Little Yellow House

To the nice internetians:

2005-09-18T17:51:00.000-04:00

Please join me over at 24-inch boss.

http://24inchboss.blogspot.com

Yes, the rumors are true.

2005-09-15T21:31:00.000-04:00

The notion that I have somehow lowered the quality of journalism in America is hogwash. I must address several points:

First, I filed my new address with h.r. as soon as I moved but I didn't tell my bosses because I didn't want them to freak out and think I wasn't coming back. At the time, I thought I might work part time on the copy desk and I wanted to make that decision after I had the baby. The fact that I moved to Gainesville didn't determine that I would resign.

Second, my husband has the best job he's ever had in his life and the three of us have been using his health insurance for several months.

It is true that Sentinel executives didn't discover my new address until they sent flowers to my old address but frankly I just didn't have the time to deal with that because I was in the midst of recovering from a 26-hour labor. And when my boss called to ask where I was, I said "I moved to Gainesville."

Anyway, I resigned today. I hope that when I return to the industry from an extended maternity leave, I do not face a tragic struggle to keep up.

Good-bye

2005-09-14T14:41:00.000-04:00

This will not be a sappy good-bye post.

The new incarnation of this blog will begin in the next few days. It is time to move on. If you'd like to continue reading about my life, you may e-mail me at: mylastname_myfirstname@yahoo.com. If you don't know my name and you'd like to continue reading, you may post your own e-mail address in the comments of this entry.

If you're planning to make hurtful or uninformed comments in the future, I'd prefer not to hear from you.

Later, Gators. It's been fun.

Dear Anonymous(es):

2005-09-14T10:41:00.000-04:00

You shouldn't comment - especially anonymously - if you don't know the whole story, which you can't possibly get from this blog.

It's my life and I don't owe you an explanation, but here's a short one: I'm on unpaid maternity leave - not mooching off the company - and waiting until my life calms down and I can get down to Orlando on a weekday without the baby (difficult while breastfeeding) or with my husband (also difficult because he has yet to acquire any vacation at his new job) to hand in my resignation in person. I think I owe that to my bosses, and I'd like to say good-bye face to face. And, as for the six weeks of paid leave I did take, that's time I earned by working hard for two years.

Katrina

2005-09-07T13:31:00.000-04:00

I have been brave, and also cowardly, I think, to shut out the world for the past few weeks. I haven't been watching CNN, haven't been reading your blogs, haven't even unwrapped my beloved morning paper or clicked on nytimes.com since Katrina touched down. Once, at four in the morning, I accidentally stumbled on an Internet headline that read, "Thousands Feared Drowned in New Orleans."

I cried. Now I avoid the news smidgets on my homepage.

My memories of New Orleans are sketchy but tinged with the bright, bold colors of a masquerade. For my high school self, the city was as much a performance as a place - and it was one of my favorites among my family's many road trip destinations.

I can't believe I will not take my children to the same place I remember. I wish the world - and the country - my daughter lived in had not seen tragedy like this, although this is nowhere close to the first incident of its kind.

A news junkie, I've had to make a concerted effort to concentrate on my daughter's sweet face instead of the tortured faces of thousands who are suffering in the South. And shopping today with E., who was dispatched to Biloxi, I had to hold the questions inside. Although part of me feels guilty, I don't want to know what she saw.

Of course, I understand what happened as well as anyone else can. Not the details, but the meat of it. No amount of reading and viewing can bring the reality of a loss like this home.

My body, my heart, must be singly focused on creating love, making food and giving warmth to a single beautiful soul. I can't bear to look, or I worry I'll pass my sorrow and frustration on to my daughter, through milk or through mood. My bank account, however, will be directed toward giving food and warmth to a few souls in New Orleans.

E. and the other reporters covering the storm are some of my heroes. Knowing the sacrifices they made in the wake of the storm - the dangers they ran toward and risks they took without hesitating - has reinforced my decision to leave reporting and make mothering my job. Despite my longing to be out in the trenches, doing what I love and doing good for the world, I know that nurturing the little world in my arms is more important.

College Game Day, Baby

2005-09-03T18:46:00.000-04:00

First off, GO CATS!

Boo woke up this morning doing the classic Wildcat growl and moving her little claws in the characteristic fashion. She's already a fan - and a fiesty one at that.

Our child is quite portable, being approximately the size of two footballs. And we've found she loves to go new places. Her eyes light up at the new shadows, new voices, new smells. So we love to take her places.

Case in point:

We attended our first hometown tailgate today, and let me tell you, we college town residents do it up. Probably because we have the hot stoves and comforts of home just minutes away. Our theme was cowboy - as in Wyoming. I made cowboy oatmeal cookies (with butterscotch, yum!) and seven layer dip. Others brought turkey burgers, buffalo brownies, puppy chow, etc.

And although I worried that an afternoon in the hot Florida sun with the Bean would be taxing, she did great, dressed up in her little team tank and bloomers. The ladies took turns holding and admiring her. She nursed in the car once, from the bottle once, and was largely sleeping the afternoon away.

We did have a triple diaper change, which I executed on my lap in the car with surprising precision and grace. By diaper #3, I was giggling quite hard because I had managed two full loads of especially runny yellow ooze - and a voluminous impromtu pee - without getting a spot on my mini skirt. (Yes, I wore a mini-skirt. Not a single pair of my shorts fit, and no way I was wearing pants in that heat. So I went with the college girl look, and topped it off with pig tails for kicks.) Husband was impressed. (I just re-read this. I meant by the diaper change. But he quite possibly was equally impressed by the outfit.)

But there's a catch:

Having left Husband behind to go to the game with the guys, S and I were on our own in the car. And let me tell you, car rides with her give me headaches. Even if she doesn't fuss, my shoulders tighten up in anticipation of the worst. This time, She freaked upon being put in the car seat, which is par for the course, and then settled as we got moving - also usual. Halfway home, she flipped out. Sometimes I can calm her by taking a corner quickly, but that was just a stopgap this time and she got herself so worked up by one mile from home that her face had turned purple and she did that mouth-wide-open, nothing coming out, can't seem to breathe very well cry. The one her dad never has to hear. Sure that her poor little screams had given me my first grey hairs, I veered off the road. Whew. It took much longer than usual to calm her - by that I mean two or three minutes; she's quite consolable.

She's so great during outings. But the getting there and back really, really sucks.

We have thousands of baby contraptions - from Bjorns to slings to wraps to seats to strollers. But what I need is one of those Star Trek beam-me-up things. Maybe I'll try Babies R' Us?

This Must Be That Whole Getting Worse Before It Gets Better Thing They Warned Me About

2005-09-01T03:59:00.000-04:00

Yes, it's 4 a.m. and I want to kill my husband.

That's all I'll say, but those of you who have been in my shoes - or my spit up stained T-shirt - know the drill.

Dear Sasha, Month One

2005-08-28T17:54:00.000-04:00

Dear Sasha,

You are sleeping on my lap, nestled in the boppy with your little body curved around my stomach. You have wriggled your way out of the yellow waffle blanket your father swaddled you in, so your teeny chub toes are sticking out and your arms are strewn spaghetti-like first on your chest, now up near your ears. Unfortunately, it took you only days to figure out how to escape the swaddle, including the double-swaddle and two varieties of guaranteed store-bought swaddles. Sometimes, when you stay all sweet and wrapped for more than two minutes, I call you my "burrito bundle." Daddy calls you his "banana," and Nana calls you an Oscar Meyer weiner. Mostly, though, you are our little Houdini. Right now, your fingers are splayed, gangsta style. Your lips make a perfect bow and your adorable skater boy hair is spiked as usual. You're making noise, which you always do, and at the moment your noises sound like squeaks and chirps, with a few squeals thrown in for good measure.

These are your happy sleep noises. The grunts -- the 300 lb. fat man grunts that do not stop for hours -- those are the gassy sleep noises. They had grown considerably less frequent until your dumb Mama indulged in a Ben and Jerry's strawberry shake at the mall the other day and, girl, did they come back with a vengence. Your daddy and I were up all night soothing our beautiful girl. Every time we put you down between us, which is where you sleep best (even though Mama lives in fear that one of us will roll over onto your little body), you would fall asleep peacefully only to wake up choking. Do you know what this does to us? We absolutely panic, whip you upright and examine you for signs of life. You're always fine, and seem fairly happy afterward, usually peeping at us through now wide-open grey blue eyes.

You are a fantastic communicator. Some of those through-the-belly conversations your dad had with you must have paid off. He is a superior communicator; he even majored in communications in college. But you won't have to. Already, you have different types of cries. There is an angry, low-pitched, open-mouthed cry; there is a baaing lamb-like cry that means you're uncomfortable or lonely; and there is the most-familiar, fussy, FEED ME! cry.

Of all the things in life, I can say with certainty there are three you enjoy the most. The first is milk. I never want to forget the way you peck at my shoulder, or slurp on your daddy's arm so hard he worries he'll have a hicky. I love the way you'll suck on a paci or a finger for a few seconds until you realize there's no milk coming out and then you'll shake your head back and forth with these quick, whipping motions and make throaty sounds that most certainly mean, "You adults are trying to trick me and it won't work!"

Even though I find myself walking around topless at all hours of the day, and even though I am impatient with your desire to eat constantly from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. daily although you are so full you choke and milk runs down your little chin, I wouldn't trade nursing you for the world. I love to watch your perfect, round face nestled close to me and feel your tiny fingers petting my side or gripping a bit of my shirt. I love to stroke your tiny jaw and your little eyebrows and trace circles on your pink cheek as you clamp onto my boob with both hands, as if to say, "You're mine, boob, and you're not going anywhere!"

The second thing you like most in life is being held by your Daddy. Whenever I can't console you, he always can. You especially like to lay on his chest in the evening, listening to his loud, slow heartbeat. And, wow, does your daddy love you. Last night, you would not stop fussing unless he paced the living room with you. And so he held you in one hand and a board book in the other, reading to you in a sweet, low voice.

Most nights, your dad changes almost all of your diapers. But one night, he had a hard time waking from a dream and mistook you for a stack of lab papers. I had handed you over, hoping he'd take the next change, and he started blabbing about a work project. I asked, "What lab papers are you talking about, honey?" He put one hand under you and one hand on top, and said, "THESE lab papers!" I snatched you away from him in a hurry, worried he might go file you instead of cleaning your tush!

The third thing you love is the bath. You lay there like a movie star at a Hollywood day spa, especially when we wash your hair.

And it's a good thing you like the bath, too, because this month we have had dozens of huge spit ups as well as projectile poops and pees. Today, all my pants that fit were in the laundry and so I had to dig out some pre-pregnancy pants. Just a few minutes ago, you pooped on those, too, so now I'm walking around in a shirt and panties!

Let's talk about your left ear. It looks like a tiny animal, maybe a mouse, took an itty bitty bite out of it. My left ear looks like that, too. The rest of you looks like your Daddy, which is fine by me because he's darn cute, but if you ever wonder if a big girl like you (you weigh more than 11 lbs. and your doctor is already predicting you'll be six feet tall!) really came from a little girl like me, you can just reach up and touch your ear and know that it's true.

At the end of this first month, I'm still not sure I believe you're really here. I'm a little sad that you're not inside me anymore, but thrilled that you're eating from me and sleeping and playing in my arms constantly. Every day, you are more your own person. You open your eyes more and more, leaving "Cyclops" behind and revealing a bright, alert Sasha. In your sleep, you sometimes giggle. Your little legs are getting some meat on them and growing strong, so that when I lift you, it seems you could practically stand. And when you're on your belly you do push ups.

Even though I used to think I wanted you to stay just the way you were the day you were born, I now know that each day brings something new for me to love about you. I wish I could pause you every day and take more time to watch you, smell your little sour-milk neck and cover you with kisses. But then I wouldn't get to the next day. And so far each has been more wonderful than the last.

I love you, little Boo.

Love,
Mama

Facts

2005-08-23T16:09:00.000-04:00

My child weighs more than 11 lbs.

Thanks to sacrifices made by myself and my mother, my husband slept through the night last night.

I have yet to go more than three hours without feeding my child from the human milk factory.

Prayers

2005-08-22T11:29:00.000-04:00

"God said to Abraham, 'You shall not call your wife Sarai because her name is Sarah. I will bless her and kings of nations shall descend from her.'"

Yesterday, Sasha got her hebrew name: Sarah Bina.

Like baptism in Christian families, a girl baby is welcomed into the Jewish community through a naming ceremony. And Sasha's was lovely.

Family from Arizona, Minnesota, Atlanta...Friends from Orlando, from across the street...A slew of pink baby roses...Bagels and Lox...Petit fours decorated with pink S's...Sasha in a white and pink handmade smocked dress that we bought her in Charleston...Me in an outfit that hid at least three of the nine pounds I have left...

We wrapped Sasha in a pink tallit and the Rabbi spoke about God's love and protection. My brother and his sister welcomed her as a symbol of creation, held her during the ceremony. I clung to Husband's arm, kept my eyes on my daughter, who slept and didn't fuss once.

My mom and my mother in law cried when Husband talked about Sasha's middle name, Brianne, being after them.

Pretty much everyone teared up after Husband choked on his last line. They are words dear to me, words that sit on her shelf in a room and they represent one of our biggest hopes for our daughter: Dream big, our sweet girl, dream big.

The potential of an infant seemed to get under everyone's skin. Much the way she turns us to mush, Sasha seemed to melt everyone in the room. It was renewing to see a group of people who love us and our little girl so much, and much more sad than usual to say good-bye.

No Quitter

2005-08-18T13:49:00.000-04:00

I started this blog as a means of chronicling Husband and my journey toward parenthood. One day, I figured our children would like reading who their parents were before they were Mom and Dad. Little Yellow House turned into my best tool for keeping in touch with people I love around the world. It's also place to blow off steam and connect with people in similar situations.

Of course I knew this was a public forum and many Sentinel folks were readers. I honestly don't mind divulging personal details here. And I could care less that the Weekly finds my blog boring, considering I find the Weekly quite boring.

The main this is that I'd rather my editors not read my every thought on the big decisions I'm in the midst of making right now - many of which are contained in older posts. And, frankly, I only had an hour to figure out what I was going to do, because I wasn't going to miss girls' night for a blurb in some weekly. So I hid (not deleted!) my archives.

I still haven't given the situation the thought it deserves, and I probably won't be able to very soon because the babes takes up 110% of my time, the house is a wreck, and I have company coming into town this weekend for her naming.

Here's what I'm sure of: I'm going to continue blogging. If you're an important friend, you will have daily (or near-daily) coverage of my life for the forseeable future. But I'm not sure where, and I'm not sure how.

When I know, you'll know.

I've Been Trying To Tell You

2005-08-17T19:20:00.000-04:00

This blog is boring.

I'm just a new mom with an especially cute baby. That's it. No gossip; no excitement; no brilliance. Just puke, and the occassional spelling error.

But now a local weekly has made it official. They're running a bit about my blog and a few of my buddy's blogs. And the verdict is:

"Reason No. 62 not to blog: You may be dull as dish soap. Someone (not naming names here, but thanks Ms. Vicious!) recently sent us a list of blogs by Orlando Sentinel reporters. And at first we were excited, hoping to read about backstabbing editors, libidinous proofreaders sleeping with Mike Thomas to get to the top, that sort of thing. But what we really found out is that these bloggers are boring. They’re young, they go to parties and drink and they think they’re about to change the world. Ah, youth…It’s more than you ever wanted to know about some of the people who bring you the Orlando Sentinel.”

The blurb also mentions a recent post about my poop hole. Yeah, I think it is bigger than it was before childbirth. I don't mind that little detail being published for all the world to see -- after all, it already was.

The backlog blogs I promised

2005-01-17T12:22:00.000-05:00

November 29, 2004

For the past day and a half, I have been surfing the net on company time, flitting from message board to name Website to medical information page. And now I’m taking up more time writing about it.

This morning I got to work and nobody was here but my girl friend, S. This has never happened before – my boss and the news assistant always get here first – so I took it as a sign that S ought to know about the peanut. We talked about Thanksgiving, talked about our relatives, and then I said, "Okay, so I’m going to tell you now." And she just jumped out of her chair and started crying. I never even said it, just nodded and smiled.

Then she told me that C & I would be great parents. I love S. She always knows the right thing to say, and she always means it. I feel better knowing there’s someone in the office who can give me a wink or a knowing look across the room.

I’m tempted to buy a cute new tight shirt to show off my increased cleavage, but I know it won’t fit for long. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning and savored the skinniness. It’s going to go away, and I’m going to have to get used to that. But the most striking thing I see in the mirror is the lack of change. I don’t LOOK pregnant to me.

Already, I have overhauled my diet to make sure I’m feeding peanut well. I always feel a little sick halfway through breakfast, but I have been struggling through it. I want to make sure that I’m eating well now in case I start getting morning sickness later.

I have kicked into high obsession, planning budgets and reading up on thousands of names and brainstorming nursery themes. I need to figure out a way to calm down. I know this is my defense mechanism against not having control, not knowing what to do. I did the same thing before our wedding. I am going to try to put myself on a better time schedule, not picking cribs until the fourth or fifth month, not naming the baby until the sixth or seventh month. This is one of those times that will fly by looking back, but creep by while you’re living it. Looking back on these times, I always wish I would have let it go slowly, savoring every minute.

I’m going to try to do that.

Mostly, I can’t believe it yet.

Get Me a Cake

2005-01-17T12:15:00.000-05:00

December 1, 2004

Two things I didn’t expect about pregnancy: the crying and the lying. How very Dr. Seuss.

Lucas had just showed up at Brooke’s door to find her making out with the new guy in town on One Tree Hill when all of a sudden it hit me. It really being a they. The hormones, that is. But anyway, it hit me: I was alone. Conrad had slipped home late from work, spent an hour with a racist roofer, wolfed down dinner and then escaped to study all night. And now it was ten o’clock and my baby and I had to go to bed. And so I started crying.

Partly it was because I missed Conrad, even though he was in the next room and I could easily have flipped the TV off and brought Beyond Jennifer & Jason into the kitchen. I worried he would prioritize school and work over the baby and me because he loves school and work so much. And partly it was because I’m alone in this. My body is solely responsible for creating this baby from here on out, and I am responsible for making sure it goes right, but I have no idea how to do that.

But mostly, it was the hormones. Pregnancy: It’s like PMS, but with crying.

Upon further thinking, I remember how proud I am of Conrad and how he is cramming in several weeks worth of studying right now because he has spent so much time with family in the last few weeks and because we are leaving tomorrow to go spend more family time in Minnesota.

The other grain of truth remains: I don’t know what to do.

This happened to me when I was getting married, too. "My God," I thought, "There is so much involved in getting married I have GOT to start doing something now." So for nearly a year, I obsessed over all the details, making myself crazy instead of savoring each moment of our engagement.

I’m not saying it didn’t work out. Our wedding was beautiful and I do remember several beautiful things about being engaged, but I bet I could have spared myself the three-month bout of not being able to eat anything but bread products had I just CHILLED OUT a bit.

Now I find myself thinking, "My God, there is so much involved in making a baby I have GOT to start doing something now." My obsession has landed on the baby name search, which I suppose is a decent place to start.

There were two instances today in which I had to outright lie to people who I like and respect – once it was to my boss. I have a doctor’s appointment, my first one, on Monday, and he asked me if I’m feeling all right. I said yes and he said why am I going to the doctor and I said just a check up. See how easy that was. Just lying to my boss’ face!

After that Jake asked me "What’s new?" This one happens a lot. I have to say, "Nothing much," when really I want to say, "I’m pregnant! I’m having a baby! Gush over me! Get me a cake!"

In Which I Fight My Innate Hunger for Too Much Information

2005-01-16T18:21:00.000-05:00

It's 8:49 p.m. and I'm about to pass out. I'm at work, though, so that's not possible.

I just finished reading a great and funny book, Expecting Adam, about a Harvard woman who discovers mid-pregnancy that her son has Down's Syndrome, and decides to keep him. It's a wonderful book, you should read it whether you're pregnant or not, and it did just what I secretly hoped it might -- it made me less afraid.

When you're pregnant, doctors come at you from all directions offering diagnostic and screening tests. I have accepted all of them so far, including one in which a nurse drew NINE vials of blood from my arm to see if our baby could have Tay Sachs disease, something that my doctor told me only happens when two Jews of Eastern European descent conceive a child. I explained that my mom grew up Catholic and Husband converted, but the doctor who saw me after Oh Shit Part I didn't seem to care.

The quad-screen is the latest of the doctors' offerings, and I pretty well said yes to it without thinking. After I answered, though, I brooded over it. I don't know a whole lot about it, but I gather that the quad is a screening test that gives you the percentage chance your baby has any number of genetic abnormalities, including Down's Syndrome. It requires further testing to diagnose anything.

I went home wondering what it would take for me to want to end this pregnancy? I can't fathom making that decision, but I also can't fathom finding out that my child will be deformed or "abnormal." Pregnancy brings many scary questions, but most of them boil down to self-examination: Can I really do this?

Expecting Adam calmed me, not necessarily because Adam was wonderful and also had Down's, but mostly because it reinforced that's it is up to me whether I enjoy this time or fret constantly. It's up to me whether I let myself revel in the miracle happening to us, or shroud the magic around me in gritty grey reason, diminishing it by demanding a rational answer for everything.

--

In other news, one of my co-workers gave me a bag load of maternity clothes today. Kind deeds like that make the sisterhood of moms feel real; it makes me feel like other mothers -- even career-driven newspaper reporters -- will accept a 23-year-old who knows nothing about being a mom into their ranks.

Also, a shout out to Husband who cooked me Mac and Cheese and brought it to me hot at work at 8 p.m. Yes, I do realize every day that I snagged one of the best.

Revealed

2005-01-12T14:53:00.000-05:00

Two days ago, my doctor laughed at me when I told him I thought I was showing. I had only gained two pounds, I have a defined waist, and my stomach is still relatively flat, although it protrudes from my hip bones in a way it has never done -- usually it is nearly concave.

Despite being laughed at by a medical professional, the accuracy of my observation was bolstered when an editor known for being a bit of a gossip apparently noticed my "belly" yesterday as I was talking to my boss' boss. As soon as I walked away, she promptly asked him if I was pregnant. It's a good dang thing I told my boss the day before. And seriously, how did she guess?!

This morning I told my complainy cube mate that I was going to make his baby daughter a friend around July. It took him a while to get it but all the women in the office swarmed me immediately.

So far, no one has said a thing about my age. When I said I was getting married, that's the first comment everyone made. I guess I underestimated people this time around. Either that or, being in college, I was telling too many 18-year-olds about the wedding.

Day 1

2005-01-11T20:20:00.000-05:00

November 24, 2004.

We can’t stop smiling. Even as I type this, Husband stops every so often just to flash me a wide smile. We have always wanted you, and we have always loved you, and we always will. Even when you wear excessive amounts of black eyeliner, listen to punk rock – or whatever is in fashion – too loud, or smoke pot behind the barn with your buddies, we will love you. I’m not saying you won’t be grounded sometimes. I’m not saying we won’t want to kill you or ship you off to you grandparents’ sometimes. But we’ll always, always love you.

Five months ago we decided to try in earnest to make a little person out of the two of us. For a couple of medical reasons, it made sense for us to try early. My mom had very difficult pregnancies and my doctor attributes part of that to her having lupus and being 30. So 23 seemed old enough to me. But mostly, we were just excited and in love. And that’s what happens. You get married and you let God do his work, you let miracles happen.

For a few months, I thought it wasn’t working. I had resigned myself to waiting years, or even adopting. I had a few glasses of wine and a couple cups of coffee. I didn’t think it mattered. But I did feel a little nauseous in the morning for three days in a row after we made love at the beginning of the month. At first I thought it could be a sign, but then it disappeared. Then I had to pee really badly – immediately! – every few hours for a few weeks. Looking back, it seems obvious, and I think maybe I did know. But I didn’t accept it. I was just sure pregnancy wasn’t working for me.

I even had a drink LAST NIGHT (but I’m not going to kill myself over it). About a week ago, my breasts got tender the way they do every month before my period. So I believed we hadn’t conceived. But my cycle – usually 28 to 31 days – wore on, and it was day 30, day 31, day 32. What? Day 32? I had never had a day 32. And last night I cried in the shower. I cried over something I normally wouldn’t cry about. And I thought then, “Could it be?”

When I got up for my nightly pee, I ripped open the stick (I had to go immediately!) and peed on it. Two lines came up immediately. I checked the directions. I mean, I knew exactly what I was looking at but I checked the directions.

And then I asked Husband to come look at this right now. He thought I was talking about a bug. Apparently I said it in the same urgent voice I use when there’s a spider I need him to dispose of creeping up the wall.

I showed him the two lines. It took aminute. It registered. His face shone.

“We’re pregnant?!?” he said.

“Yup,” I said, which is just what I said when he asked me to marry him.

And then I jumped into his arms.

I am all smiles, but it still hasn’t sunk in.

It just so happens that Husband’s parents are staying with us and my parents came into town just tonight. Even though we earlier had planned not to tell them until the second trimester, that flew out the window. I just figured they’re here in our home on this day for a reason.

On a walk through the back trails, Husband brought up Christmas. He said to his parents, “So are you still just giving the kids money and the grandkids gifts?” Mom In Law went through her rationale for the system. Then Husband said, “What about potential grandchildren?” She paused. We walked about ten more steps and she said, “Are you trying to tell us something?”

“Yes.”

My father in law cried.

A couple years ago, I sat at the kitchen table in my parents’ house talking to my dad about marrying Husband. Without prompting, he ticked off a couple of names we could call our kids.

“Rob Emmerich would be a good wide receiver,” he said. “Bill Emmerich would be a good linebacker.”

I laughed – the possibility of having a baby was surreal, far beyond where I was at 19 years. I was a girl deciding to be a woman, deciding to commit myself to someone. Tonight, we handed my parents their Chanukah gifts, a book about being a Grandma and one about being a Grandpa.

They were happy. I guess that’s what marrying your kids off really means to you – more kids.

It was warming and sweet to be surrounded by the people who made us tonight as we’re just getting underway making another little person who will one day have the same confused, joyful feelings we’re having right this moment.

HOLY SHIT I AM GOING TO BE A MOTHER!

Start Spreading the News

2005-01-11T15:23:00.000-05:00

I have been waiting to tell people about this pregnancy for weeks. And now the time has come: it’s no longer a secret.

But I still haven’t told anyone.

There are two issues. One, if you tell everyone you are pregnant, that means you actually believe it yourself, and I’m still in a state of wonder about how it’s possible that "me," the woman I see in the mirror, currently includes two people. Two, what is the proper etiquette for announcing such shocking news about oneself?

Do I stand up in the middle of the newsroom like my friend Sherri did and say, "Hey! Anyone notice anything different about me?"

Do I wait until my cube-mate tells a tale of a long, tear-filled night with his newborn and says to me, "You should never have kids," and then say, "Well, I don’t think I can help it at this point," instead of my usual, "Um, I’ll try?"

Do I just tap on the shoulder of one of our news assistants and say, "Guess what! I’m pregnant!?"

Do I buy myself a cake at Publix that says, "Congrats on the pregnancy, L!" or "Baby Emmerich, July 2005?"

Or do I take the modern route and send out a mass e-mail saying, "Congratulations to me!?"

At this point, none of my options seem good – except the one with the cake, since that likely involves eating cake.

p.s. Yes, I am still telling everyone in the universe about this baby because despite my ranting post yesterday, I'm 100 percent certain I'm going to be having this baby in July...or August. And I'm going to live through it.

Oh Shit, Part II

2005-01-10T15:07:00.000-05:00

(Watch later for part I, the indicent with the pinkish toilet paper.)

Remember that fatalistic attitude we were discussing? Well, it comes and goes. And it has returned.

I had a regular check up today and my pap smear last month came out abnormal, which has never happened before. My doctor assures me this could mean nothing -- or it could mean I have cervical cancer.

Worst case scenario (because I fatalistically asked for it): The second pap they did today also comes out abnormal, causing Doc to do a cervixoscopy (okay, it's not called that but it's some kind of -oscopy), and then the Doc finds something that seriously looks like cancer (he tells me if it only "might" be cancer, they won't do anything), and then he does a biopsy to make sure, putting my baby at a high risk for miscarriage, and then he finds out I do have cancer and then, WELL THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT IF I HAVE CANCER THEY HAVE TO KILL THE BABY TO SAVE ME.

...My sweet, tiny baby, whose heartbeat I just heard thump thump thumping beneath my belly today.

Listen, I don't care if I have cancer. I mean, I CARE in the way that one cares if one has a life-threatening disease. But I can handle it. I'll even make life a deal. I'll say bring it on, right after the baby is born. I just don't CARE about me having cancer in the way that I care that our baby be born healthy and okay. My dreams are pinned on this fuzzy fetus. Everything I want to do in life is make this baby with Husband and love it and watch it grow. I have never cared so much about anything or anyone.

What I'm trying to say is, Dear God, please don't make me choose between me and the baby, because the choice seems too easy.

We're back (the short version).

2005-01-10T09:46:00.000-05:00

And by that I mean me, and the child growing in my womb, who has been busy pressing on the waistline of my pants and causing me to heave at the sight of a Starbucks. I am feeling all the things you’d think: shocked, blessed, thrilled, scared to death, disbelieving, somewhat like an alien vessel and madly in love.

One of my girlfriends told me she thought she could see my belly today, and I decided it was time to tell the Internet…and my boss. I’m 11 weeks, 1 day along, and yes I am already wearing pants a size bigger.

All this time I haven’t posted, I have been busy walking around with an open mouth or silly grin on my face getting practically nothing done at home or at work. I’ve also been busy puking, but that’s for another time.

I have seen my little inhabitant projected by way of sonogram onto a TV screen, and she looks exactly like a fuzzy lima bean. Do you think he gets that from me or from Husband? At the second ultrasound, the bean was jumping around.

Anyone want to take bets on the kid’s hair – blond and stick straight like Husband’s, dark brown and ultra-curly like mine, or some combination? What about eyes – blue or brown? How 'bout short (I’m 5’4") or tall (Husband’s 6’5")?

I have written quite a few entries for you over the past months that I was compelled to hold back until I told work about the Fuzzy Bean – word gets around fast at a newspaper. I will post those entries over the next week or so.

I’m warning you now, if you don’t like googly-sweet baby chatting, run fast from this blog. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got a miracle manifesting right this minute, right there in my belly. Really, can you imagine me writing about much else?

p.s. A great big thank you to those of you who were so supportive when I freaked out about being infertile when I was actually pregnant – I choose to blame my fatalistic attitude on the hormones. And to all of the fabulous women whose blogs I read who have had it so hard, I am still here for you, and I am still reading and hurting along with you.

Visiting The Rugrats

2004-12-08T10:14:00.000-05:00

Is there anything more beautiful than driving through hours of Minnesota country side blanketed with snow?

Well, yes. A few things: My husband's giggly smile when his nephews or brothers tickle him, the sweet innocence of two almost-three-year-old boys asleep side by side, the shock of blond that tops our youngest neice's head like whipped cream on pie. Oh, and the warm blue of a day when the sun actually SHINES. Like it's supposed to.

We spent the weekend hanging out with the Terror Twins, who I'm sure will carry that terror right into age three, and their brother -- our brilliant six-year-old nephew who apparently likes homework about as much as I like cold weather.

After two days of awakening to the twins' screams and one Incredibles-themed birthday party, we moved to Husband's other brother's house where we awoke instead to the pounding of Blond Baby, jumping on our heads. Oh, I meant jumping in her bouncy seat. And I read dozens upon dozens of princess stories to The Cutest Creature To Walk The Earth, our three-year-old neice. Sometimes I think it's pointless to anticipate having adorable children when we already know the Cutest Creature is taken.

We were in the hallway, beginning the 11-minute multi-layered dressing procedure necessary before going outside for three seconds to climb in the car and go to the airport, when Cutest Creature peeked around the corner and said, "I love you, Aunt L."

Then my face started dripping and I melted into a puddle.

Husband asked, "What about me?"

She paused a minute, looking thoughtful, and then said, "Yup. I love you, too."

One more point for moving to Minnesota someday.

More People Who Say Stupid Things

2004-12-01T17:44:00.000-05:00

We have needed a new roof since we moved into the house in March, but the hurricanes made our need immediate. As in, there is water on the bathroom floor after a rain. (At least it's in the bathroom, right? On tile.)

After Husband finally took my advice and filed an insurance claim, we are now able to mostly afford a new roof. Yay, Charley! Yay, Frances! Yay, Jeanne!

So last night a roofer came over to pound on our roof and tell us how much it would cost us. He was a nice guy, Dan, freckled, a hint of southern drawl. He sat at our kitchen table with Husband dishing about shingle availability and gutter options.

At one point, they discussed payment and Dan tells Husband that we can trust their company because the owner is a "good Christian man." This made me pause, but not halt, my preparation of sauteed honey-sesame chicken. There's nothing wrong with being a good Christian man, after all. I like good Christian men, just not any more than other good men.

And then they discussed plywood costs (I have a point here, I swear). Basically, plywood is a sliding cost because there's no way to know how much plywood we need to replace before the shingles are torn off. Husband said he wanted to cap the cost of plywood. To which softspoken Dan, who was a very good salesman and who we had now established was 22, had a girlfriend and lived in the area (Read: Potential friend) said...

"Don't worry. I won't Jew you."

OH, MY.

Don't worry. I didn't point to the menorah and punt him out of the house. I didn't order Husband to tackle him like a Green Bay Packer. I didn't even make him stand up and kiss the mezuzah. I just said, "We're not signing a contract with you tonight. Dinner is ready. Wrap it up."

I can't wait to tell him we're not going with him because he is an unobservant bigot.

His roof cost $900 extra anyway.

American Pastimes

2004-11-29T17:23:00.000-05:00

Despite a long history of hard-hitting football playing and excessive football watching, there was NO FOOTBALL in the Emmerich household on Thanksgiving. Nor was there any throwing around of a football in the yard.

No, we picked a more wholesome Thanksgiving activity: poker.

First we watched The World Series of Poker 2004 on ESPN. I asked aloud at least three times: "Why is ESPN showing poker? It's Thanksgiving! This is ludacris." Every time, someone agreed with me and changed the channel back to football. But the games were really boring and we kept switching back to poker.

We were stuffed. We lay on the couches sipping cider and beer, captivated for hours by the freaky card players with cowboy hair and bad accents and funky sunglasses worn upside down. It was kinda like a football game, except I left in the middle to take a two hour nap. All that fabulous cooking really takes it out of a girl. (And it was fabulous. I think I want to have Thanksgiving at my place every year. What? Did I just say that?)

Then, even before the World Series was over, we all got up and loaded our plates with more food, then sat down played poker for pennies. It was kind of frustrating at first that you don't get to see everybody's cards when the rounds are over. I mean, you NEVER find out what's really going on. Still, after only five or six rounds of help from my kick-ass father in law, I started rocking at poker.

We played Texas Hold 'Em and something involving Kings and the next card after the King being wild and a game called baseball, but not football. We played well into the night, and in the end, I got to keep all the pennies.

Life is so beautiful

2004-11-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

Life is so beautiful.
Love is so lucky.
The turkey was perfect,
The potatos, too...
And a toast to all the miracles
In this little yellow room.

Twist of Fate

2004-11-26T11:22:00.000-05:00

Curious
Unprepared
Filled with Awe:
I already love you.