sueeeus

It’s not like I’m looking forward to two weeks across the globe or anything.

Shocking pink carry on. Contents: two cell phones (international GSM and local CDMA), camera, universal power adapter, cell-hone charger, camera charger, two paperbacks, one puzzle book, handbag, wallet, passport, ball-point pens, lip balm, dental floss, eye shadow, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow brush, camera instruction manual, phone instruction manual, SIM card instruction manual.

Black CPAP case (medical equipment doesn’t count against the carry on allowance, woot). Contents: CPAP machine, CPAP mask, prescriptions, prenatal vitamins, OTC medications, glucose meter kit.

Red carry on size suitcase, to be checked. Contents: Walking sandals, sunscreen, hair goop, toothpaste, toothbrush, body wash, deodorant, graham crackers, and sundry US items intended to be unloaded remain in Australia.

Black backpack, to be checked. Contents: six light-weight tops, five crop-length cotton pants, tankini top, board shorts, assorted thongs* smalls, cotton gauze swimsuit cover-up, nightgown, and a sun hat. Yes, I fit it all in that little black backpack (with a bit of help from some vacuum seal travel bags).

On the plane, to be worn: black cotton pants with a delightful little bit of spandexy stretch built in, compression stockings (haven’t decided whether to wear the full hose or just the knee highs, but am leaning toward the full hose), white cotton top with black dot print (yes, I’ll resemble a salt-and-pepper haired dalmatian when Suse greets me at the airport) and a pretty blue satin sash tied in the back, light-weight black sweater, black suede fleece- lined slides (the poor-woman’s Ugg, easy on, easy off), and possibly a light-weight black jacket (it IS winter here, after all).

*KIDDING!

Two thirty a.m. A small boy, wide awake.

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. How ’bout tomorrow?

Him: Whine, whimper. Pitiful strained little voice. I’m hungeeeee.

Me: Groan. How ’bout a peanut butter sandwich, Mister Eats- Two- Noodles- for- Dinner- So- He- Wakes- Up- Hungry?

Him: Okay.

So I stumble downstairs, make a sandwich and debate about the sanity of giving him some milk in the middle of the night, having washed four loads of bedclothes already this weekend. But it would be cruel to give him peanut butter without milk. He wins. I’m such a good mother.

Later that morning, somehow he’s managed to nestle himself in MY bed. Wide awake again.

Him: Time to wake up! It’s a sunny day (pointing to the window, using that tone of voice in which the mere fact that it’s a sunny day is all the reason in the world), Wook! Time to wake up!

Me: Groan.

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. Later. Not for breakfast.

A little later. (A few hours, anyway, and after a breakfast of apple slices and milk.)

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. Give in. (Actually, there was a demand request for Cheetos prior to the restaurant food, but perhaps it was merely a ploy to get me to concede to the restaurant leftovers.)

We met the cousins for lunch yesterday, and Mister Noodle Face had all of two noodles at the restaurant. I really need to find a way to get him to behave while out. And to actually eat. In fact, I need to find a way to get him to eat, period. Before six p.m., preferably.

He has a helicopter fascination in which all items that find themselves in his grubby little paws are whirled about at great speed, the consequences of which could sometimes be disastrous. Especially in public. Or around expensive electronics.

But who can resist a spaghetti faced* child? It’s such a classic. Note the FOD** radius.

An hour or so later. Just finishing this post. A small child appears, a crinkly sound coming from behind his back.

Him: Know what I got? Know what I got?

Me: What?

Him: Suppwise! Cheetos. I got Cheetos!

Me: What are doing with the Cheetos?

Him: Opening dem.

Me: Did I say you could have those?

Him: Yes.

Me: I did not!

Him, ignoring my response: You open my Cheetos? Hey Mommy? You open my Cheetos?

Me: Groan. What do you say?

Him: Pweeeeeese.

*Why are my pictures so blurry? Don’t answer that. I don’t see anything in focus in these pictures. Whah, whah, whahhh.

**Foreign Object Debris (in some circles).

I wasn’t going to bother writing anything today, but some other blogs have inspired me.

Last night I had an awful dream. My babies were taken from me. It was excruciating. I fought for them, but I was helpless. It was so vivid, and I woke up sobbing when I reached that point in the dream where I had reached my limit of frustration and hurt. In real life, my beautiful boy sprung up from his bed (which is along side mine, I know, I know), kissed me on the cheek and said, “Don’t cwy, Mommy, it’s okay.” He then went back to his pillow, but he kept saying, “It’s okay, Mommy, it’s just me, don’t cwy.” I think he assumes that I think there is a ghost or a monster, so he assures me that it’s just him.  No ghost!  No monster!  My heart aches with love for that child.  My beautiful, beautiful boy.

I was afraid to ponder that dream.  I had a girl and my boy.  I was possibly younger, maybe a teenager.  And it seemed that it was my mother who took the children from me.  That makes no sense, really.  Or maybe it does, in some deep place that I don’t want to really delve right now.  My boy was the same age as he is now, and my girl was a baby, maybe one year old or so.  My girl!  I have a girl!  My heart was elated, that these were my children.  My boy.  My girl. But they were taken from me, wrenched from me, and I was helpless, no matter how I fought for them.  I can’t even begin to describe the feeling, the sorrow.

I didn’t want to ponder, because I’m holding on to so much hope for this life that is growing within me.  And it’s terrifying to try to sort through those thoughts and feelings that took place in the dark of the night.

And then, I visited Bec-and-Call.  And today, Bec writes about an amazing dream she had.  And after that, I visited Sooz, in which she writes about an apology, and reading her post brought goosebumps to my skin.  (Sooz, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve copied from your post.)

But I feel the pain of even imagining having my babies taken from me, of being taken from my mother, of watching my siblings ripped from the family hearth.

…The images of forced separation I have in my mind, the stories only recently come to light, fill me with such deep deep sorrow. How can we not say sorry? How can we not see and recognize the hurt felt by those who have suffered what is surely every child’s, every parent’s worst nightmare.

…I cried, cried like a little girl scared of being taken from her mother. And I wanted to say something about that. I am sure my apology means nothing to any of those who have experienced the kind of loss I can only begin to imagine.

And so I wonder if maybe there is no ominous or foreboding interpretation, but simply my heart and my spirit crying out in the night for those others who have had their babies taken from them.  And even with what I felt, it still cannot begin to compare.

I’m humbled.  It’s not about me.

Bath time has become quite the event, chez sueeeus. We have a giant tub that has, until now, had very little use. I’m just not a soaker, much as the idea of candlelit baths with wine, roses, and soft music sounds appealing. I’m far too functional. Even if I try to soak, I invariably end up washing, and once washed there seems little point of remaining, so I get out, shower (one must rinse the residue, after all), and that’s that. So. Not much of a bather. But Harry, on the other hand, has quite taken to it. Boats, frogs, cups, bubbles. What could be better?

Another nice thing about having a palatial bathroom is that I can drag a body pillow in, lie down and rest while he’s playing bathing. Because these days? I’m tired. T.I.R.E.D. All.The.Time. Attributed to high progesterone, for which I am grateful, because it means that the pregnancy is progressing well.

Harry demonstrates the versatility of homespun bath goodness.

…said Inigo Montoya…

So today I had a checkup with my family practice doctor because she wouldn’t extend my prescriptions without seeing me in person, and I need to fill them in order to have enough on hand for my upcoming trip.

First there is the weigh in. Good Lord.

Next is the foot inspection in which I am poked in the extremities and asked whether I can feel it. Yes, I can, thank you very much.

And then the discussion about blood sugar control and exercise, blah blah blah. I know the story. I know the rules. I know I need to exercise more. I know I need to weigh less. Don’t eat breads. Avoid anything made with wheat. No deli meats. No soft cheeses. Watch the fish. Is it friend or foe? (These latter are the pregnancy precautions.)  Watch the fruits.  Too much sugar you know.  Try to avoid the fats. It seems I am to live on vegetables and chicken breasts. Which is fine, but tiresome if it’s every. single. day. Join a gym. Join Weight Watchers. She says she finds these are the most effective things. Home exercise just isn’t enough, she says. Join a gym. Ummmm, I work full time, and have a family. I get up at 6 a.m., get home around 6 p.m., it’s usually about 7:30 by the time we’ve finished dinner, then there is a kitchen to at least make an attempt to tidy, if nothing more than throwing things in the sink, there are baths to take and bed preparations. If I were to even attempt to enforce bed time, then the enforcement thereof takes a minimum of half an hour and usually more like one to one and a half hours. (Which is why I usually cave and just let him go to bed when I go to bed.) So. Precisely when will I be going to the gym?

When I do do my Dance Dance Revolution, I’m completely dripping with sweat when I’m done, and breathing sufficiently hard to know that there is cardio exercise taking place. So my doctor is a teeny weeny tiny little thing who advocates good health (which is good, she’s a doctor, she should) and whose favorite hobby is running. I wonder if she actually eats. I always feel like such a walrus next to her. I think I’d rather have a big fat crotchety old man doctor who will just bark at me that I need to lose weight. No, scratch that. That would be humiliating too. I think there’s no way to slice it without humiliation.

Add to that the first trimester exhaustion in which I can barely drag myself home at the end of the day, let alone get up and exercise.

I walked the aisles of Costco for half an hour*, waiting for my prescriptions to be filled. Does that count as exercise?

*And filled my cart with peanut butter, almond butter, romaine, celery, broccoli, cold ground flax seed, low carb no flour sprouted grain bread, artichoke hearts, pepperoncini, reduced fat bacon bits, rice, and freeze dried fruit. Almost all reasonably good foodstuffs.

When it comes to politics, I am a buffoon.  A complete and total imbecile.  But I do care about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  So here it is, “Super Tuesday” to what, only about half of the country?  What does that mean?  My state’s primary election isn’t for another two weeks.  And what good will it be by then?  And we only have two choices on the ballot.  Democrat or Republican.  No independents, no liberals, no conservatives.  Just elephants and donkeys.  Whatever.  And if I vote on principle, I basically throw my vote away, because there’s no way an underdog candidate will win.  But then I wonder what that matters anyway, since how much can my vote matter when there’s an electoral college that overrides it anyway.  It makes no sense to me why we use an electoral college when we have sufficient technology to obtain a real vote by the real people.  Why can’t we just use the popular vote?

Okay, I’m done.  I don’t know enough to say any more (or even to say as much as I have).  It’s just frustrating.

I perform fairly well under pressure. I just don’t like it.

This morning* I discovered that one of my important applications had a bug that was affecting customers world wide. Not good! So I had to scurry to figure out what changed between Friday and today. Because I certainly hadn’t changed anything. It’s so frustrating. More of why I hate Information Technology — nothing ever just stays put, and I like stability. Hence, I despise IT. It’s a quandary, because it affords a good part of my bread and butter. So. I found the problem and discovered it was most likely due to a server migration that took place two weeks ago, which I thought I had tested thoroughly. Apparently not. Argggggghh. So frustrating.

The point is, I was too busy frantically fixing everything and releasing the updated code, that when Harry woke up, I let him lounge about at my feet until I was finished. I’ve learned that the best way to have a harmonious morning is to get him dressed and out the door first thing. No lallygagging about. Just stick to the routine. No questions, no options. Stick to the routine. Break from the routine? The pleas begin, but once I get him in the car he’s okay because I distract him with a cd player and headphones. He feels special, wearing his own grown up headphones, and listens contently to his Disney tunes. When we get to the daycare, however, the floodgates open. He looks so sad and they don’t seem like crocodile tears. He hugs me and begs me to take him home. I hug him, kiss him, tell him I love him, and say “Have a happy day!” in my happiest voice. Then I leave. And feel awful.

I know he will be fine in 30 seconds or less. Even so. It gets me.

*I work from home on Mondays and Fridays. Lucky me!

I’ve been trying to find information on prepaid mobile phone options for my upcoming trip, and it’s just exhausting. What I’ve gleaned so far is that I need to purchase the SIM card here, not in AU. Okay, fine. So there are a slew of providers with various prices and options. I finally found a few online distributors that I thought I’d try, and it turns out they are sort of a front end for one US company, and the printed text for each front end company is just a bit different than the bottom line text that the actual provider presents. So. I ended up calling the customer sales line, and they quoted the same details as I found on the provider site. Good, at least that’s consistent. I also inquired whether they could confirm that my phone will work, and they assured me that it would. Or should. Now I’m all ready to commit to purchase, so I bid the agent adieu, and return to the web to add the SIM card to the shopping cart, only to find… …sorry, this item is temporarily unavailable… …please call our customer sales line for more info. Great. So I call back, and miraculously enough am connected with the same agent. She is pleasant and advises that yes, they are temporarily out of stock, and no, I can’t order over the phone because they are still out of stock, but please try again tomorrow, and there might be stock available. Might? So frustrating. At least I’m looking into this now, and not two weeks down the line! Of course, I could always just get a calling card once there and use the local land lines. I just thought it would be more convenient, and less of an imposition, to have my own mobile phone.

This particular mobile provider is called Optus. Dear Aussie readers and lurkers, does anybody know if Optus is a very reliable network with good coverage in the Melbourne and Sydney areas? The other main options seem to be Telstra and Telestial. Somebody advised me against one of those, but I don’t remember which.

Seems like tonight this morning is a repeat of last night yesterday morning.  Oh wait.  That’s because it is.

A full bladder, a bed hog restless three year old climbing up and over me to find his comfy place, racing thoughts and vivid dreams (compliments of Zoloft), and a grumbling stomach all work together to force me from my warm and cozy bed.  On the up side, as I lie there, trying to ignore the bladder and brain, I feel a sweet little kiss on the back of my head, and am forced to smile.  I play possum, under the assumption that pretending to sleep and ignoring the child will make him give up trying to talk to me and return to the land of nod.  Even though I want to face him and snuggle him and sing Twinkle Twinkle Wittle Stah and Bitsy Bitsy Spidah with him.  Eventually it works.  For him.  But I give in to the physical forces at hand, and find myself at my computer in the middle of the night.

I’ve been craving milk, and I’m generally not a milk drinker (except in coffee and tea).  It’s very satisfying, but after one glass, I want more.  I think it wakens the carbohydrate-addicted monster.

Compounding the frustration of being awake at such an hour, knowing that this interlude will wreak havoc with the day to come, the computer is excruciatingly slow, working its way through its nightly virus scan.  I’m tempted to turn off the virus scan, but caution prevails and I stumble along at a snail’s pace.

I’ve begun to notice some hormonal sensitivities.  Smell aversions, actually.  My MIL made a cabbage patch soup for Mr. Gadget’s birthday lunch get-together, and I almost wanted to leave the house, it smelled so awful to me!  I’ve had that soup before and liked it, but could barely tolerate even a few bites.  Worse, she made a giant batch that took up two stock pots.  There were only about five of us there, so it was clear that we’d be coming home with leftovers.  To my utter dismay.  I told Mr. Gadget that he was on his own this time, with full responsibility for leftover consumption.

The other odd one is chicken soup.  I recently made chicken stock and then a nice batch of chicken and vegetable soup (carrots, celery, onion, kidney beans, tomatoes, corn — sort of a minestrone) but the smell of simmering chicken seems to have permeated the house and lingered for days.  I could even smell it in the dishwasher, after multiple loads have been washed.  I could smell it in my CPAP hose and mask, for crying out loud.  At least, I imagined that I could.  It was bad enough that it forced me from my bed last night.  I couldn’t stand the thought of breathing chicken infused forced air for another moment, let alone a full night.  Now it smells faintly of bleach, but I prefer that to chicken.

Mostly I crave milk and bread.  I’d love to have a big warm hearty loaf slice of artisan bread (with butter!) and a glass of milk.  Not so good for diabetes control, but it sure sounds good.

It’s been snowing, raining, and slushing, and the sky has been mostly gray all day. But it’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood. That’s the song that’s spinning through my mind today (good old Mister Rogers).

Because…

Houston, we have a H E A R T B E A T !!!!

158 beautiful beats per minute!

7 weeks 4 days (I was spot on in my estimation).

Due date: September 11, 2008 (but my OB is still basing it on LMP, so it’s officially September 9, 2008)

Praise the holy heavens!! The only other time I made it this far with a heartbeat, I was blessed with my beautiful boy. So. Things are looking very promising and I’m full of hope. I have an ultrasound scan, but it’s just a little white blob with no recognizable parts — not nearly as impressive as Blue Moon Girl’s little spudster, in which you can clearly see the head and body — so I won’t bother posting mine.

I’ve been cleared to travel, so the Australia trip is still a GO! I just have a non-invasive screening right before, and a follow-up ob appointment directly after. And I’ve purchased compression hose to help thwart deep vein thrombosis. Shudder. I’m going to request an aisle seat so that I can easily stand, stretch, and make my way to the bathroom. I’ll pull the middle-aged pregnant lady card if need be.