Hilarious and scary moment in last night's @merican 1dol: One of the contestants revealed that she's 'picky about the food placement on her plate' -- no food must touch any other food -- and she used to even 'use different forks for different foods.'
Oh my GOSH. It's Lizzy.
I've been hoping she'll grow out of that particular brand of OCD. But here's this 17-year-old who's still a freak like that!
We have this battle most Saturday mornings: Lizzy wants pancakes and syrup, and scrambled eggs and cheese, but the eggs and cheese MUST be on a different plate, and she MUST have a different fork. If you attempt to 'force' her to do otherwise, she will collapse in a shrieking pile on the floor and refuse to eat any of it. The real rub for us parents (or uncle, as poor Nick found out on a recent weekend) is that you know that once she gets some food in her system, she will feel and act a lot better. But until then ... how I long to hold her down and feed via intravenous drip some mornings. (or does that only work with liquids? Darn.)
At least perhaps if she's on a nationally televised hit 'reality program' someday, perhaps our girl can come up with something more interesting to tell the world than that.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
the littlest maisel
Well, we had our sonogram this morning. Despite my panic at the bad traffic (an accident somewhere? We saw a fire truck, but no accident) -- and my carping at Matt about not getting up earlier. That set a lovely tone, you can be sure -- we got there pretty much on time. The apologetic receptionist told me that Kaiser hasn't been paying this sort of referral recently, so I had to sign a waiver saying I'd pay it if they wouldn't. Great start!
The experience was different in almost every way than the 20-week sono I had with Lizzy. I had to strip down almost completely for this one; a little weird, but after 1 1/2 pregnancies, I'm well used to it. This time, the technician and doctor told us exactly what they were seeing and doing as they went along, and they had a extra screen that we could see. Last time, I laid (or is it 'lay?' cut me some slack on this one, my gleefully grammatical friends) there in frustrated silence for 20, 25 minutes as they silently measured, prodded, etc. I hate to be sexist here, but it so happened that the last tech was a male, and this was a female. As has been consistent with my pregnancy experiences. (I guess ob-gyn men such as my friend Jason Bromer are in short supply. Unfortunately. And Jason, that was not a crack at your height.)
Everything -- or everything the child allowed us to see -- looked great. It's so trippy to see the spine, the wee heart beating away (144 bpm, I think), the hands waving, the mouth opening and closing. He/she gave us a thumbs-up at one point. But refused to give us a great shot at the crotch.
The doctor came in after that, and said she couldn't tell, but she'd "bet her 50 cents" it was a girl. Matt's whispered response: "Great. Surrounded by women and cats." Hee! Well, we'll make sure one of them (but only ONE of them) is a male cat, then. Just for you, dear.
So that's about all we know. They said the measurements were pretty much on par with the due date. Maybe a day later, making it July 17. Not that it ever happens on that day, anyway.
We got about 20 pics -- I'll have to scan a few and put them on the blog. So you can see how dramatically different OUR child's sonogram looks from EVERY OTHER sonogram photo you've ever seen.
The experience was different in almost every way than the 20-week sono I had with Lizzy. I had to strip down almost completely for this one; a little weird, but after 1 1/2 pregnancies, I'm well used to it. This time, the technician and doctor told us exactly what they were seeing and doing as they went along, and they had a extra screen that we could see. Last time, I laid (or is it 'lay?' cut me some slack on this one, my gleefully grammatical friends) there in frustrated silence for 20, 25 minutes as they silently measured, prodded, etc. I hate to be sexist here, but it so happened that the last tech was a male, and this was a female. As has been consistent with my pregnancy experiences. (I guess ob-gyn men such as my friend Jason Bromer are in short supply. Unfortunately. And Jason, that was not a crack at your height.)
Everything -- or everything the child allowed us to see -- looked great. It's so trippy to see the spine, the wee heart beating away (144 bpm, I think), the hands waving, the mouth opening and closing. He/she gave us a thumbs-up at one point. But refused to give us a great shot at the crotch.
The doctor came in after that, and said she couldn't tell, but she'd "bet her 50 cents" it was a girl. Matt's whispered response: "Great. Surrounded by women and cats." Hee! Well, we'll make sure one of them (but only ONE of them) is a male cat, then. Just for you, dear.
So that's about all we know. They said the measurements were pretty much on par with the due date. Maybe a day later, making it July 17. Not that it ever happens on that day, anyway.
We got about 20 pics -- I'll have to scan a few and put them on the blog. So you can see how dramatically different OUR child's sonogram looks from EVERY OTHER sonogram photo you've ever seen.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
McStarbucks
I see that my beloved Starbucks is closing its doors for a few hours this evening in order to 'provide a more consistent, higher-quality product,' or something like that. Must be some training session they have planned!
In any case, they needn't worry about the competition, in my opinion.
It's possible I'll offend some people here, and if I do, I'm truly sorry. It's just my opinion, and my impression of things.
Recently, I've attempted to order coffee now and then from McDonalds and Dunkin Donuts, which are positioning themselves (or trying to) as direct competitors with the Bux. I hear Mickey D's is even planning to hire 'baristas.' Okay.
I worked for about a half day on Sunday. I decided to treat myself to a McDonald's iced coffee (poor me! Working on a Sunday!), which probably has an absolutely sinful amount of cream and sweetener in it. I really don't need that much creamy sweetness, so I thought for once I'd attempt to ask them to cut it back a bit.
I realize I'm not at Starbucks. (which I didn't get because their coffee is stronger, and I figure I don't need the rocket fuel while pregnant.) I realize I'm not to expect custom stuff. But I thought I'd try, anyway.
I asked them how many pumps of cream and sweetener were in a large. The woman had to ask for a translation, but the answer eventually came back: Six. So I asked them to try four. (they make them when you order them, anyway -- how hard can it be?) They managed to do it -- I think -- but I heard a lot of what sounded like grumbling and glances darted back and forth about "trabajo", etc. Sigh. I realize I'm asking a bit more than you're expected to deliver. I apologize. Sort of.
That was purchased along Hwy. 50. A hard left turn onto 14th Street in D.C. resulted in my large iced coffee filling my passenger-side floor, so, like a dope, I ordered another one at a joint downtown.
Astonishingly (or not?), I had the same experience. Same semi-incredulous looks, same need for translation, same muttering about 'trabajo.'
All this is to say, good luck, McDonald's, with your barista scheme. A modest suggestion: Make sure the barista speaks fluent English, and has a good attitude.
In any case, they needn't worry about the competition, in my opinion.
It's possible I'll offend some people here, and if I do, I'm truly sorry. It's just my opinion, and my impression of things.
Recently, I've attempted to order coffee now and then from McDonalds and Dunkin Donuts, which are positioning themselves (or trying to) as direct competitors with the Bux. I hear Mickey D's is even planning to hire 'baristas.' Okay.
I worked for about a half day on Sunday. I decided to treat myself to a McDonald's iced coffee (poor me! Working on a Sunday!), which probably has an absolutely sinful amount of cream and sweetener in it. I really don't need that much creamy sweetness, so I thought for once I'd attempt to ask them to cut it back a bit.
I realize I'm not at Starbucks. (which I didn't get because their coffee is stronger, and I figure I don't need the rocket fuel while pregnant.) I realize I'm not to expect custom stuff. But I thought I'd try, anyway.
I asked them how many pumps of cream and sweetener were in a large. The woman had to ask for a translation, but the answer eventually came back: Six. So I asked them to try four. (they make them when you order them, anyway -- how hard can it be?) They managed to do it -- I think -- but I heard a lot of what sounded like grumbling and glances darted back and forth about "trabajo", etc. Sigh. I realize I'm asking a bit more than you're expected to deliver. I apologize. Sort of.
That was purchased along Hwy. 50. A hard left turn onto 14th Street in D.C. resulted in my large iced coffee filling my passenger-side floor, so, like a dope, I ordered another one at a joint downtown.
Astonishingly (or not?), I had the same experience. Same semi-incredulous looks, same need for translation, same muttering about 'trabajo.'
All this is to say, good luck, McDonald's, with your barista scheme. A modest suggestion: Make sure the barista speaks fluent English, and has a good attitude.
Monday, February 25, 2008
renovations
One thing I love about my husband is that he strives to be productive, yet he knows how to relax, too. A common refrain on the weekend -- once he's out of bed -- is, "What can we get done around here this weekend?"
One of the tasks we've talked about lately is decorating Lizzy's room. We selected a few decorating pamphlets from Lowe's and took them home and studied them. Lizzy, whose favorite color is now blue for whatever reason, took to the blue Cinderella/castle-style room. With lots and lots of molding, etc. Matt resigned himself to doing a lot of work, and on Saturday, we headed to the store.
When we got there, Lizzy was captivated by a booklet for a Tinkerbell-themed room. My theory is that it's based on a preferred shade of blue (it was more of a teal, as opposed to the sky-blue of Cinderella). Matt, who doesn't really care what the room looks like but just wants his efforts to remain on the wall for at least a couple of years, seemed rather defeated by this development. After a lot of standing around and pondering, we checked out the decorative items.
Where we found ... butterflies and flowers! And pretty sparkly sheer purple curtains. We decided we'd select our own paint color, slap on a few appliques and call it good.
Which is pretty much what we ended up doing. Matt, bless him, had to be convinced that the bright shade of blue Lizzy had her eye on -- we actually talked her down from something MORE intense, believe it or not -- would work. Lizzy and I stood firm, and Matt, and his brother, Nick, knocked the room together in an afternoon/evening. Matt also added some grassy hills along the bottom of the walls.
Here's what we ended up with. Unfortunately, my camera doesn't like to pull back much, so it's impossible to capture in all its glory. Especially with a flash. You'll just have to come visit to get the full impression!
In my opinion, it's the shade of blue that's quite pleasant and cheery by day, and soothing by lamplight.
Here's a shot of Lizzy's shelf of Disney dolls -- purchased at Disneyland, eBay or Wal-Mart. Go figure.
We're not anti-Pocahontas, by the way. As far as I know, she's the only one they haven't sold in this form. But I do check eBay from time to time, just in case.
Here's Lizzy in her princess bed, where with any luck she'll actually sleep (by herself!) from now on.
Poor Matt. I'm still angling for crown molding around the top of the room. Perhaps Lizzy isn't the only princess in this house!
And one last photo, er, to grow on.
(edited to add one more, because it adds some sense of depth to the room):
One of the tasks we've talked about lately is decorating Lizzy's room. We selected a few decorating pamphlets from Lowe's and took them home and studied them. Lizzy, whose favorite color is now blue for whatever reason, took to the blue Cinderella/castle-style room. With lots and lots of molding, etc. Matt resigned himself to doing a lot of work, and on Saturday, we headed to the store.
When we got there, Lizzy was captivated by a booklet for a Tinkerbell-themed room. My theory is that it's based on a preferred shade of blue (it was more of a teal, as opposed to the sky-blue of Cinderella). Matt, who doesn't really care what the room looks like but just wants his efforts to remain on the wall for at least a couple of years, seemed rather defeated by this development. After a lot of standing around and pondering, we checked out the decorative items.
Where we found ... butterflies and flowers! And pretty sparkly sheer purple curtains. We decided we'd select our own paint color, slap on a few appliques and call it good.
Which is pretty much what we ended up doing. Matt, bless him, had to be convinced that the bright shade of blue Lizzy had her eye on -- we actually talked her down from something MORE intense, believe it or not -- would work. Lizzy and I stood firm, and Matt, and his brother, Nick, knocked the room together in an afternoon/evening. Matt also added some grassy hills along the bottom of the walls.
Here's what we ended up with. Unfortunately, my camera doesn't like to pull back much, so it's impossible to capture in all its glory. Especially with a flash. You'll just have to come visit to get the full impression!
In my opinion, it's the shade of blue that's quite pleasant and cheery by day, and soothing by lamplight.
Here's a shot of Lizzy's shelf of Disney dolls -- purchased at Disneyland, eBay or Wal-Mart. Go figure.
We're not anti-Pocahontas, by the way. As far as I know, she's the only one they haven't sold in this form. But I do check eBay from time to time, just in case.
Here's Lizzy in her princess bed, where with any luck she'll actually sleep (by herself!) from now on.
Poor Matt. I'm still angling for crown molding around the top of the room. Perhaps Lizzy isn't the only princess in this house!
And one last photo, er, to grow on.
(edited to add one more, because it adds some sense of depth to the room):
Thursday, February 21, 2008
alive and kickin'
I'm convinced I've been feeling the baby move since Sunday night. I thought I had previously, but it always turned out to be, uh, just my own gut. But this is really low (where the baby seems to be, judging from the location of the heartbeat during my last checkup, and my bladder situation), and seems to fit the general parameters of 'baby, not me.'
I get excited each time I think it's happening, and put my hand on my lower abdomen, hoping to feel the movement from 'outside.' But I never seem to. Alas, too much padding is in the way.
Last Thursday, I got a very exciting phone message. I've been a little embarrassed to talk about it on the blog, because it feels like I'm putting more value on certain ("healthy") kinds of people than others, and I certainly don't mean to. But any complications I can do without, I'm happy to. So I'll just report that I did opt to have the triple screen (blood test), and the results were resoundingly negative. Which means they were good. 1 in 460 for Downs syndrome, 1 in 5,000 for some other thing (trisomy something or other?), and negative for spina bifida.
I gave the hugest sigh of relief after hearing that. For some reason, I was convinced I'd be dealing with a situation like that. So-called 'healthy' kids are their own kind of handful, but ... is it wrong to feel good about that?
One more week until we (might) find out the gender. I can't give solid reasons for feeling this way, but I'll be shocked if it's not a boy.
I get excited each time I think it's happening, and put my hand on my lower abdomen, hoping to feel the movement from 'outside.' But I never seem to. Alas, too much padding is in the way.
Last Thursday, I got a very exciting phone message. I've been a little embarrassed to talk about it on the blog, because it feels like I'm putting more value on certain ("healthy") kinds of people than others, and I certainly don't mean to. But any complications I can do without, I'm happy to. So I'll just report that I did opt to have the triple screen (blood test), and the results were resoundingly negative. Which means they were good. 1 in 460 for Downs syndrome, 1 in 5,000 for some other thing (trisomy something or other?), and negative for spina bifida.
I gave the hugest sigh of relief after hearing that. For some reason, I was convinced I'd be dealing with a situation like that. So-called 'healthy' kids are their own kind of handful, but ... is it wrong to feel good about that?
One more week until we (might) find out the gender. I can't give solid reasons for feeling this way, but I'll be shocked if it's not a boy.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
apparently, I control the weather
I just stepped outside, and was relieved to see that it was indeed snowing. Fat, feathery flakes were floating down and starting to coat things like trees and statues.
I told Lizzy this morning that it might snow today. Lizzy -- who has declared that her favorite weather is 'snowy' -- got really excited. She wanted to make sure we went to school today (uh, yyyyeah) because she missed out on the snow-playing last time (we had to stay home sick, coincidentally). And the next day, she wore her sparkly princess shoes and her teachers wouldn't let her play in the non-covered areas of the playground.
I reminded her of this, and convinced her to wear her tennis shoes.
But boy, would I have been in trouble if it hadn't snowed. A missed opportunity to wear princess shoes is a VERY serious matter. And I don't think I could hide behind any flimsy 'I said MAYBE it would snow!' logic.
Oh, in other Lizzy-isms: last night, she asked Matt and me, at about 7:50, if we could watch American Idol that night. We generously acquiesced.
ha HA. The brainwashing is complete!
I told Lizzy this morning that it might snow today. Lizzy -- who has declared that her favorite weather is 'snowy' -- got really excited. She wanted to make sure we went to school today (uh, yyyyeah) because she missed out on the snow-playing last time (we had to stay home sick, coincidentally). And the next day, she wore her sparkly princess shoes and her teachers wouldn't let her play in the non-covered areas of the playground.
I reminded her of this, and convinced her to wear her tennis shoes.
But boy, would I have been in trouble if it hadn't snowed. A missed opportunity to wear princess shoes is a VERY serious matter. And I don't think I could hide behind any flimsy 'I said MAYBE it would snow!' logic.
Oh, in other Lizzy-isms: last night, she asked Matt and me, at about 7:50, if we could watch American Idol that night. We generously acquiesced.
ha HA. The brainwashing is complete!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
United 93
Most of the movies I see these days are at least a year or two old. That's not accidental -- it's so much easier to record a movie from the many, many movie channels we receive, courtesy of the father in law in the basement, than it would be to actually GET OUT TO A MOVIE. It's pretty much gotta be a summer-type blockbuster or a kids' movie for me to be able to go. (Juno recently was a huge exception. It's the only Best Picture nominee I've seen.) I mean, I COULD go -- don't mean to make it sound like my husband locks me up. But it's kind of not worth the effort, most of the time. And Matt's not really keen to see Atonement, you know?
I've wanted to see United 93 for some time. I heard excellent things about it when it came out (2006). On one hand, do I want to relive 9/11? Not that it was specifically tragic for me, but, you know. Quite the emotional wringer. On the other hand, rumored to be a really well-done movie. My respect for director Paul Greengrass is growing with each movie I see of his -- Bourne Ultimatum, baby! -- so Matt and I watched United 93 last night.
And it was REALLY good. Really well-done. Unlike most other movies about traumatic occurrences, in that it didn't rely on most of the tried-and-true crutches directors love to use to wring emotions out of the viewers. The music was quite subdued. I was surprised at what Greengrass DIDN'T show -- Matt and I missed the first 15 or so minutes, but basically, all we saw were the folks on the flight (and NOT constant shots of their families clutching each other in their living rooms at home, or anything like that) and dudes in various airline control centers. Many of whom played THEMSELVES, I noticed with surprise at the end of the movie. The terrorists didn't look particularly evil, really. I would've taken the main dude for a rather sensitive soul, aside from the monobrow, and one of the others must've been about 19. We saw the footage of the second plane crashing into the World Trade Center, but not the first one, because no one really saw that. And we didn't see the towers fall. Because those weren't relevant elements to the story being told. Commendable. The director obviously tried really hard to show us just what was known. No extra drama -- does this story really need it? We did get a muffled 'C'mon! Let's roll!' at one point, but it wasn't nearly as overly dramatic as I was expecting.
I also found it interesting -- maybe this was known, but I hadn't heard it -- that the people on the plane were, yes, heroes, and were, yes, trying to stop the terrorists once they caught on that they were on a suicide mission, so what was there to lose? -- but the passengers also seemed to have a hope that they would get an undercover pilot up to the cockpit and somehow survive. I guess I appreciate the fact that it wasn't ENTIRELY altruistic on the part of the passengers. They were, in fact, really regular people. Many weren't involved in the charge at all. Shades of gray.
Greengrass is one of the shaky-cam masters -- something I have up until now held against him. But he used it with effectiveness here. Maybe it was because I was home, not in a movie theater, but it didn't make me ill, nor was it too distracting. And how else DO you show a bunch of people charging terrorists in a cockpit? No other way, that's how. I don't know how much more effective a 'movie ends with a fade to black' could possibly be.
Another aspect of the movie that really struck me was the religious fervor. Mostly of the terrorists, as you might imagine. I think if I'd seen this movie 20 years ago, I would've had a very different reaction. Seeing it now made me realize that many see Christians not too differently than I was seeing these misguided souls. (for clarity, I refer here to the specific attitudes of these men, not that of their religion as a whole.) That they thought they were hearing from God. That they thought killing would send them to heaven, and would be God's will. It's absolutely insane. And yet I feel like I'm frequently hearing people warp Christianity in much the same ways -- usually falling short of killing people, it's true. It's just so easy to get caught up in a Cause, instead of in God himself. I can understand why the Christian faith makes so many so uneasy. (for instance, many voters who hear a candidate speak specifically of his faith.)
Toward the end, there's a touching scene where the terrorists, who are now flying the plane, realize that the people in the back know what's going on, and yet they still have 20 or so minutes until they arrive at their target. That their fake bomb and clever plan are probably not going to work. The 'pilot' is sitting there, gripping the wheel (or whatever it's called), sweating profusely, praying desperately to Allah for help. Then you're shown the people in the back of the plane, with a death grip on the arms of their seats or someone else's hand, reciting the Lord's prayer (individually, but many are doing it) for all they're worth.
In the end, it seems we all believe in something.
It's the sort of movie that doesn't overdramatize, but still makes you want to call your loved ones and tell them, 'I love you -- that's all I wanted to say.' And realize how lucky you are that you will be living another day.
I've wanted to see United 93 for some time. I heard excellent things about it when it came out (2006). On one hand, do I want to relive 9/11? Not that it was specifically tragic for me, but, you know. Quite the emotional wringer. On the other hand, rumored to be a really well-done movie. My respect for director Paul Greengrass is growing with each movie I see of his -- Bourne Ultimatum, baby! -- so Matt and I watched United 93 last night.
And it was REALLY good. Really well-done. Unlike most other movies about traumatic occurrences, in that it didn't rely on most of the tried-and-true crutches directors love to use to wring emotions out of the viewers. The music was quite subdued. I was surprised at what Greengrass DIDN'T show -- Matt and I missed the first 15 or so minutes, but basically, all we saw were the folks on the flight (and NOT constant shots of their families clutching each other in their living rooms at home, or anything like that) and dudes in various airline control centers. Many of whom played THEMSELVES, I noticed with surprise at the end of the movie. The terrorists didn't look particularly evil, really. I would've taken the main dude for a rather sensitive soul, aside from the monobrow, and one of the others must've been about 19. We saw the footage of the second plane crashing into the World Trade Center, but not the first one, because no one really saw that. And we didn't see the towers fall. Because those weren't relevant elements to the story being told. Commendable. The director obviously tried really hard to show us just what was known. No extra drama -- does this story really need it? We did get a muffled 'C'mon! Let's roll!' at one point, but it wasn't nearly as overly dramatic as I was expecting.
I also found it interesting -- maybe this was known, but I hadn't heard it -- that the people on the plane were, yes, heroes, and were, yes, trying to stop the terrorists once they caught on that they were on a suicide mission, so what was there to lose? -- but the passengers also seemed to have a hope that they would get an undercover pilot up to the cockpit and somehow survive. I guess I appreciate the fact that it wasn't ENTIRELY altruistic on the part of the passengers. They were, in fact, really regular people. Many weren't involved in the charge at all. Shades of gray.
Greengrass is one of the shaky-cam masters -- something I have up until now held against him. But he used it with effectiveness here. Maybe it was because I was home, not in a movie theater, but it didn't make me ill, nor was it too distracting. And how else DO you show a bunch of people charging terrorists in a cockpit? No other way, that's how. I don't know how much more effective a 'movie ends with a fade to black' could possibly be.
Another aspect of the movie that really struck me was the religious fervor. Mostly of the terrorists, as you might imagine. I think if I'd seen this movie 20 years ago, I would've had a very different reaction. Seeing it now made me realize that many see Christians not too differently than I was seeing these misguided souls. (for clarity, I refer here to the specific attitudes of these men, not that of their religion as a whole.) That they thought they were hearing from God. That they thought killing would send them to heaven, and would be God's will. It's absolutely insane. And yet I feel like I'm frequently hearing people warp Christianity in much the same ways -- usually falling short of killing people, it's true. It's just so easy to get caught up in a Cause, instead of in God himself. I can understand why the Christian faith makes so many so uneasy. (for instance, many voters who hear a candidate speak specifically of his faith.)
Toward the end, there's a touching scene where the terrorists, who are now flying the plane, realize that the people in the back know what's going on, and yet they still have 20 or so minutes until they arrive at their target. That their fake bomb and clever plan are probably not going to work. The 'pilot' is sitting there, gripping the wheel (or whatever it's called), sweating profusely, praying desperately to Allah for help. Then you're shown the people in the back of the plane, with a death grip on the arms of their seats or someone else's hand, reciting the Lord's prayer (individually, but many are doing it) for all they're worth.
In the end, it seems we all believe in something.
It's the sort of movie that doesn't overdramatize, but still makes you want to call your loved ones and tell them, 'I love you -- that's all I wanted to say.' And realize how lucky you are that you will be living another day.
Friday, February 08, 2008
recent Lizzy questions
"Is God the boss? I say he's not, but Shefali (Indian friend of Lizzy's in her kindergarten class; not sure of her religious persuasion) says he is. Who's right?"
"How does God put together new people?"
"What was the first day like?" ("the first day of what?" "The whole world.")
Time to get out the children's storybook Bible. It'll mean 50 more questions for each one, of course. And I'm cool with that as relates to Adam and Eve, but I'm not so sure where to go with, say, the Noah story.
Darn my church, anyway. Aren't churches supposed to have Sunday school lessons, so we parents don't have to deal with this kind of stuff?
(I'm JOKING, I'm joking ...)
"How does God put together new people?"
"What was the first day like?" ("the first day of what?" "The whole world.")
Time to get out the children's storybook Bible. It'll mean 50 more questions for each one, of course. And I'm cool with that as relates to Adam and Eve, but I'm not so sure where to go with, say, the Noah story.
Darn my church, anyway. Aren't churches supposed to have Sunday school lessons, so we parents don't have to deal with this kind of stuff?
(I'm JOKING, I'm joking ...)
baby update
I had a monthly checkup yesterday. I continue to have nagging doubts about the birth facility, but I still maintain that it’s not all that hard (though it can be really freaking painful, don’t get me wrong!) to pop out a kid, so I want the place most likely to just shut up and get out of the way when the time comes. Meaning I’m still not keen on a hospital. So to the present facility I will continue to go.
If you've lost count, as I seem to, I'm at about 17 weeks now. I'm going ahead and declaring myself to be 'four months pregnant,' though that's probably not strictly true for another week at least.
We took my blood pressure – nice and low, which is somewhat amazing considering my absolute lack of exercise; we took my weight – I have somehow managed to gain NINE pounds in the past four weeks, which isn’t at all surprising considering my absolute lack of exercise; and we checked for a fetal heartbeat, which, for a scary minute or two (scary for me, anyway), we couldn’t find. But then we did! And all seemed well.
I also decided to have the blood screening test for whatever birth defects the test covers. I wasn't going to, but the lady I talked to was saying it can be nice to get back a 'negative' result (which probably means negative). But even if you get a 'positive' result, it often also means negative, which is why I wasn't going to get the thing done in the first place. Ugh. I'll just hope for a negative result, and try not to worry if I don't get one. I so don't want an ultrasound, though. I just don't.
If I haven’t mentioned this yet, I have a sonogram scheduled for the morning of Feb. 28. Check back here on that day for an educated guess as to gender, or some teeth-gnashing over the fact that my child already appears to be shy about his/her baby bits.
If you've lost count, as I seem to, I'm at about 17 weeks now. I'm going ahead and declaring myself to be 'four months pregnant,' though that's probably not strictly true for another week at least.
We took my blood pressure – nice and low, which is somewhat amazing considering my absolute lack of exercise; we took my weight – I have somehow managed to gain NINE pounds in the past four weeks, which isn’t at all surprising considering my absolute lack of exercise; and we checked for a fetal heartbeat, which, for a scary minute or two (scary for me, anyway), we couldn’t find. But then we did! And all seemed well.
I also decided to have the blood screening test for whatever birth defects the test covers. I wasn't going to, but the lady I talked to was saying it can be nice to get back a 'negative' result (which probably means negative). But even if you get a 'positive' result, it often also means negative, which is why I wasn't going to get the thing done in the first place. Ugh. I'll just hope for a negative result, and try not to worry if I don't get one. I so don't want an ultrasound, though. I just don't.
If I haven’t mentioned this yet, I have a sonogram scheduled for the morning of Feb. 28. Check back here on that day for an educated guess as to gender, or some teeth-gnashing over the fact that my child already appears to be shy about his/her baby bits.
Return of the unwanted guest
As I might have mentioned in passing, our squirrel friend is back in the attic. This time around, I know what the skittering noise above my head in the middle of the night is, which helps a bit. It was the gnawing that I heard as I slept Monday morning that concerned me. I kept envisioning one of the support beams in the attic crashing through the ceiling onto my head after being chewed in half. Do squirrels have to sharpen their teeth like beavers? I’m just not certain.
I’ve been asking Matt to brave the wilds of our attic once again – this time well knowing what lies in wait – so we can at least assess the degree of damage.
Last night was the night. (I really must attach a photo of Matt dressed in his battle gear.) Matt suited up in a padded, hooded jacket, looking not unlike a camouflaged version of ‘South Park’s’ Kenny, and prepared a squirrel trap, which we had purchased in the anti-squirrel fever of last year. Honestly, I would’ve gone up there, but I had visions of getting bitten by the squirrel, having to have a rabies shot, and what that might dot to the kiddo in the womb. I’m sure that Matt wouldn’t have accepted that assault to his manhood, anyway. This is man’s work! Raaahhh!
So, up Matt went, bearing his gift/lure of peanut butter, apple slices and granola. I looked on, a bit hungrily, I’ll admit (that’s a darned good little snack!), and stood at the base of the ladder with a towel just in case the little bugger slipped past him and down into the house. Hey, you never know what they’re capable of!
When he got up there and all seemed quiet on the attic front, I climbed the ladder myself and stuck my head up into the space. No squirrel, no noise. I asked Matt if he saw any gnawed-on beams; it seems the chewing had been the shredding of a sheet of cardboard the squirrel had found up there. Matt pointed out a big pile of fluffy insulation against an outer wall. It appeared to have a tunnel leading into it. Hmmm.
He gingerly made his way over to it, gnawed-upon cardboard strip in hand.
“What’s in there?” we asked each other. “Check it out!” I said. “See if there are any babies in it.”
So Matt leaned closer and flipped up a corner of the fluff with his cardboard strip. I thought he was being a bit overly cautious; surely the mama or papa squirrel wasn’t there, or we would have heard it by now!
Right on cue, a full-sized, bushy-tailed grayish squirrel sprang from the pile and dashed at Matt. It whipped around (or over?) him a time or two, then bounced from beam to beam across the attic. I won’t tell you what phrase Matt kept repeating, but suffice it to say, I was glad Lizzy was downstairs and couldn’t hear him.
Reacting quickly (I thought), I hoofed it down the ladder and pulled it down after me. The last thing I wanted – well, besides any harm coming to Matt – was that squirrel having an easy escape route down the ladder and into the rest of the house!
In his moment of excitement, Matt did well not to step between the beams. He managed to make it to the attic entrance, and exclaimed in a tone of shock and horror, “WHERE IS THE LADDER? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
“Well, I don’t want the squirrel getting down!” I said.
“Don’t you want ME to get down? PUT THE LADDER BACK UP.”
Oh. Okay.
Matt says that when he told this story at work today, the removal of the ladder was everyone’s favorite part. But I think it was a fairly logical thing to do! I imagine it has something to do with the telling of the story.
So we definitely have a squirrel, and a nest, and probably babies, in the attic. And a trap, as well. We’ll see tomorrow morning, when Matt ventures up there again, if the trap worked (probably not), or if we’ll just have to wait until the squirrels vacate in a couple of months and then wire-mesh the place up like Fort Knox.
And to think I’ve always liked squirrels.
I’ve been asking Matt to brave the wilds of our attic once again – this time well knowing what lies in wait – so we can at least assess the degree of damage.
Last night was the night. (I really must attach a photo of Matt dressed in his battle gear.) Matt suited up in a padded, hooded jacket, looking not unlike a camouflaged version of ‘South Park’s’ Kenny, and prepared a squirrel trap, which we had purchased in the anti-squirrel fever of last year. Honestly, I would’ve gone up there, but I had visions of getting bitten by the squirrel, having to have a rabies shot, and what that might dot to the kiddo in the womb. I’m sure that Matt wouldn’t have accepted that assault to his manhood, anyway. This is man’s work! Raaahhh!
So, up Matt went, bearing his gift/lure of peanut butter, apple slices and granola. I looked on, a bit hungrily, I’ll admit (that’s a darned good little snack!), and stood at the base of the ladder with a towel just in case the little bugger slipped past him and down into the house. Hey, you never know what they’re capable of!
When he got up there and all seemed quiet on the attic front, I climbed the ladder myself and stuck my head up into the space. No squirrel, no noise. I asked Matt if he saw any gnawed-on beams; it seems the chewing had been the shredding of a sheet of cardboard the squirrel had found up there. Matt pointed out a big pile of fluffy insulation against an outer wall. It appeared to have a tunnel leading into it. Hmmm.
He gingerly made his way over to it, gnawed-upon cardboard strip in hand.
“What’s in there?” we asked each other. “Check it out!” I said. “See if there are any babies in it.”
So Matt leaned closer and flipped up a corner of the fluff with his cardboard strip. I thought he was being a bit overly cautious; surely the mama or papa squirrel wasn’t there, or we would have heard it by now!
Right on cue, a full-sized, bushy-tailed grayish squirrel sprang from the pile and dashed at Matt. It whipped around (or over?) him a time or two, then bounced from beam to beam across the attic. I won’t tell you what phrase Matt kept repeating, but suffice it to say, I was glad Lizzy was downstairs and couldn’t hear him.
Reacting quickly (I thought), I hoofed it down the ladder and pulled it down after me. The last thing I wanted – well, besides any harm coming to Matt – was that squirrel having an easy escape route down the ladder and into the rest of the house!
In his moment of excitement, Matt did well not to step between the beams. He managed to make it to the attic entrance, and exclaimed in a tone of shock and horror, “WHERE IS THE LADDER? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
“Well, I don’t want the squirrel getting down!” I said.
“Don’t you want ME to get down? PUT THE LADDER BACK UP.”
Oh. Okay.
Matt says that when he told this story at work today, the removal of the ladder was everyone’s favorite part. But I think it was a fairly logical thing to do! I imagine it has something to do with the telling of the story.
So we definitely have a squirrel, and a nest, and probably babies, in the attic. And a trap, as well. We’ll see tomorrow morning, when Matt ventures up there again, if the trap worked (probably not), or if we’ll just have to wait until the squirrels vacate in a couple of months and then wire-mesh the place up like Fort Knox.
And to think I’ve always liked squirrels.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
weekend trip
I took my last trip of any distance for awhile this past weekend. My dear grandma Dorothy – my mother’s mother – turned 90 on Sunday, and my aunt planned and executed a wonderful party and fitting tribute to an amazing lady on Saturday. (I’m trying to curb my use of the word ‘amazing,’ but with my grandma, it just seems to fit. In a quiet, understated way, if that’s possible.)
Matt decided he could spare the vacation time this time around, and came along, which was wonderful. Lizzy and I both really enjoyed being with him. And Lizzy was in raptures, playing with her five girl cousins for two whole days. My brother and his family ended up staying at the same motel where we, and my parents, were, so it was one big jolly family occasion. Seriously, good times. The tiny indoor pool could’ve definitely been warmer – I kept returning to the hot tub (I know! Verboten for the pregnant ladies!) for relief, but then I’d have to get back into the semi-frigid waters to play with Lizzy. Naturally, the intermittent change of temps only made it worse.
Grandma’s party was great. We congregated at the Methodist church that Grandma has attended for decades – where I was baptized, and where my parents were married. It did me good to see the next generation of little ones “exploring” the back hallways and slightly creepy choir rehearsal rooms, etc. Lizzy and her cousins had a blast. I didn’t see them sliding down the banisters, which I seem to remember doing with my cousins when we thought no adults were looking. The party was better attended than a family reunion would have been; Grandma’s one of those people you just want to honor. She has a peaceful, wise way about her, yet she’s also quite funny, and if you’re playing cards with her (a favorite pastime), you know she’s fiercely competitive. She’s content with her lot, and yet not one to let opportunities pass her by – my parents and I accompanied her (and others from her church) to Israel seven years ago. Man – a lot has happened in those seven years.
Another aunt of mine made some great food, and we got an opportunity to share favorite memories of Dorothy. I loved hearing what others had to say about my grandma, and realized with a bit of surprise that others cherish and appreciate her as much as I do. What a neat legacy. Matt got a kick out of seeing lots of photos of me in my youth, adolescence and young adulthood. (blech on all counts – I’ve looked my best when eight and younger, and 22 and older. In my humble opinion. Naturally, most of the photos he saw fell in between those times.) I loved the photos of my grandma and grandpa, looking young and glamorous (grandma), and young and less follicularly challenged (grandpa).
Aside from the party, and Matt inexplicably walking into the women’s bathroom during our post-birthday party meal at a fancy-ish restaurant (“I was wondering why there weren’t any urinals!”), and Lizzy and the cousins attempting to feed dinner rolls to the decorative koi at the same restaurant, the visit was nicely uneventful and low-key. I was cringing in fear of political conversations and the like, but for the most part, we were controversy-free. Matt kept exclaiming how much he loved the weather. The wet, gray weather so typical of the Seattle area in winter. “Kinda cold, though,” he said. “Yeah, well, it IS February,” I responded. Why on earth must I be with a man who allegedly loves wet, gray skies, and yet wants to live in Virginia? Something seems distinctly unfair about that.
The trips to and fro, though – now, those were a different story. I pretty much expect the worst when I fly, especially cross-country, but there was at least one new low this time around. Three of our four planes were delayed – in one case, by three hours – but again, that’s pretty much expected. Our luggage all arrived in both directions; we did manage to get seats together (we flew Southwest, so I got us into the earliest boarding group); we had some stomach-churning turbulence at one point when landing in Las Vegas on the return trip, but we survived it. Lizzy’s DVD player never died. All good things.
On the way there, we managed to depart Chicago despite snowfall – a big relief. Someone on the plane, though, was a bit too relieved, so to speak. An elderly lady had apparently been having tummy troubles for ‘two or three days’ (so I later overheard), but thought she’d go ahead and get on the plane anyway. Ten minutes into the flight (and at times throughout), she had acute diarrhea. I am here to attest that the flight attendants did their best with the situation, but there’s only so much one can do. So, for 4 ½ hours, we inhaled horrid fumes. Now again, I expect lots of sensory assault when I fly, but I never thought it’d be quite this bad. Folks, when you’re sick, please don’t fly. Please. A plea from me to you. And she was throwing up, too, in the later stages of the flight. I was insanely grateful that I was in the second, not first, trimester of pregnancy, because my sense of supersmell has been blunted somewhat. Otherwise, I’d probably have been throwing up along with her.
On the way back, we had what was supposed to be a four-hour layover in Vegas. Sweet!! I figured we couldn’t let it go to waste. A later-than-advertised start out of Seattle meant that our time was cut into somewhat, but we bombed out of the airport anyway to see what we could see. Matt spent a few days there in 2006 with his friends, so he relished the opportunity to show us around a bit. We wandered through the Venetian – Lizzy was impressed with the ceiling that looked like clouds. I was a little more sickened by the gambling atmosphere than I expected. But fascinated by the surroundings in general. We took as quick a stroll up the street as we could – we were aiming for the Bellagio, where Matt thought the FAO Schwartz store was, but we couldn’t find it (we were told it was at Caesar’s Palace, actually) and had to scurry back to the airport. It’s the only city in America, I’ll bet, in which the blocks seem longer than in D.C.
It was a weird, windy, slightly rainy day in Vegas. The Super Bowl started during our layover, and Matt was trying to avoid contact with it. Which made me laugh, because loudspeakers were booming out the play-by-play from bars on the street. It surely cleared the place out! The weird little guys handing out pamphlets advertising callgirls didn’t have many other people to thrust them at. I got a kick out of seeing them handed to men who were walking down the street with their girlfriends or wives. We were toting a kid in a stroller, so they didn’t seem overly interested in us, but some tried just the same. Yyyyeah.
All in all, it seemed like a sweet place. Expensive, though, even if one wasn’t inclined to gamble. Sometime in our future (post-kid) life, I’ll have to get Matt to take me back.
So we rushed back to the airport, only to sit for another 2 ½ hours. Yawn. Lizzy behaved beautifully, thank goodness. Matt gave up on avoiding the Super Bowl and watched along with almost everyone else waiting at our gate. So we had football, crowds of tired, impatient travelers and the beeple-twinkle noises of slot machines in the background. Gotta be the most bizarre setting in which either of us has ever watched a football game.
Interestingly, the plane finally arrived and began to board right after the last, futile Patriot drive – one second remained in the game. We enjoyed the spirit of camaraderie with the other would-be passengers, most of whom seemed to be rooting on the Giants (as were we, mildly). We had the advantage of a five-second leap ahead of the people down the hallway, for some reason. We’d let out a big whoop, then hear a corresponding, delayed roar from farther away. I figured we were spoiling it for them a bit. Oh, well. At least they knew when to pay attention.
Good thing Matt got to watch, because our DVR pooped out on the final two minutes of the game. AND the House episode afterward! I’m most displeased about that. I saw my last fresh House last night. No more until everyone pulls themselves together post-writers’ strike. My coworker brought me up to speed, but man, it sounded like an absolute classic.
So here we are, still struggling with jetlag (Lizzy most of all), trying to stay awake during the days and get to sleep at nights. All worth it, though. Well worth it!
Matt decided he could spare the vacation time this time around, and came along, which was wonderful. Lizzy and I both really enjoyed being with him. And Lizzy was in raptures, playing with her five girl cousins for two whole days. My brother and his family ended up staying at the same motel where we, and my parents, were, so it was one big jolly family occasion. Seriously, good times. The tiny indoor pool could’ve definitely been warmer – I kept returning to the hot tub (I know! Verboten for the pregnant ladies!) for relief, but then I’d have to get back into the semi-frigid waters to play with Lizzy. Naturally, the intermittent change of temps only made it worse.
Grandma’s party was great. We congregated at the Methodist church that Grandma has attended for decades – where I was baptized, and where my parents were married. It did me good to see the next generation of little ones “exploring” the back hallways and slightly creepy choir rehearsal rooms, etc. Lizzy and her cousins had a blast. I didn’t see them sliding down the banisters, which I seem to remember doing with my cousins when we thought no adults were looking. The party was better attended than a family reunion would have been; Grandma’s one of those people you just want to honor. She has a peaceful, wise way about her, yet she’s also quite funny, and if you’re playing cards with her (a favorite pastime), you know she’s fiercely competitive. She’s content with her lot, and yet not one to let opportunities pass her by – my parents and I accompanied her (and others from her church) to Israel seven years ago. Man – a lot has happened in those seven years.
Another aunt of mine made some great food, and we got an opportunity to share favorite memories of Dorothy. I loved hearing what others had to say about my grandma, and realized with a bit of surprise that others cherish and appreciate her as much as I do. What a neat legacy. Matt got a kick out of seeing lots of photos of me in my youth, adolescence and young adulthood. (blech on all counts – I’ve looked my best when eight and younger, and 22 and older. In my humble opinion. Naturally, most of the photos he saw fell in between those times.) I loved the photos of my grandma and grandpa, looking young and glamorous (grandma), and young and less follicularly challenged (grandpa).
Aside from the party, and Matt inexplicably walking into the women’s bathroom during our post-birthday party meal at a fancy-ish restaurant (“I was wondering why there weren’t any urinals!”), and Lizzy and the cousins attempting to feed dinner rolls to the decorative koi at the same restaurant, the visit was nicely uneventful and low-key. I was cringing in fear of political conversations and the like, but for the most part, we were controversy-free. Matt kept exclaiming how much he loved the weather. The wet, gray weather so typical of the Seattle area in winter. “Kinda cold, though,” he said. “Yeah, well, it IS February,” I responded. Why on earth must I be with a man who allegedly loves wet, gray skies, and yet wants to live in Virginia? Something seems distinctly unfair about that.
The trips to and fro, though – now, those were a different story. I pretty much expect the worst when I fly, especially cross-country, but there was at least one new low this time around. Three of our four planes were delayed – in one case, by three hours – but again, that’s pretty much expected. Our luggage all arrived in both directions; we did manage to get seats together (we flew Southwest, so I got us into the earliest boarding group); we had some stomach-churning turbulence at one point when landing in Las Vegas on the return trip, but we survived it. Lizzy’s DVD player never died. All good things.
On the way there, we managed to depart Chicago despite snowfall – a big relief. Someone on the plane, though, was a bit too relieved, so to speak. An elderly lady had apparently been having tummy troubles for ‘two or three days’ (so I later overheard), but thought she’d go ahead and get on the plane anyway. Ten minutes into the flight (and at times throughout), she had acute diarrhea. I am here to attest that the flight attendants did their best with the situation, but there’s only so much one can do. So, for 4 ½ hours, we inhaled horrid fumes. Now again, I expect lots of sensory assault when I fly, but I never thought it’d be quite this bad. Folks, when you’re sick, please don’t fly. Please. A plea from me to you. And she was throwing up, too, in the later stages of the flight. I was insanely grateful that I was in the second, not first, trimester of pregnancy, because my sense of supersmell has been blunted somewhat. Otherwise, I’d probably have been throwing up along with her.
On the way back, we had what was supposed to be a four-hour layover in Vegas. Sweet!! I figured we couldn’t let it go to waste. A later-than-advertised start out of Seattle meant that our time was cut into somewhat, but we bombed out of the airport anyway to see what we could see. Matt spent a few days there in 2006 with his friends, so he relished the opportunity to show us around a bit. We wandered through the Venetian – Lizzy was impressed with the ceiling that looked like clouds. I was a little more sickened by the gambling atmosphere than I expected. But fascinated by the surroundings in general. We took as quick a stroll up the street as we could – we were aiming for the Bellagio, where Matt thought the FAO Schwartz store was, but we couldn’t find it (we were told it was at Caesar’s Palace, actually) and had to scurry back to the airport. It’s the only city in America, I’ll bet, in which the blocks seem longer than in D.C.
It was a weird, windy, slightly rainy day in Vegas. The Super Bowl started during our layover, and Matt was trying to avoid contact with it. Which made me laugh, because loudspeakers were booming out the play-by-play from bars on the street. It surely cleared the place out! The weird little guys handing out pamphlets advertising callgirls didn’t have many other people to thrust them at. I got a kick out of seeing them handed to men who were walking down the street with their girlfriends or wives. We were toting a kid in a stroller, so they didn’t seem overly interested in us, but some tried just the same. Yyyyeah.
All in all, it seemed like a sweet place. Expensive, though, even if one wasn’t inclined to gamble. Sometime in our future (post-kid) life, I’ll have to get Matt to take me back.
So we rushed back to the airport, only to sit for another 2 ½ hours. Yawn. Lizzy behaved beautifully, thank goodness. Matt gave up on avoiding the Super Bowl and watched along with almost everyone else waiting at our gate. So we had football, crowds of tired, impatient travelers and the beeple-twinkle noises of slot machines in the background. Gotta be the most bizarre setting in which either of us has ever watched a football game.
Interestingly, the plane finally arrived and began to board right after the last, futile Patriot drive – one second remained in the game. We enjoyed the spirit of camaraderie with the other would-be passengers, most of whom seemed to be rooting on the Giants (as were we, mildly). We had the advantage of a five-second leap ahead of the people down the hallway, for some reason. We’d let out a big whoop, then hear a corresponding, delayed roar from farther away. I figured we were spoiling it for them a bit. Oh, well. At least they knew when to pay attention.
Good thing Matt got to watch, because our DVR pooped out on the final two minutes of the game. AND the House episode afterward! I’m most displeased about that. I saw my last fresh House last night. No more until everyone pulls themselves together post-writers’ strike. My coworker brought me up to speed, but man, it sounded like an absolute classic.
So here we are, still struggling with jetlag (Lizzy most of all), trying to stay awake during the days and get to sleep at nights. All worth it, though. Well worth it!
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