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.
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