May 12th, 2008 | 3 Comments »
  • I love the donation trucks that make their rounds. Simply leave a pile of stuff on the front step, and vamoose! It’s gone. Now, if only I could get the pack rat Mr. Gadget to go through his clothes and donate things he doesn’t use. If only.
  • A word of caution to anybody who might try to locate plastic pants or vinyl pants or diaper covers via Google. Ummmmm, there are some interesting people out there. And I have yet to find any smaller than adult x-small and larger than 4T (I bought a truckload of the latter, and squeezed Mr. Peebody in to one pair, one time, several months ago). Hello, are there not people who weigh over 50lbs* and under 100lbs who need some night time moisture leakage assistance? I am about to embark on a DIY project, and make my own.
  • Same Mr. Peebody is going through some sort of a phase. He’s 3-1/3rd now, and is behaving in a ‘clingy’ way, whining, insisting on sleeping in the big bed with us (to which I’ve caved all weekend, bad mama, bad, bad mama), and this morning the tears and anguish at being left at daycare. Oh, the drama. I haven’t seen that drama for months. So why now?**
  • The smell of tooth being ground away by the dentist’s drill is eerie and awful, if smells can be eerie. Not having searing shooting spasms when making contact with food or beverage, hot or cold, sweet or savory, makes it all worth it. One can hope.
  • Mother’s Day is convenient for coercing husbands to help pull weeds from the garden.
  • Relaxin’ when in the context of chillin’ and kickin’ back is a good thing. Relaxin, in the context of that hormone that helps loosen ligaments and joints in order to prepare for a journey through the birth canal, when produced in over-abundance, is not the most pleasant of things. Only 23 weeks in and already saddled (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha) with pelvic pain. When I stand, I have to be still for a moment before I can actually walk. At only 23 weeks. I’m fairly certain I’ll be a waddler this time too. Oh, the joy.***


*The average 3-1/3rd year old is not over 50lbs, does not wear size 5 –not 5T–, going on size 6, and does not wear size 12 shoes.

**Of course, it seldom helps that MIL somehow ALWAYS manages to make a comment about him being ‘left’ in the care of others. Without fail. I ignore it as though I don’t hear it, but I do hear it. Every. Single. Time. Loud. And. Clear. And now I wonder if he happened to hear it to. Thank you so much, dear MIL.

***NOT COMPLAINING!!! In the greater context of life and thankfulness, I’m embracing all there is to being pregnant, and endeavoring to enjoy and savor every moment of the journey. All of it!

May 7th, 2008 | 4 Comments »

I’ve been giving much thought to the forthcoming events of late August or early September. Before I had the wild child, who entered this world weighing 10lbs 7oz, I was all set (in my mind, anyway) to do the whole natural mother thing. Embrace every moment of the pregnancy, have a natural birth with no epidural or other interventions. Just me, my sturdy frame, and my strong will. I was a bit terrified of the potential for rippage and/or slicing to circumvent such rippage. But I was hopeful that I’d be able to get through it, dilating and stretching at just the right rate so that the little man would come gracefully into the world without his mother’s bits being sliced or torn. But along came gestational diabetes, and with it the possibility of a too-large-for-a-safe-delivery-through-the-birth-canal baby. I remained hopeful for some time, but being a mother of advanced maternal age, I was subject to many diagnostics during that run, and quite early in the third trimester his weight was estimated at 9 lbs. Of course, they say there is much latitude in those ultrasound estimations, but even so. It did look like I was growing a very large boy.

With mixed emotions, I opted to schedule his birth at 39 weeks. So I skipped water breakage, labor, and all that good stuff. As it turned out, he WAS a giant baby. But not Michelin-man, marshmallow, Pillsbury Dough Boy fat, the way some GD babies are. I was relieved at that, and actually thankful that I chose the C-section route in which he wouldn’t be battered and broken trying to get his huge self out of me. I think that those super squishy GD babies have suffered from the poor sugar control, too much sugar and not enough insulin, and who knows what the ultimate ramifications are. I had GD, but carefully controlled my sugars and injected two kinds of insulin twice each day. I think this helped him, because he was muscular and sturdy, and not overly fatty. Just a very, very big boy.

Fast forward to now. While under the assumption that this little love was a girl, I was wondering about the possibility of VBAC. Gadget thought I was nuts to even consider it. In his mind, pain is bad. Labor is pain. Why would anybody want to go through that? Men are such wusses. It never ceases to astound me.

My doctor said that, generally, boy babies are larger than girl babies, and second babies are larger than first babies. This is all wild generalization, of course, but the thought of a baby that is bigger than my cyclone boy… …is daunting, to say the least.

Time will tell. He may end up being a normal 6-8 pounder. However. I’m already huge, whereas I wasn’t this big at this stage before.

And so the thought of whether to hold on to the notion of VBAC or accept the notion of another C-section. Which is where I stumbled across the phrase, “too posh to push.” As in the tendency for some celebrity moms to forego labor for the inconvenience and strain it may pose to their deluxe physical forms. Or something like that.

Now, I don’t truly consider myself too posh to push, but the thought of a rupture, however remote, terrifies me. Terrifies me!  I don’t want to rupture, hemorrhage, and possibly die, all because I want to be earth mother.  I have children to live for.  I have to ask myself whether my motive for going through VBAC is merely for my own selfish fulfillment, because I am woman, hear me roar, and millions of women have been doing it since the dawn of time. I don’t want pride to be my driving factor. The thought of a controlled incision in a very carefully controlled environment is so much less terrifying. And rational.

I’ve read so many pros and cons for repeat C-section vs. VBAC, and it seems to me that the cons for surgery are mainly due to the fact that it’s surgery. Surgery, anesthesia, and all the risks that accompany surgery. Any surgery. I’ve had several surgeries under general anesthesia, with little or no hemming and hawing as to whether I should be going forward, and survived them all with flying colors. So why the stigma when it comes to C-section? If (hopefully when) I lose the extra hundred pounds that I carry around, and my ancient un-elastic skin is flapping and flopping in the wind like a sad deflated balloon, I imagine I might opt for some surgery to tighten it all up ship shape, given the financial resources. Why is there less or no stigma in that kind of surgery? Or bariatric surgery. I’ve considered it in moments of darkness (but won’t ever do that).

The engineer in me asks why I would expose myself and my child to the risk of rupture, however remote. The risk is real, and unpredictable. The engineer in me sees the predictable risks with a controlled incision in a controlled environment as the better choice, given the luxury of choice.  And in this day and age, I have this luxury of choice.  Plus, my hospital is excellent.

I will most likely have a repeat Cesarean. And it’s not without its benefits! I will get 8 weeks of paid leave, as opposed to 6, and my insurance plan entitles me to 96 hours in hospital as opposed to 48.  I want those 96 hours, every single one of them, because I want much much much more help with the breastfeeding and I want to be there when my milk comes in, if possible. I don’t want a repeat visit to emergency because my giant hungry child isn’t latched, won’t latch, isn’t getting fed, is turning yellow and dropping alarming amounts of weight because of my oversized underproductive misshapen mammaries. I have great hopes that this child and I will be able to successfully breastfeed. Great hopes!

Posted in pregnancy
May 7th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

Insomnia. Check.

Heartburn. Check.

Fatigue. Check.

Aching legs. Check.

Swelling. Check.

Lightheaded. Check.

Am I complaining? No!!

Am I happy am I mad? Happy!!

Could use a little more sleep, though.

Posted in pregnancy
May 5th, 2008 | 3 Comments »

My head is swimming. Or spinning. Or both. I feel sort of on the verge of dizzy all day every day. Maybe I’m just tired. It’s so hard to tell.

I thought I’d consider looking into dietary adjustments, to see if that might help. But now my head is spinning even more. It would be nice to be an average person with average weight, average blood sugar, average blood pressure, average energy levels, average everything.

I’ve read that poor blood sugar control can harm the developing baby, so it’s vitally important to keep the blood sugar stable and in control. To do this, it’s important to limit the amount of carbohydrates ingested at any given time. But if the balance slips the other way, and I don’t get enough carbohydrates, it looks like the results can be equally as damning to the developing child. Or more so. Now I’ve read horror stories of stunted brain development , lower IQ, and mental retardation with the presence of too many ketones, a potential byproduct of a very low carbohydrate diet.

I only started reading because I felt somewhat alarmed at how quickly my belly has ballooned, and as well, the corresponding increase in the numbers on the scale. I don’t want to obsess. And I’m so good at obsessing.

I feel like throwing my hands up in the air, and just not worrying about what I eat and how much I gain. There is a plethora of healthy foods that I like to eat, so I should be okay.  And just relax, alright already, for crying out loud.

But gosh, I feel awful and guilty if and when I gain. Especially after hearing and reading that women who start out significantly overweight shouldn’t be gaining much during pregnancy. And here it is, Cinco de Mayo, and I’m thinking of making rice and beans to accompany the tacos tonight.

Posted in food, health, pregnancy
May 4th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

Cyclone has taken to asking me whether I’m mad, when he does things that busy 3 year old boys like to do. Such as crushing styrofoam packing peanuts into thousands of pieces all over the floor. Are you mad? Three seconds later. Are you still mad? Another three seconds pass. Are you mad? Are you happy?

He likes to test me. Blowing bubbles in his soup. Are you mad? Blowing more, making a bigger mess. Eating with his fingers. Are you mad? Are you still mad? Are you happy?

In his world there are only two states. Happy and mad. I love how simple it is!

Unusual sounds coming from the living room. He heard me get up to investigate and I saw him scurrying for a place to hide under the table. He knew he was up to mischief!

Are you mad?

It’s been a quiet Sunday morning, if one can count all of the above as quiet. Which I can.

something pretty from Suse's garden

The best thing about Sunday morning is if someone stays up until 2:20 a.m. reading a book* that she started on Saturday evening, she doesn’t have to worry about going to work and managing to get through the day on too little sleep, especially when the resident 3 year old insists on her being up somewhere between 7:30 and 8 a.m. On Sunday, naps are a viable possibility (although not probable).

Of course, if an urgent call comes in from work, in which something has to absolutely be done NOW, well, that can put a damper on things. Luckily, I have my equipment at home so can get it done without going to the office. Now that would make me crabby, going to the office on a Sunday. It would also be nice if we got paid time and a half (or more!) for overtime, but alas, we do not. Even so, my job is a service oriented job, and it’s a rarity to be called to action on a weekend, so in the large scheme of things, I’m happy to be of assistance.

It’s also an excellent excuse not to go outside and pull weeds.


*Kite Runner – another Suse recommendation, and very good (even though it was predictable as to the villain and the outcome, I still happily gobbled it up).

May 2nd, 2008 | 3 Comments »

I love colors. All colors. Especially jewel tones. But I seem to always come back to blue.

For instance. I’ve had cobalt blue forever, and was trying to change it up in the last few years by adding some striking red items in my kitchen, and some chartreuse as well. Glorious. But I found this, and couldn’t resist. At least I only got one. And even though it’s a bowl, I got it to use as a cup. I love it!

Not only is it gorgeous for tea, it works for lattes as well. (I have a thing for swirls.)

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I have an addiction to jammies the way some women have an addiction to shoes.

My new all time faves, and the latest acquisition. See? More swirls. In blue.


So I asked Gadget what he thought of my gorgeous new jammies.

“You look like a teapot.”

Oh, the love. He went on to explain. “You’re little at the top, round in the middle, and flat on the bottom.”

“Just like a teapot!”*

My cup overfloweth. At least I knew (this time) that he was being silly in his own special way, and I accepted his comments graciously. Even without Zoloft! To be true, I am feeling as though I look like a teapot, and am constantly marveling at how my belly could possibly be protruding SO MUCH so soon. I am a woman of size, regardless of gestational state, but this… …this seems a bit extreme. (But it is what it is. And I’m beyond grateful to be carrying a lively little boy, no matter how big he and I become!)


*Showcased here is my little English teapot, purchased at a Safeway supermarket (of all places) in the London area. Note the apple green accent wall with the gorgeous Australian tiles. I spy some gum nut gnomes as well. The apple green transition took place last weekend with all the other spring freshening. It’s very happy, and looks great for the most part, but it doesn’t quite fit with that sandy beachy oatmealy color that has become the main color downstairs. So I may re-do it after a bit. Or not. I might have gotten my spring painting bent out of my system.

May 2nd, 2008 | 2 Comments »

I’ve been aching for a fresh new look around here. I did some rearranging and made a few furniture acquisitions, but it just didn’t fully satisfy the need for change. I decided to swallow the risks and brighten up the scenery with a fresh coat of paint. Luckily the weather was nice, the windows remained open all day, and the fumes were minimal. Gadget, of course, did not approve. (This seldom stops me!)

Cyclone Boy, ever the enthusiastic helper, got his own portion of wall.


He wasn’t at all pleased when I painted over his “bicycle.”

So much love! I see why graffiti is so fulfilling. Bye-bye, fire orange and butterscotch.


That woman looks ten months pregnant, not five. Gah!

Hello ocean mist and sandy beach.

I’m not sold on that blue, now that it’s up. I love the shade, and it looks great with the espresso shelving, but the couch is sage and it looks a bit meh. The couch is so comfy, though. But it’s huge and consumes the little living room. (I’ve lamented the poor floor plan of this place on several occasions.) The blue is an accent wall, shared by the dining and living areas. I can always change it so that it blends better with the furnishings, but I was so heart set on that blue. I’ll keep it for a while.

Next up, a post in which my ever loving and gracious husband declares that I look like a teapot.

April 30th, 2008 | 4 Comments »

So today it’s a reprise of the now-and-then marital whinge theme.  Go away, this will be long, boring, and self-indulgent.

The other day, Gadget commented that I should go back on Zoloft.  Because I’m such a grouch. 

Darling, I’m just acting the way you usually act.  See how nice it is to live with someone like that?

He doesn’t see it.  He thinks he’s perfectly amiable, and I’m the one who is out of sorts.  Granted, I am out of sorts; my tether is short, and I’m much more sensitive to tones of voice and what is conveyed with expressions than what is actually said with words.  Zoloft certainly helped buffer me from all this.

Still, it would be nice if he’d acknowledge that he’s not always the most pleasant person on the face of  the planet.

Perhaps I have a future with a long-term Zoloft relationship.  Or marital counseling.  Or both.  Perhaps second trimester hormones are amplifying things for the time being.  Or not.

One thing is apparent.  Spending a morning in the land of extreme-pissed-offed-ness does no favors to one’s blood sugar, and therefore overall health.  By the time I remembered to check, it was 110.  Fasting.  Not good.  So it’s obviously bad for my health to stew, yet I just didn’t have the wherewithall to pull myself out of that funk, and took the low road, allowing myself to fume all morning.

It’s indulgent, I know.  But good grief!  I feel as though I don’t expect much, so if what little expectations I have aren’t met, I am immediately and thoroughly disappointed.

And how I don’t like disappointment.

Feeling a bit out of sorts over the fact that today is garbage AND recycle day, and a certain life partner was too lazy to put it out last night.  I want it out on the evening prior to collection day.  Always.  Without fail.  Rain or shine, wind or sleet, in sickness or in health.  End. Of. Story.  No exceptions.  I’m very hard-nosed that way.

I noticed he wasn’t in bed around 4:30 a.m.  Oh good, he’s up early to take out the trash.  He climbed back into bed around 5:30 a.m.  I inquired whether he was calling in sick today.  Yes.  Fine, I don’t mind.  I hope you feel better soon.  As long as you took the trash out.  Back to sleep for me, for another 20 precious minutes.  Upon arising, I notice the master bathroom trash is still full.  Well, so he missed one.  I can let that slide.  Oh.  The bedroom bin is also full.  Starting to get annoyed.  Downstairs, peeking out the window, the absense of bins on the curb sets me spinning into the depths of pissed-offed-ness.  Yes, I could choose not to be angry, but I don’t.  Instead, I fume.  And stomp about gathering up all the various recycle and non-recycle bins.  It’s not like I don’t have a morning routine in which I have a set amount of time to dress myself, dress the child, pack breakfast for the boy, pack breakfast and lunch for myself, load the car, take him to daycare, and drag myself to work, invariably a few minutes late.  I don’t really have time to deal with the trash.  And I don’t care that he’s feeling sick.  I do all the rest of the household tasks, whether I’m sick or not.  The laundry gets done.  The cooking gets done.  The dishes get done.  The pantry gets stocked.  The fridge gets stocked.  Granted, I actually like to do these homemaker tasks, so generally, I’m FINE with the gross imbalance.  But the shirking of the one regular task that I see as his responsibility sends me postal. 

Posted in marriage, mental health
April 27th, 2008 | 4 Comments »

Yin: All American boys at an All American game.

Yang: Chili-cheese goop on a certain youngster’s shoe. Now how did he manage that?

Yin: Garlic fries at the baseball game. Don’t tell the carbohydrates police.

Yang: Finding a sweaty piece of minced garlic lodged beneath my left boob, having survived the game, a night of sleep, and half the morning. Ewwwww.

Yin: A sandbox for a cyclone boy. He loves that thing!

Yang: The new neighbors have a cat. Apparently. In spite of our fully fenced yard, said cat has discovered the nirvana of litter boxes. Hello toxoplasmosis. Now Gadget has to dispose of ALL the sand, douse the box with scalding water (bleach and chemicals supposedly don’t work), build an ingenious lid mechanism, and refill the box. Meanwhile, we have to keep Cyclone away from it, and sanitize all the toys. Oh joy.

Yin: A double strength latte, first thing on a Sunday morning, made with fully caffeinated beans and half&half cream. Divine decadence.

Yang: The espresso factory requires no trivial amount of cleanup, what with loose grounds sprinkling the counter (bench, as the Aussie’s say), milk froth stuck to the steaming wand, and a hot puck of compacted espresso grounds in need of a good home. Still, totally worth it.

Yin: Spring in all its glory.

Yang: Allergies. Weeds.

April 25th, 2008 | 11 Comments »

I’m working through an emotion. It’s difficult to express. It’s a sort of grieving. Gadget doesn’t understand it, and has no patience for it.

I might not feel this if I were a younger woman, and if I didn’t have the fertility challenges with which I’ve been faced. But I’m no spring chicken, and the road traveled has not been without its bumps and bruises. In all likelihood, there will be no more children. So this is the day in which I acknowledge that I am a mother of sons. And I love, love, love that I am a mother at all, and I am grateful beyond any human expression that I will be the mother of two. Two healthy boys. It’s beyond words. Yet there is a part of me, albeit a selfish part, that wanted a daughter – a girl to raise and nurture and fill with a sense of belonging in this world. I wanted to give her all that I lacked in my own upbringing. I dreamed we would be the best of friends.

There’s just something about a girl.

I suppose it truly boils down to ultimate selfishness. Perhaps it was a do-over, in the largest sense. I wanted to raise her with all the love in the world, so she knew she was wanted and of value. Something I never felt. I wanted to raise her to love herself and be comfortable in her body, to embrace who she was, to know that she is fully accepted, without condition. Again, something which I never felt. Yes, it does seem to be mainly a selfish wish for a do-over, to project myself forth. A dangerous undertaking with potential for much folly. It would be so much better to simply come to terms with who I am and embrace my own self as someone of inestimable worth in this world. And now that I’m in my forties, I can say that I am much more comfortable with who I am than I have ever been before. It’s a shame that it took this long, but a blessing that it happened at all.

I know that all is and will be well. What would I have done if she’d been a Barbie fanatic or a girly-girl to the most extreme? Dolls have always creeped me out. I was second of nine, so there was no need for dolls. I had real babies to play with. I liked to play with dirt and Lincoln logs. What would I have done to help her come to terms with things, if she’d ended up with the tweaked out reproductive system of her aunts? How would I have managed seeing her through the cliques and stages and social pressures that girls go through? In many ways, girls may be much more difficult to raise than boys.

I wonder if this one will be Bert to my Ernie, or Felix to my Oscar. Not that big brother is Ernie or Oscar, but he’s certainly not Bert or Felix. Another Bam-Bam. If fetal movement is any indication, he may well be Ernie to the extreme. He is so much more active than his big brother was. And big brother was extremely active. And still is.

I see a future with more monster trucks, ballgames, dirt, and Transformers. But I love all these things. I love boys. I hope that little brother doesn’t grow up daunted in the shadow of big brother. I will do all that I can to teach big brother to encourage and bolster little brother, rather than taunt, torment, and dominate him. I think, with vigilant parenting, the latter can be avoided. Certainly I witnessed sibling torment in my own childhood household, but our parenting was far from vigilant. I want my boys to grow up to be the closest of friends, each strong and confident in his own abilities. I want them to bring out the best of each other.

My traditional family name, the one that first daughters have been given for generations and generations, my middle name, my mother’s middle name, my grandmother’s middle name, my great grandmother’s middle name, and so on and so forth, and with it the heirloom paisley shawl, pristine and well over a hundred years old, will have to wait, either for my sister, should she be blessed with a daughter and choose to follow the tradition, or for another generation yet to come. It was a first daughter’s tradition, and I find this a little sad. But it’s only a tradition, and traditions are only as much value as we allow them to be.