delivery of all the sugary goodness to his mouth.

He checked with the Pilot to make sure this method of consumption met his dad's approval.

It did.

Birthday Breakfast

2011-03-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

On Friday, the Pilot, my parents, and I woke up early to celebrate Gus's birthday with a pancake breakfast. I made blueberry pancakes, chocolate pancakes, chocolate-blueberry pancakes, and just plain, old multigrain pancakes.

And there was bacon, too. Gus now can say "pancake" fairly comfortably. We're working on "bacon."

While we were eating, the Pilot brought in Gus's birthday present, a plasma car. A couple of weeks ago, Gus hopped on one at Mildred and Dildred Toy Store and took right off and rode around the store. The Pilot was one proud papa. This boy will never lack for wheeled objects.

Gus knew exactly what it was....

But he was so excited about it that it made him shy, and it took some convincing to get him to hop on.

Yes, that's my son. One sock off and one sock on.... Diddle diddle dumpling....

The next day we had cake. Those pictures to come. There are many.

And, then, no more birthday posts, I promise.

Gus is 2

2011-03-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

Gus turned two on Friday. Not surprisingly, the birth of our son inconvenienced the Air Force yet again. The Pilot had to attend a squadron roll call. Last year it was the air show; his actual birth conflicted with a PCS. I joked to the Pilot that we will likely be in the middle of another PCS during Gus's next birthday.

As evidenced by that first picture, Gus now can completely take off his clothes. He likes to stamp and sticker himself. He also stockpiles crayons and colors the walls and furniture when I'm not looking. My little muralist or graffiti artist, take your pick....

On the rare day that it is windy enough, Gus and the Pilot go fly a kite. Gus always tries to help.

When the kite is "resting" in the guest room, Gus likes to go in and pat its wings and say, "Hi, kite!"

This is Gus working on his instrument rating. Go ask a pilot. He did this for a good half hour.

My parents visited last week, and Gus involved my dad in an impromptu drum circle that involved Barley and Wolfie. Gus insisted that my dad wear the hat.

Up next: Birthday photos.

Gus on the railroad

2011-03-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

I am behind.

And there is so much to write.

First, our trip to Globe, AZ, where we failed to take a picture of the end of Highway 70. In Globe, we attended the Thomas the Tank Engine event hosted by the Copper Spike Railroad. Then we drove down the road to Miami for some pretty incredible burritos and enchiladas at Burger House. Somewhere between Tucson and Globe and Miami I picked up the stomach virus that felled me for a week. But let's go back before all the sickness....

The Copper Spike Railroad Depot

Gus in his Thomas gear.

Among the many activities for children, Gus most enjoyed the sandbox with the trucks, funnels, and scoops.

Correction: He enjoyed the train the most.

Father and son wear the same expression when they're deep in thought.

Gus notices the train start to move.

(Is it just me or does he go totally hip hop here?)

After our delicious meal of green chili burrito, red chili enchiladas, and chicken tacos at Burger House in Miami, AZ, we took the scenic US 60 to AZ-79 and finally to AZ-77 back to Tucson.

Here we are somewhere along US 60.

Honestly, I am not this big. It is a very billowy shirt, and there was a breeze.

But then we hit the Dairy Queen for dip cones and headed on home.

Gravida

2011-03-18T13:55:00.001-07:00

When I was pregnant with Gus, my mom sent me her copy of Eastman's Expectant Motherhood, a book that her doctor had given her when she was pregnant with me back in the 1970s. She thought I would get a kick out of it what with all of my women's and gender studies training, but since I was drowning in dissertation defense preparations and rewrites I had little time to look at it. Now, I have enough time to give it at least a glance every now and then.

On the inside cover, my mom had documented her weight gain. My mother was so small at 106 and three-fourths pounds that her doctor wanted her to gain very little weight. Nine days before I was born, she weighed all of 121 pounds, something I have not seen on the scale since high school. Her handwriting has changed very little.

First published in 1940, Eastman's Expectant Motherhood, written by Keith P. Russell, M.D., begins in its preface: "Pregnancy should be a happy, healthy time. Childbearing is a natural process, the supreme physical function of womanhood, and no other event confers such deep, abiding contentment" (xii).

Some of the language is overblown here. "[S]upreme physical function of womanhood" gets my dander up a bit as does the insistence that pregnancy is the ultimate patron of "deep, abiding contentment." The past twelve weeks have been rough ones. Constant nausea. Bone crushing fatigue. Mood swings that make me say the most horrible things to my husband who is mostly blameless except for forgetting to clean up the dog shit in the backyard or failing to take my hints that I would love some damn help unloading the dishwasher already.

While I was sick with the stomach virus this past weekend, I wondered what the great female invalids of the nineteenth century would do. For many of them, pregnancy provided a time to write during their "confinement." They did not have to worry about their dishes being clean or about getting a quick lie-down while their toddlers crayoned the walls.

But back to the text....

However, not all of it is all that wrong-headed. Natural? Yes, for many women, it is natural, and I am incredibly thankful that getting pregnant has never been a problem. But some struggle for years and with every tool of science and technology at their disposal. Moreover, pregnancy, far from being a disease, now is referred to routinely as "an altered state of health." A google search of that phrase along with "pregnancy" generates 5,950 hits.

Even with my complications of gestational diabetes past and my goitre, Gladys, my doctors seem unworried, confident that they have the tools to monitor my conditions and provide the necessary treatment. Even Eastman's Dr. Russell insisted seventy years ago that pregnancy "is a much safer undertaking than a long automobile trip" (viii).

What fascinates me about this book so far is that it was written when the diagnosis of pregnancy was far from certain, that a woman could not know for sure until she was two or three months along. The only proof for Dr. Russell back in the day was detectable heart sounds, discernible movement, and, get this, an X-ray (17).

I knew before I even took my first pregnancy test on the day of my expected period. On the day before, Gus and I were in Costco. Suddenly, I became incredibly dizzy and felt this odd compulsion to hit up every single sample cart in the entire store. I normally avoid the samples because I hate the shoving and that look in people's eyes, the fear in them that the food will run out in a store that size. Not only did I eat all of the samples, I pursued those samples aggressively. I did not care who was in my way. I needed that salsa, those pizza bites, some chicken tenders, those chips, a handful of granola. Gus looked at me, puzzled and a little annoyed, because I was being stingy with the free food.

After a week of knowing only oatmeal and scrambled eggs, my stomach is back to normal, mostly. It is almost two in the afternoon here, and I don't feel like I'm going to collapse from exhaustion or have to revisit my lunch. Maybe tomorrow will be different, but today is definitely a better day.

There will be more from Eastman's Expectant Motherhood in the coming months. There are some gems in those pages.

Wherein I write a little about pregnancy....

2011-03-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

Why?

Because it keeps me from writing.

Before this week, I felt great in the morning. The sickness would hit around two in the afternoon, which is fine because Gus is usually down for his nap by then. Half of my energy would return around seven or so, which was even better because I could pick up the house, make dinner, and hang out with the Pilot.

That all changed on Sunday when the stomach bug knocked me flat on my ass. Nausea and extreme fatigue follow me around all day long, and for Gus, they are not welcome companions.

Yesterday he went on nap strike. Today he naps.

I'm hoping it's a stomach bug that will resolve itself in the coming days because late onset all-day sickness would suck. My doctor agreed that it was probably a virus and said that there was little I could do except rest and drink plenty of liquids.

By the way, the heartbeat sounded strong yesterday. It was easy to find with the doppler, and the doctor even detected some movement. Looks like another active one!

My parents come to visit in one week.

Tomorrow I will be twelve weeks along.

The Guster Buster stirs from his sleep.

Cravings of a different sort

2011-03-11T08:17:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant with Gus, I plowed through a five-pound bag of apples (usually Galas) every week. I spent way too much money on Honeycrisps when they were in season, and I wanted sweet potatoes and carrots (not together) throughout the entire pregnancy.

As my first trimester winds down with Little Roboto, I find that I'm not craving any food in particular. In fact, I have temporary hankerings for hamburgers, mini pizzas, burritos, sushi, and BLT sandwiches. Sometimes I satisfy them, and sometimes I just grab some carrots and hummus or a handful of almonds.

Two cravings, however, continue to be ever present: lemonade and good music.

Lemonade is understandable. Citrus can lessen nausea.

But music?

This craving has been undeniable. I can put away my gnawing need for Bagel Bites, but my absolute yearning to hear Lucinda Williams's 1988 self-titled album required immediate attention.

Her song "Side of the Road" is one of the most nuanced and deeply understood examinations of relationships I've heard set to music, and I've felt the lyrics keenly lately, not just with the Pilot but with my little two-and-a- half-foot tornado as well.

If only for a minute or two
I wanna see what it feels like to be without you
I wanna know the touch of my own skin
Against the sun, against the wind.

The speaker's escape into narrative, one she conjures from seeing an old farmhouse on the side of the road, is one I can relate to.

It's a gorgeous song. Give it a listen.

Anyway, one night while listening to my Lucinda Williams station on Pandora, I complained to the Pilot that I could not find Williams's self-titled album and that it was a damn shame that it had not been re-released. Of course I could get it gently used, but it cost far more than I wanted to spend on music.

The Pilot listened, and the day after my birthday, I received a package from amazon with the CD I had been craving. (Reasons why the Pilot is a most excellent husband: It's another post for another day.)

Other musical cravings: Grateful Dead's American Beauty album, Neil Young, Crosby, Stils, Nash (and Young)'s "Teach Your Children Well," Solomon Burke circa 1963 or so, Bruce Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. and Nebraska albums, and anything from Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. I do not own any of these albums....

I leave you with Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings.... This will cure what ails you. It kicks my pregnancy-fatigued ass into gear every time I listen to it.

A Couple of Reasons Why...

2011-03-07T18:35:00.000-07:00

...the Pilot is a very good father.

1. One morning Gus grabbed his broom and started using it as a stick horse. Earlier that week, it was Rodeo Day at storytime. Mr. Bill handed out stick horses to the kids, and we had a rodeo parade. Gus loved it, so it was no surprise when he repurposed his broom and started galloping around the room yelling, "Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" It was a Sunday, and the Pilot spent the rest of the morning in the shop where I assumed he was working on the pedal plane. However, he was actually working on this:

The Pilot looked up some plans online and pieced together a horse from some wood scraps and a dowel rod. Gus loves it so much we have to hide it during nap time; otherwise, I hear "Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" from his bedroom when he should be sleeping.

2. The Pilot loves reading to Gus every night, and he has always taken charge of Gus's nighttime routine whenever possible. This is especially important now when I have all-day sickness.

(Apologies for the very sloppy photo edit of the Pilot's name patch.)

And there are many more reasons why the Pilot is a very good father, but these reasons why can be backed up with recent photo evidence.

Little White Car

2011-03-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

Days after the Pilot and I drove to Wichita Falls, Texas, and got ourselves hitched at the courthouse, we bought a used Chevy Equinox. It had 15,000 miles on it--most of them highway miles--and was less than a year old.

I traded in my Monte Carlo, and we had a car payment that I managed to pay off a year later with my adjunct professor's salary.

We made our first of many long trips in that car from Lockney, Texas to Fayetteville, North Carolina. While in North Carolina, we drove that car all over the state and much of the entire southeast.

On our honeymoon, our two-day coastal adventure after wedding #2, we drove up and down the coast, finding the eastern terminus of Highway 70, that highway running along the south side of our hometown. True to form, we did not have a camera.

Highway 70, was once nicknamed "The Broadway of America" because it was one of the main (and one of the first, for that matter) transcontinental highways to run east to west, spanning from Los Angeles to Atlantic, North Carolina. But in the 1960s, Highway 70 met its end in Globe, Arizona, the remainder of the western route being decommissioned in favor of the interstate.

While in North Carolina, we drove up to DC, traveled the Blue Ridge Parkway, and made numerous trips to Texas and back.

We brought Barley home from the no-kill shelter in that car, and there he learned to travel well. In fact, he's the best traveler of us all.

Then we packed up our lives in North Carolina, we drove down to Georgia, across to Texas, and from there, the Pilot continued west for training. I met him in Vegas a month later once his school ended, and we jumped in the car and made our way to San Diego then on up to San Jose and then to Tucson, where the Pilot had more training for another month. I flew back to Texas, and a month later, the Pilot picked me up in Texas and we took I-10, a road that would become far too familiar to us, to Georgia where we would make our home for "at least three years."

Of course, it was not that straightforward. We found our house, but we had to wait a month for the loan to go through, during which time we lived in TLFs and crashed in friends' guest rooms. "Three years" became eighteen months.

We were in our home for less than a month when we had to head back to Texas for Christmas.

And in the next year, I got pregnant, finished my dissertation, and the Pilot deployed again.

Another year, we had Gus, packed him into our Equinox and drove him from the hospital to our mostly empty home.

And, then, there we were on I-10 again: me, my baby, a dog, and a hospital-grade breast pump. My parents drove, and the Pilot traveled on to his next assignment in the truck.

Fun times....

The Equinox, Barley, Gus, the breast pump, and I stayed in Texas for a couple of weeks, and then all of us plus my in-laws and a smaller breast pump hopped on Highway 70 and made our way to Tucson, where the Pilot was looking for our house.

It would be a couple of months before we moved into the house where we currently live. In July, we will have lived in this house for two years. Two years. That is the longest that the Pilot and I have ever lived anywhere.

And along with our furniture, the Equinox stayed mostly put. Trips to Texas and one to Alabama were made in the Avalanche because traveling with baby and Pilot is a little like moving house. However, that Equinox trekked all over Tucson and over to Bisbee and up Mount Lemon, and back to San Diego.

Early this year, mere days after we found out that I was pregnant with Little Roboto, the Pilot's dad told us about a used Tahoe back in Floydada. We made a down payment, spiffied up the Equinox, and the Pilot's parents drove our new vehicle to Tucson for a trade. The Equinox made the long trip back to Texas with my in-laws, who had brought the little white car out here in the first place, but it must have been a much more peaceful trip without a frazzled new mom, a mostly chilled-out baby who lost his damn mind during that last hour on the road, a loud breast pump, and the best traveling dog known to man.

Already we have taken the big maroon car to Tubac for an arts festival, and we decided that while we were out, we would drive on down to Arivaca, hang out at the lake for a bit, and then stop by the oldest continuously operating bar in Arizona, La Gitana Cantina. We walked around the small, yet peaceful lake. Gus threw rocks in the water, and we stopped by the bar, which the Pilot determined would be okay for the two of us but going in there with a baby might get us the stink eye. So we drove on to Amado and ate okay food at an old steakhouse that had a magnificent bar.

This Saturday we'll be traveling to Globe, Arizona, where we will take Gus to the Day Out with Thomas event on the Copper Spike Railroad.

And there we will find the western end of Highway 70.

When Tucson freezes over

2011-03-01T21:16:00.002-07:00

We woke up Sunday morning to snow.

I had awoken around three in the morning, thinking I had heard someone in the house, but it was the almost unrecognizable sound of rain. And I stayed up and watched Allen Toussaint on Austin City Limits. (You can see the full episode here. It's amazing.)

The rest of the house woke up hours later, and we opened the blinds to see about an inch of snow. While we marveled at the snow, the Pilot noticed that the back gate was open.

Those neighbor kids....

A couple of weekends ago, thanks to being newly pregnant, I smelled the cat food before I actually saw it. When I got to the side of our house, I discovered about a dozen cans of cat food littering the ground and their contents smashed on the stucco.

There's no way to know if the neighbor kids did it, but they are hanging out with a new crowd. The two boys have loud and obnoxious girlfriends. I can hear them on the weekends yelling and giggling and saying little of consequence, and I just want to stick my head outside my door and yell, "Please! Do not be that girl!" They roam around our quiet neighborhood in a loud little pack. They probably mean little harm besides impressing their dumb girlfriends with petty vandalism.

The Pilot wants to spend Saturday night on stakeout, so he can give them a good scare.

I told him that, at the tender age of 32, he is going to be that old guy, the one who yells, "You damn kids stay off my lawn!"

The opened gate taunted the Pilot. Even though nothing was missing or destroyed and there is really no way of knowing who, if anyone, snuck into our back patio, the Pilot wants to catch them in the act.

If the kids had tried the front porch, they would have found a cooler full of cold water and a couple of ice cold beers leftover from a NASCAR weekend.

But they did not dare try the front porch.

The snow melted quickly.

Yesterday, in the green area behind our house, Gus and I played with the remnants of a snowman. We took turns stomping on the icy stump. The crunch of the ice both fascinated and disturbed Gus. For a while, he would not even approach the stuff. He squatted down and tried to lift my lower leg, signaling for me to stomp. Finally, he gave it a try. He would stomp on the ice quickly, back away, and then sign "More! More!" Repeat. Repeat.

I look at my son and see the house across the street where the two teenaged boys live. I remember the words of my husband who used to whisper over our sleeping infant son as if in prayer, "Don't be a dick, son. Please don't be a dick."

33

2011-02-26T07:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I turned 33.

Barley brought me a card that barked "Happy Birthday to You" with the following promise: "For your birthday gift, I will try to stop rubbing my butt on your rug." He has been doing this a lot lately. Poor guy needs his anal glands expressed.

And in Gus's bed I found another card, one in the design and shape of a velvet Elvis portrait. It read, "I don't even know who this is, but I like the feel of the velvet."

The Pilot apologized for not getting me a card. I kissed him anyway.

Later that morning Gus and I went to the squadron to assemble cookie and treat trays for the maintenance crews. Maintenance works damn hard to keep my husband safe and up in the air, and I appreciate all they to do. This was just a small way for us to say thanks.

Mothers and children swarmed the squadron bar whose pool table was drowning in homemade and store-bought treats. The commander's spouse brought Chick-fil-a chicken biscuits which made this mama very happy.

That reminds me: I'm suddenly very hungry.

So we all visited, and I caught up with all of the spouses I had not seen in weeks. I saw babies who had grown so much they were unrecognizable to me, and everyone marveled at how much Gus has grown.

A very good friend of mine brought me a birthday cake she had made to share with everyone there. It was an incredibly thoughtful and generous gesture, especially considering the fact that she's also the mother of a toddler and pregnant with twins!

Cake.... Now I'm really hungry.

But it was a lovely morning, and Gus was a gentleman who shared his toys. He is getting better about this. He will let other children play with his toys, but he won't be happy about it and there will be a few tears. However, he gets over it pretty quickly.

Gus and I returned home for lunch and naps. The nausea returned. I hate afternoons. By 2:45, I was miserable, but I had to wake up Gus and get out the door to attend a squadron picnic. I rallied, met up with the Pilot, and we stayed at the park for about an hour.

I realized around 4:00 that I absolutely had to have chips and queso.

We drove to El Molinito, which was close to base, ordered our food, and prayed that Gus would maintain his composure despite his sleepy eyes. He did. He ate an entire bowl of mild hot sauce that he scooped with a single chip. I ate an entire basket of chips.

The restaurant did not have chile con queso, but we ordered a green chile cheese crisp, which was excellent. But then I went and ordered the wrong thing: the house enchiladas. The chicken was tough and the sauce was flavorless. I was not happy. It was "Mexican Casserole" fare, the kind that you find in church cookbooks. Not that there's anything wrong with recipes in church cookbooks, but it is not what you want when you go to a place that brags about its "authentic" Mexican food.

So we went home, put the boy to bed, and I sat on the couch where I watched "Fringe" and random television until I passed out. Overall, a great birthday and a promising beginning to "Birthday Weekend."

It is now 6:45, and I should be getting ready for a morning out with my boys. First, breakfast at Ghini's French Cafe followed by shopping at La Encantada. The Pilot has hinted strongly that we should go to Sushi Garden for lunch. Yes, pregnant women can have sushi, provided you have a game plan and know which rolls are raw and which aren't and which fish are high in mercury and which are low. But we shall see what I'm craving later this morning....

So hungry and light-headed. Apologies for a rambling post written by a starving woman.

I need to hurry up and finish this thing so I can get moving and get this baby fed.

Too tired to blog

2011-02-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

If my blog had a hostile renaming, the above subject line would be a contender.

That and "No time to proofread."

The first trimester fatigue is kicking my ass.

Last week a switch to a different prenatal vitamin had the undesirable results of keeping me up all night and in the bathroom two nights in a row. I switched back and added a supplement. Things are better now. The nausea visits me early in the afternoon and stays through the evening.

But back to that fatigue.....

It is unlike anything I have ever experienced. I had it with Gus, but all I had at that point was a dissertation chapter, a scholarly article, a looming defense, and a soon-to-be-deploying husband to manage. All four of those things put together do not match the unholy force of nature that is a strong-willed toddler.

A couple of hours ago I told a friend on the phone that it's no longer one day at a time but one hour at a time. I do only what is necessary to make it through each hour.

I've even dispensed with the obsessive making of the to-do lists. I compose lists of the lists I need to make. I haven't bothered to lift a pen in days.

PBS should be getting a fairly generous donation from me this year for babysitting my child. (Quick Note: Amazon is now streaming all of Mister Rogers Neighborhood. It's free for Amazon Prime members.)

When Gus is not on nap strike, I plant myself on the couch, eat, and watch episodes of The Office. Then I pass out. I should be reading, or even better, writing, but I'm not. Oh, yeah, and there's that house that needs cleaning....

Right now Gus is sleeping, and I plan on eating lunch, making pecan bars for the squadron, and then, who knows what I'll do next. In an hour, chances are I'll be sleeping or checking in on Pam and Jim.

Tonya Harding and Me

2011-02-17T20:26:00.000-07:00

Yeah, we're both with child.

Eight weeks and one day gone.

"Perpetual Hangover" is what so-called "morning sickness" feels like to me ALL DAY LONG. It would also make for a nice rock band name.

Maybe that rock band should be called, "Perpetual Hangover and the Mom Pants Band."

People warned me that I would start showing earlier with a second pregnancy, but nothing can prepare one for the spontaneous uterine expansion typical of subsequent pregnancies. I spent all of last weekend fighting round ligament pain, and then just like that my waist disappeared.

But these things are all okay. And we are overjoyed.

So, yes, here is our little one. We've yet to settle on an in-utero nickname. For the longest time, Gus was "Kuato."

Here is the heartbeat going strong at 142 beats/minute.

Is it just me, or am I growing a robot?

January Reads

2011-02-07T09:15:00.000-07:00

The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman: Rachman's novel focuses on a dying international newspaper in Rome. Each chapter is a short story featuring someone connected to the paper. Vignettes that chronicle the paper's history and its key early players appear in between each story. Rachman both documents the slow demise of the newspaper and the key issues of life--love, death, disappointment--with humor and heartache. I enjoyed this book immensely.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen: I had heard about this book for years and then saw that the Kindle version was all of $5. Knowing that it was so popular, I was skeptical. However, I loved this book. Alternating between the present day and the Prohibition era, Jacob Jankowski, a ninety-something-year-old resident of a rest home, looks back on his time as a circus veterinarian when the circus comes to town and sets up across the street. Gruen's well-researched book provides a glimpse both into the circus subculture and into the minds of animals.

Stress-Free Potty Training by Sara Au and Peter L. Stavinoha: A number of things make this book incredibly useful: 1. It breaks down potty-training methods by temperament--Gus is strong-willed with a side of impulsive. 2. It provides a handy little chart that lists the thirty-some-odd potty skills and the average ages that boys and girls achieve those milestones. Right now, those average ages are heartening, but what will be even more encouraging in the months to come will be the authors' insistence on letting potty training occur at the child's own pace. They give excellent potty training strategies for six types of temperaments: The Goal-Directed Child, The Sensory-Oriented Child, The Internalizer, The Impulsive Child, and, of course, Gus, The Strong-Willed Child.

Children: The Challenge by Rudolph Dreikurs with Viki Soltz: This classic text packs a great deal of information into a fairly slim book. Written in the sixties, the premise of this book rests on how ideas of democracy and equality have changed how the family functions. Dreikurs suggests that since we view all human beings through the lens of equality, and that includes children, we should treat children as equals. Now, that does not take away a parent's authority; instead, the parent teaches the child to make decisions. With choices, the child learns through logical consequences of his/her acts rather than through punishment, which can often be arbitrary and seem unrelated to the offending action. Dreikurs takes the focus away from the child and encourages the parent to look at his or her own reaction and how the parent's reaction itself can encourage undesirable behavior from the child. The book works because it uses scenarios to illustrate the authors' many points, and in the back of the book, the authors pose a series of scenarios to test readers in how they would apply the concepts to certain situations. The authors not only inform, they also instruct. Of course, some of this book is out of date: one would never leave a young child in the car in this day and age for fear of criticism or worse, jail. And some take issue with Dreikur's opposition to corporal punishment because it is often ineffective, not because it is wrong. But I think parents can judge for themselves what methods will work for them and what will not. This book is invaluable.

Sausage

2011-01-30T10:34:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was the weekend of the pig in our home. We made boudin and fermented Thai sausage and two jars of pickled pork as well as a steaming bowl of the aromatic pork belly hot pot from The River Cottage Meat Book (Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall). There was a sale on pork belly and shoulder going on at the commissary, and the Pilot went a little crazy.

Whenever we say "sausage," we usually intone this gentleman, who called into Jimmy Dean and made a complaint about being unable to find the 16 ounce roll of sausage for his family. Warning: Strong language. NSFW.

"I'll just have my own damn sausage made the way I used to..."

So, we did make our own sausage.

David Thompson's Thai Street Food is a massive and ambitious cookbook with gorgeous photos. Within an hour after giving it to the Pilot for Christmas, I noticed that he had stuck post-it notes on all the recipes he wanted to try. One of them was the "Sour Pork Sausages from Udon."

I was asleep for most of the assembly of the sausages, but I woke up to find this hanging in one of my closets.

The next day the Pilot made Fearnley-Whittingstall's aromatic pork belly hot pot. We didn't have rice wine, so we substituted with gin. It worked fine. While I have texture issues with anything fatty (I could not handle the Pilot's experiments with oxtails a couple of years ago), I did enjoy this dish.

The Pilot removed the sausage from the closet after about a day, and it sat in the fridge for a couple of days. Then, it was time. The Pilot deep-fried the sausage and served it with rice, cabbage, cilantro, cucumber, and scallions.

He enjoyed every bite and then waited for his butt to explode.

It did not.

I tried it the next night, and I must admit it was very, very good.

A near kitchen disaster

2011-01-29T06:38:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday morning we readied our home, and especially our kitchen, for yet another kitchen experiment. And this time we invited friends.

The plan: Make homemade boudin based off of the Homesick Texan's most excellent recipe--we made it hotter and added more parsley. And the Pilot wanted to make fermented Thai sausage from David Thompson's Thai Street Food. I wasn't sure how I felt about sausage hanging up in the guest closet for a day or two....

I scurried around the house trying to get things clean and presentable and damn near had a nervous breakdown trying to do so, and the Pilot, annoyed by my hatred of all activities involving cleaning, retreated to the garage to put together the sausage maker.

A couple of minutes later a string of curses traveled from the garage through the front door and into the kitchen where I was scrubbing something, I imagine.

The Pilot had broken the sausage maker, and he could not find a tube, the one that connects the grinder to the casing. So, we resolved to try our Kitchen Aid attachment, which also lacked the tubing.

He jumped in the pickup and made his away across Tucson in search of tubing, possibly even a sausage maker.

I jumped on the Internet and started calling every place I could think of.

Our friends were arriving in five minutes. The Pilot told them to take their time, to rolex getting to our home.

We started to get desperate. In a town like Tucson, where there is good hunting relatively nearby, very few sporting goods stores have hunting gear or any tools for processing.

I scoured Chowhound for suggestions about what to do if you didn't have the equipment to make sausage yet wanted to make homemade sausage. We would McGyver it if we had to.

One solution: A funnel and an empty can of tomato paste or a 35mm film canister fashioned into a tube would work.

The Pilot went to Harbor Freight to get a funnel. It's not that we lack funnels. We have plenty. We just didn't have the right size. And I waited and put out appetizers and dealt with a toddler who would not nap and with girl scouts selling cookies. Our friends arrived, and the Pilot called. He had found a meat grinder complete with tubing at Harbor Freight, and it was on clearance.

The day was saved.

The Set-Up.

There are so many reasons why I love this picture. Mostly it's the fact that I've seen this singular look of determination (or is it look of singular determination? I don't know; it's early.) so many times in Gus's face.

The Pilot separates the casings that have been soaking in water. We explain to a few of our guests the origins of pork casings.

Really, the casings smelled fairly off (to me, at least), but what do you expect of pig innards?

Like trying to thread a needle...

The stuffing begins.

It's a two-person job, really.

Tying one off.

Attaching another casing to the tube. I think someone made a condom joke at this point....

A day's work....

Red beans and rice and potato salad accompanied the boudin, which had a lovely taste. The only problem was texture. Since we had to run it through a grinder after the meat had already been ground, the rice was ground up, too. Part of the joy of boudin is the texture of the rice. The Pilot ordered replacement parts for his sausage maker, so that will be avoided next time.

Next Post: The Fermented Sausage.