sueeeus

Torture.  All this waiting and not knowing.  Every little cramp or faintest hint of mucus with color on the tissue (tmi, but not apologizing) is making me crazy.  I’m at the office today so am not at liberty to just collapse into a sobbing heap of frustrated womanhood and thus get some release from the tension and uncertainty that I’m drowning in.  That’s what I want to do.  Cry.  Cry, cry, cry.  I’m so on the verge.  Maybe that’s good.  Incredibly strong urges to sob sob sob must no doubt be hormonal.  Hormonal crying.  That is good, right?  Oh PLEASE, let it be a good thing.

How many forums can I browse through for solace?  I have to keep telling myself that there’s little reason to assume anything is anything but normal.   All the same.  I have nothing definitive to get me through.  I’ve not had a scan.  I’ve not heard or seen a heartbeat.  The only solace I have is that the bbt remains high.  There is achiness.  There is a sort of crampiness.  Tugging.  Pulling.  It’s not like my cycle cramping, so that’s good, right?  Yes, it must be okay.  It’s not contractions like the full blown miscarriage cramping.  Nothing as horrible as that.   (Yet.  Dare I say yet?  I don’t want to say yet.  I don’t want to acknowledge that there is chance for anything but success.  All the same, how can I not put that out my head?  TORTURE!)   Maybe it’s normal cramping and uterine stretching.  Maybe?  Oh PLEASE be normal.  Maybe it’s just gas?  Sigh. 

What can I count on that’s normal?  What will give me solace?  Constipation.  That’s normal.  That’s good.  Check.  Tender breasts.  Nope. Not this time.  Should I be worried?  I’ve read that follow-ons don’t necessarily have the same breast sensitivities.  But some do.  Should I worry?  Oh, I just don’t know.  Nausea?  Not really.  Fatigue.  Oh  yes.  There is an abundance of that.  That’s a good thing, then.  That’s a normal thing.  Food aversions?  Not so far.  Not really.  Maybe a teensy weensy bit of an aversion to broccoli, my otherwise favorite food, but that could very well be due to the fact the bag that occupies my refrigerator has accidentally been frozen and is now thawed, and simply smells blechy.  Broccoli stinks anyway.  I can’t call this normal or not normal.  Swelling?  Definitely I have this, but it’s been hot, and I tend to retain water anyway.  Gas?  Ugh.  I wish I could say it’s new, but it’s a constant with me so how can I tell if it’s more and thus normal?  Can’t rule it in or out.  Leg cramps.  Ah, that’s new, and that’s happened in times past, so maybe I’ll count it as a good thing.  Low back pain.  Constant.  Can’t rule it in or out.  Headaches?  Again, I live in the land of chronic head, neck, and back pain, so I can’t single anything out as new or normal first trimester discomfort.  Insomnia.  That’s new.  Maybe it’s a good thing.  Frequent urination?  Not so much.  I mean, it’s always been, so I can’t so much tell if it’s more than usual.  Metallic taste?  Not this time.  Morning sickness.  Not really.  Maybe a couple days here and there of feeling a bit off, but no major nausea.  Food cravings?  Not so much, although I have had a hankering for a Monte Cristo sandwich these last few days.  Enough so that I stocked up on the ingredients, and plan to fulfil the urge this weekend.

There’s just not enough definitive information to give me peace of mind.  I did have a health screening today, which came back with relatively good information.  Surprisingly, and thankfully, my cholesterol is not high.  Not low, but not high.  I can be happy about that.  My blood pressure is normal.  We like to hear that.  My pulse was even good.  63 bpm.  Not bad for a sedentary desk jockey.  My fasting blood sugar was good too (71).  BMI and body fat are off the charts though.  The nurse consultant said that I’m a very healthy person who is just carrying around a lot of unnecessary extra fat.  This would serve me well if I were a bear and had to hibernate, but as such, I am not.  What to do, what to do.  I eat very well now, now that I’m rigorously following the diabetic guidelines.  I walk.  I need more vigorous exercise, I guess.  That or liposuction.  Wouldn’t it be nice to just step out of the fat suit and start over?  I’d like that.  We get a company discount to 24HourFitness, so I’m forming a me-time plan in the back of my mind.  Maybe I’ll join, much as I’ve had a life-long aversion to health clubs, what with the thong clad Barbie dolls and the muscle bound Kens clanging the weights about and preening in the mirrors.  So not my scene.  Even so, a few miles down the street, a half hour or so away from the husband and the child and the television and the fridge.  This might be a very therapeutic thing for me.  I actually enjoy weight lifting and exercise machines.  I’ll just have to turn up the Zune volume and ignore the Barbie and Ken, and hope that they ignore me back.

Okay.  So I’ve blogged myself back out of my near frantic frenzy, and feel like I can make it through another day-tight-compartment, or at least another afternoon-tight-compartment.  (Dale Carnegie technique for organizing life and managing stress.  Everything’s manageable if you break it into manageable-sized compartments.)

I feel much better now.  Thanks.

by sueeeus maximus

ahem.

It all started with the arrival of a new nephew.  Well, actually, there are two new nephews.  The first one is home from the NICU after 3 weeks and two surgeries.  He’s a trooper and may be turning the pages of medical history (we all hope) with his miraculous recovery from hydrocephalus.  He is doing very well.  A beautiful little boy.

The other nephew arrived ten days early, while I was camping at the ocean.  We cut the trip short and scurried home, after which I couldn’t concentrate on anything but getting over to see my sister and her new love.

So, after a flurry of mad dashes to places like Trader Joe’s (to stock up on provisions –oh, if only there were a TJ’s closer to my home, sigh, I’d shop there all the time –the best find of the trip was fresh thyme, oregano, and basil all growing together in a lovely pot for $8, oh my) and WalMart (to acquire a new dutch oven at a fraction of a fraction of the cost of its French counterpart, and oh, how I really really don’t like WM, but at times like these, with bargains like this, I look the other way and venture in) and Costco (my main stay, because where else can you get 10lbs of 91% lean ground beef, 10lbs of chicken breasts, 10lbs of chopped steak, 6lbs of pork, 5lbs of shredded parmesan cheese, a gallon of extra virgin olive oil, a truckload of everything else I needed, plus the perfect cookbook for the occasion?)…  

 

…after a flurry…  …I loaded the minivan with my boy, said provisions, a small chest freezer, some baby gifts (who can resist buying more baby gear?) and a portable dvd player, and set out across the land.  Over mountains, rivers, through a desert and across a lake, back to the wooded lands of my youth.  I must say, as much as I am against one’s child being glued to a video, I was very thankful to have that gadget along.  He has learned to undo half of his safety buckle, and I am in desperate need of finding a way to teach him to do as he’s told.  These things are not so simple with two-and-a-half-year-olds, it is clearly evident (to me).

The baby is a delight.  He’s a wee tiny thing, who looks so very much like his daddy, with a few traces of his mother’s characteristics blending in.  What is it with the women in my family?  Are we just carriers for our offspring who are mini-men replicas of their fathers?  (We all secretly hope that if/when we have another child, they might at least look a little bit like us!)

I had an ambitious mission.  Armed with my cookbook, a crock pot, my enameled cast iron, and the aforementioned  truck van load of provisions, I set out to prepare 20 casseroles (4 each of Creamy Chicken,  Chicken & Black Bean, Baked Mac & Cheese, Shepherd’s Pie, and Moussaka), 8 crocks of soups and stews (Split Pea, Black Bean, Tuscan Bean, Navy Bean, Beef & Barley, Beef Stew, Pork Stew, and Chicken Tagine), triple batches of Bolognese, Roasted Red Pepper Pesto, Indian Curry, and White Wine Alfredo sauces, and two dozen Twice Baked Potatoes.  The grand plan was to stock my sister’s freezer(s) with food that she only needs to warm up, thus allowing her more time with the baby and less time in the kitchen.

I have to say, almost everything from this cookbook turned out fabulous.  The Chicken Tagine was my favorite.  Green olives, apricots, cinnamon…  Oh YUM!  It was amazing.  A M A Z I N G.  Really.  It was that good.  The Pork Stew was interesting as well – it called for leeks, fennel, and prunes.  Of course all the pea and bean soups were wonderful, as they always are.  I tried to be true to the recipes, but I do tend to use garlic aggressively, wherever it’s called for, and the fresh thyme and oregano were SO much better than their dried and withered counterparts.  Thank you Trader Joe!  The one recipe that needed help was the Roasted Red Pepper Pesto.  It called for shallots and garlic, but neither were roasted.  Only the peppers were roasted.  I found this quite strong and bitter.  As it turned out, I forgot the key ingredient (parmesan) so I retrieved the batch from the freezer, and put it under the broiler until the whole concoction was roasted nicely.  This softened the flavors of the shallots and garlic.  With the parmesan properly added, it was divine.  Ahhhhh. 

There I was.  In the kitchen.  Barefoot.  Pregnant*.  Behind a hot stove.  All day, every day, for a week.  🙂  Actually, I finished two days early, since I discovered that my sister had her own crock pot so I was able to double up on some days.

…meanwhile…  To keep the young one entertained, I bestowed a gift of awe and wonderment (which proved useful as a punishment tool).   When he was good, he could dress up as Spiderman.  When he misbehaved, the suit was removed and put away, amidst much woe and anguish, weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.  Sigh.  It’s so hard to be good when you’re two-and-a-half.  All you want to do is what you want to do, so it’s not much fun at all to obey your mother.

After a long morning of disobeying, running away, leaving doors open, breaking flower pots into thousands of pieces and waking the baby, one gets plain tuckered out and falls asleep in the middle of the floor (near the door which is constantly being left open during the great escape maneuvers).

Even so, at the end of the day, he’s a sweet and wonderful boy.  Cousins.  Two beautiful boys.

*In fertility related news, I have been trying to be unobsessive and cast my cares to the wind.  Failing that, I have been checking my bbt regularly, and it’s remained high.  This tells me that the corpus luteum is still doing its thing, pumping out progesterone, so I’m assuming all is well on the home front.  That, plus a couple days here and there of stomach woe, and general fatigue all day every day, are encouraging signs.   Meanwhile, my ob-gyn is out of the office until late August.  Not wanting to wait that long for my first appointment — goodness, I’ll be into the second trimester by then — I opted to make an appointment with one of his colleagues next week.  Now I will get to explain to him my whole metformin journey.  And I am convinced that it is the metformin that gave me the boost needed to conceive and successfully implant.  So.  Still crossing my fingers and hoping the best for this bun in the oven.

My baby sister became a mother today. She wasn’t due for another week and a half, but her son had other ideas. After 24 hours of labor, they determined that he was stuck and needed assistance, so off to c-section they went.

Here he is, in his daddy’s hand, being introduced to his mother for the very first time. It’s such a beautiful moment, their hands entwined with this precious new life of theirs. Becoming a mother is the most incredible and wonderful thing, and I am so moved to know that now, my sister has realized the dream. And I am so thankful and relieved that both mother and child are well.

This beautiful boy. It’s a time of unspeakable joy, yet I can’t hide or dismiss the thought that mine would have been due this week or next, had it been meant to be. And hopefully I’m all awash in overdramatic foundationless notions, but all day yesterday I had the feeling or perhaps the fear that this one has left me. I’m not very good at casting my worries aside, and I hope I’m just being ridiculous. I feel as though it’s so selfish of me to harbor these thoughts. It’s such a conflicting set of emotions. I am filled with a joy and elation for my sister, and an anguish and uncertainty for myself and my little sprout that I oh, so much, do not want to lose.

I’m a mess.

It always amazes me how some people can manage to read so much. I am awed and inspired. And dumbfounded. I have only one child, not three or four, my house is not spotless, and there’s always a load of washing that could be started, but somehow I don’t seem to have time for much more than the mundane. I suppose I waste time on-line, researching the burning questions of the day. Hey, it’s research. (Along that vein, the one in which I am not supposed to be obsessing, I have just wasted several minutes browsing through 300+ girl names beginning with s before starting in to the j‘s and after reading about precisely what goes on at 6 weeks anyway, then looking ahead to 7 weeks, before deciding I should really try not to think about things and get ahead of myself, as I always do.)

I’ve been feeling off, lately. Uninspired. Blah. As if my inner spark has been snuffed out. My sister has been writing a book, feverishly, of late. She’s got an inspiration that is driving her, and she says the book is practically writing itself. How I long for such a creative inspiration! Needing something to rekindle my flame, I cast my eyes about the room and they came to rest upon a book, Farmer Giles of Ham, by J.R.R. Tolkien. How I love Tolkien! I bought this volume years ago, and haven’t yet read it. Ah, a nice little book will be just the indulgence I need to make myself feel better.

As I was reading the introduction, I was overcome with emotion, and tears rolled down my face. It’s not that the introduction is all that, but it said things that resonated with me. It spoke of the history of the work, from its beginning as a tale for his children, to its expansion for publication, and the uncertainty of whether the publisher would, indeed, take it on. There were fragments from letters to the publisher which made him seem like such a real person. I saw J.R.R. Tolkien as a person, a man, a father, earning an uncertain living, trying to provide for his family, and honor his craft. A spark. Hence, tears. Not that the early pregnancy (that I am not supposed to be thinking about) elevated hormones had anything to do with it.

I love the wit. I love the satire. I love the Latin names (Aegidius Ahenobarbus Julius Agricola de Hammo, “for people were richly endowed with names in those days”) coupled with the apologetic reversion to the vernacular (Farmer Giles of Ham). I simply love this book. Added bonus: illustrations by Pauline Bateman. I recognize her from the Narnia books. I’m not so keen on the farmer (and the wife’s) cruel attitude towards their dog, but I suppose the attitude is in keeping with the characters(s). I am reminded of my father, the Korean Anglophile. I wonder how much influence Tolkien had on him, because, I swear, this Farmer Giles and the deaf giant with his best copper pot certainly stir up visions of my dad. From the Latin to the cursing (Blast!) to the kicking of the dog. (Poor dog.)

I would very much like to be a brilliant and successful writer. What a life-long fantasy! I might be able to string some words together, and with some work I could scrub the grammar, but I’m lacking the inspiration. I’ve always fancied myself a children’s book writer and illustrator. Perhaps because of my love of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. I’m just not much of a story teller. The stories I make up for my little guy are very, very weak. Luckily, he has absolutely no attention span, so it doesn’t matter that there isn’t much going on after “once upon a time.” He’s moved on to other things by then. “Once upon a time. The End!”

I’d like to write a brilliant novel, but again, no inspiration. Where does the inspiration come for things like Confederacy of Dunces and Geek Love? I can find nothing of sufficient interest within the confines of my mind to form an engaging tale.

I could join the self-help revolution, but I can hardly consider myself an authority on anything. Although I might have quite a lot to say, it would likely mostly be hypocritical.

I can write volumes about being a boring person. Oh wait. That’s blogging.

I do have an art project milling about the back of my mind. I want to make a mosaic counter top (in my kitchen). I have a small counter that is not in the main stream, that will do nicely, because if it’s a flop, then it should be easy enough to hide or ignore until I can repair or replace it. I have an idea of the shapes of the tiles I want to use, however, I need to find the medium. Because I want a specific shape, I will have to hand cut. I don’t think I want ceramic. I don’t want sharp edges. I would love to find some material like that used in the Epicurean brand cutting boards. I think it’s some sort of a reclaimed paper product. It’s got a warm finish and holds up well to heat and isn’t hard and brittle. I may end up using Formica. It’s thin so it might be easy to cut, and it’s possible to find in several colors/finishes.

I’ve made a mosaic from vinyl floor tiles in the past,
but the vinyl tends to peel from the backing. Also, it wouldn’t do so well if one were to place a hot item on it. Not that anyone would do that.  At least there is a wee bit of inspiration to tide me through.

Apparently, the need for validation has been with me for quite some time.

A crown. A certificate. A sash. A trophy. A ribbon. And two parasols.

When I was young, my sister and I would sometimes go to my dad’s office on a weekend, where he would teach us Latin from the Cambridge Latin Course (of course).

She was his favorite, and I took advantage of the opportunity to tag along, as we are only 14 months apart (I am older). We were four and five, or five and six, and we were willing students.

I have fond memories of the office. We would have elevensies — my dad’s famous Scotch shortbread biscuits accompanied by the best cup of tea. When he’d leave the room to clean the tea leaves from the teapot, we would sneak extra sugar from the cupboard. Sometimes we’d wander downstairs and gaze longingly at the ice cream vending machine, pondering how we might be able to trick the machine into giving up its frozen goodness. On very rare occasions, he would buy us an ice cream sandwich from that machine. Oh, those were the best of days, and we felt so very rich when we were able to nibble on that creamy vanilla treat.

Often times we would draw pictures. Pictures of queens and princesses. Always they had that plunging waist with the billowing skirt. Imagine how thrilled I was as a teen when Gunne Sax brought their Victorian renditions into popularity around prom time. I never got to have one though. We were strictly rummage sale hand-me-downers.

How we longed to be something. Something special. To be accepted. To be worthy. To be honored. To be wanted. I don’t remember drawing anything but pictures of queens and princesses. My sister probably sees things differently, but in my eyes, she always was special, accepted, honored, and wanted. And I was not. She was favored. She has always been queen. And still is. (I love her dearly.)

I am queen too. There’s room for more than one queen in the land.

This can be filed under things that will never happen to me. 

I’ve become one of those mothers of uncontrollable children.  You know the ones.  The ones you see in supermarkets pushing a shopping cart with a child screaming at the top of his lungs, one leg out of the cart, holding on to the sides, wailing, crying, screaming, and shouting, “Stop the bus!  Stop the bus!”  amidst sobs, shrieks, wails, and tears.  Yes, I am that mother.  The one who continues pushing the cart, ignoring the pleas, pretending that nobody else is observing, amusedly or not, the fracas. 

And when the store clerk kindly reminds me that I need to restrain my child, for his own safety, I smile and nod.  Yes, I want my child to fall out of the cart.  That’s why I am so lenient.   That’s why I haven’t strapped him in the safety seat.  Never mind that the struggle in order to get him into that safety seat would result in bruised shins at the very least.  He is very strong and he is very big.  He will arch his body or stiffen his body and do whatever it takes to remain out of that seat.  So I continue to push the cart with my unhappy boy, one leg over the edge, both hands gripping the sides, shouting, “Stop the bus!  Stop the bus!”  I push gently, at an even pace, so as not to make him stumble, and eventually he calms down and gets distracted by interesting things he sees in the aisles.

I could always avoid the potential of a toddler scene by staying out of the public, but how often does Cottonelle go on sale?  Matters of such import can hardly be ignored, and it was quite necessary to stock up.  Besides that, I was having an I-must-have-fried-chicken moment.  Horrible, horrible stuff.  All the same, it was nearly overwhelming and seemed worth the effort of managing a struggling child who absolutely, positively did not want to go shopping.

How can this angelic child possibly be anything but?  He is oh-so-willful, and at two-and-a-half, he doesn’t understand, for some reason, that he can’t always have his way.  His emotions are like a light switch.  When he’s happy, he’s happy, and when he’s not, he’s not.  There is no in-between.

I’m sure it’s all normal.  As my mother would say, par for the course.  The chicken was disappointing, but we are good to go on the Cottonelle front.  Forty double rolls of soft quilted goodness.  That should hold us for quite some time.

I’ve been tagged.

First. The rules.

Each participant posts eight facts about themselves.Taggees should write a blog post of eight random facts about themselves. At the end of the post eight more bloggers are tagged. Go to their blogs. Leave a comment telling them they’re tagged.

Now. On to the facts.

1. I have worked for the same company for 21 years. During that time, I’ve had 3 jobs and 12 supervisors (that I can remember). I’ve known many of my coworkers for as many years, and I love them dearly. They are my work family.
2. I have a mutant toenail on the little toe of my left foot.
3. I have been pregnant six times, and I have one beautiful and perfect child (but my poor little guy is sick at this very moment). I’m hoping, and trying valiantly not to obsess, that this time all goes well and that I will be blessed with one more beautiful and perfect child.
4. I’m a control freak. I don’t know why. I just am. I’m trying to be more gracious about it. I just like things to make sense, and I like to understand things, so I work hard for those two things, and that seems to translate into control freak.
5. I took a two month leave once and toured Europe (with my first college roommate) on a shoestring, ala Europe Through the Back Door. What an experience! Some things I’ll never do again. Some things I’d love to do again.
6. I have a semi-secret ambition to write a best-selling novel, but honestly, I think I would be quite content to lead a life in which I could potter around with various sorts of arts and crafts, day in and day out, with a few puzzles and books scattered among the projects here and there.
7. I am debt free. I worked feverishly for most of my life to attain this state, thinking that once here, I’d have no worries left, but somehow I find other things to be concerned about, and I am still highly critical of what things cost. I think frugality is in my bones. (This is very annoying to my husband.)
8. I like hot, super hot, hot hot HOT, spicy to the point of tears hot, food. Sri racha, Tabasco, crushed red pepper, ground white pepper, black pepper, jalapeno pepper, even habanero pepper. Bring it on!

/ˈfyugɔɪd/ [fyoo-goid]

-adjective Aerospace.

of or pertaining to long-period oscillation in the longitudinal motion of an aircraft, rocket, or missile.

[Origin: 1905-10; irreg. < Gk phyg() flight + -oid]

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

…So you see, it’s all about the ups and downs.

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Probably I shouldn’t be broadcasting my occasional marital woes. Yet I do. Probably I shouldn’t be so forthright with full face photos of my loved ones. Yet I am. I write as the pendulum swings, and although it’s quite certainly tiresome to most, it serves the purpose of helping me regain a sense of balance. (And one of these days, I might actually get over myself.)

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I love words. Especially oddball and interesting words. At the office a few weeks ago, the word phugoid came up, and we all thought (as dry, wry engineers do) that it would fit appropriately into a title for a book. Or a blog. Because lives are full of ups and downs.

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I’ve known for quite some time that I am my own worst enemy. Common knowledge. A given. I have had a recent epiphany, though. (Another fine word. It sounds so holy.) It occurs to me that I am, and have always been, my own biggest fan. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it. Naturally, the revelation spawned the quest for origin, and I can only conclude that I am my father’s daughter, and I am my mother’s daughter. For as widely as they differ, they have some very similar traits. Stubborn defiance. Pride. (Which goeth before the fall.) Haughtiness.It all came about while I was fuming over Mr. Gadget’s recent gross error in judgement. In my mind I was going over how I am worthy of committed, continual, thoughtful love, kindness and respect. Of course I am. I am Sueeeus, for goodness sake. That should be enough. At the same time, I was countering that with thoughts of general disdain towards Mr. Gadget. I could hear my father muttering something about uneducated nincompoop. Of course Gadget is undeserving of the level of respect that I command. Haught indeed. Scornfully and condescendingly proud, she is. Amidst this string of thoughts, the clear vision of Mr. Gadget in his own obstinate glory. He believes in himself and his worth. He believes he is every bit as deserving of committed, continual, thoughtful love, kindness and respect. Therein the epiphany. He is, of course, right. What makes me think that I am so much better and that by default all should bow down in obeisance? I am not all that, as I have until now unadmittedly and unknowingly led myself to believe. This doesn’t excuse his gross error in judgement, of course, but he is a human being after all, and therefore he is worthy of love and respect.

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And so the pendulum swings. Recently I’ve spent some time with a newborn, and also found myself quite frustrated with the entire health and fertility scene, what with data that shows no rhyme nor reason, and doesn’t correlate with anything at all expected. That, coupled with the enormity of the responsibility for yet another fragile life and all that entails. I’ve been a bit discouraged and despondent. I basically gave up. What was I thinking, anyway?

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I’ve had a head cold, and it’s almost impossible to sleep. I can’t breathe, and I can’t wear my cpap mask. The full face mask works, but my mouth gets unbearably dry. The nasal mask is most comfortable and unobtrusive, but my nostrils are completely swollen shut so it won’t work. Without the mask, if I do sleep, I snore terribly and don’t get good rest, plus wake up with a horrible choked up throat. I ended up not sleeping at all. Miserable. Add to that hot flashes and one cold spell. I even spent a little while in the hot tub to warm up. I’ve been almost unbearably tired, and have attributed it to the blood sugar chaos that wrestles within me. It might have been my imagination, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection and it seemed as though certain rather circular areas of skin appeared somewhat darker.It’s cd41. In my estimation, the clomid this month was a complete bust as there was no hint of temperature shift until cd28, when it should have occurred around cd15, and then the hot flashes started around cd35. I used opks from cd12-29 with nothing to show. I started metformin on cd13. Fertility Friend estimates I ovulated on cd33, but I think it was cd28. Because of all this hot flashing, I figured I must have ovulated. Then again, it could be because I’m sick. What the heck, I thought to myself. Why not indulge in a little more self torture. I took a test, expecting nothing of course. Especially since I’ve been drinking gallons of tea and water and emptying my bladder hourly.

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bfp

Now, what to do. Will it last? (I hope.) Will I get my heart all wrapped up around this? (Of course.) Will the outcome be good? (I hope.) Should I wait a few weeks before I decide to think about what I think? (Most probably.) But will I? (Of course not.)

Due date – 7.Mar.2008

Many!  I wish I had a dvd with just some action shots of Spiderman’s thrilling acrobatics, that I could play on a loopback.  They should make videos like that for toddlers.  Superheroes doing their stunts sans all the violence.  Oh, they probably do have videos like that, but I’m not about to go look. 

We had a wonderful ferry ride with the family on Tuesday.  It was a glorious day.  My beautiful boy had the best time with his cousins.  It thrilled my heart to see him playing and laughing and having the time of his life.  How I wish we all lived closer to each other.

This is called belly wrestling.  What a hoot!  It’s their version of Sumo wrestling.  They lift their shirts and collide bellies, then fall on floor shrieking with laughter. 

The flip side to that most beautiful and perfect of days was the mother of all tantrums when it was time to go home.  He wrestled against his seatbelt like a king salmon out of water, and howled until his voice was hoarse.  He was all sweaty and worked up.  It killed me, but I had to keep driving.  When we got home, he had a bruise on his shoulder from his thrashing episode.  The next morning he woke up and asked where his cousin was.  Oh, it broke my heart.  I wish they could live with us.  It was a jubilant household full of children.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  Even the small things like seeing their small forms seated in a row, eating their lunch.  My heart swells.

Oh look. I’ve moved. Again.

I’m in the process of migrating to a new service provider, so I decided to implement my vanity domain in the process. I’m hoping that this new provider will be much better. So far I’m pleased with the customer support.

I have a redirect on the old url (sueeeus.holyshiznit.com), but I think I will completely disable that subdomain after a little while. I have a 30 day money back guarantee, so it will be within the month.

Eeeeeeeeehhhhhh, what a hassle.