The Rest of the Story

Or, Blogging as Emotional Outlet and Free Therapy

Part I: In which nobody figures out I'm carrying twins until 18 weeks

In retrospect, the "diagnosis" explains so many things: why the "morning" sickness has been so awful; why I'm so, um, large; why I'm extra tired and emotional; why I felt movement so early (and in places I didn't think such an early fetus should be). But denial, she's a powerful animal, and alternative explanations were so easy to come by. Every pregnancy is different; this is the second time, so you'll "pop" sooner; you already have a toddler to care for; maybe it's gas; blah, blah, blah.

The midwife did say that looking back, my uterus was bigger at 13 weeks than "normal." It was just wasn't enough bigger that she got concerned. Plus, they plunked down the Doppler twice and heard a healthy heartbeat -- nobody thought to maybe wave the thing around a little to see what else was in there. And, since we spaced the visits farther apart (at the midwife's suggestion), there was never another chance for an actual professional to say, "hmmm, something's different."

Oh, well. We could've found out in the delivery room, I suppose.

Part II: In which the Discovery is made

We were late for our ultrasound appointment yesterday. I wrote 7:30 in my planner, but we should have been there at 7:15. The witch at the front desk pointed this out to me three times. I apologized the first two.

I apologized again to the ultrasound tech (after all, she's the one who actually had to wait for us). She, of course, was very nice about it, and she assured us there would still be time before my midwife appointment to do the full scan. HA HA HA HA HA HA.

About 15 seconds after she started moving the wand around, she started making faces. That made me nervous, and it didn't help when she said, "Who's your doctor again?" Then she twitched the wand up to the top of my uterus so we could see both heads at once, and said, "Do you see what I'm seeing here?" And then she had to get out the smelling salts. Almost.

She said she got suspicious because she started on the side of my belly AWAY from the bulge, but found a baby anyway. She sneakily confirmed it for herself before showing us the money shot, hence all the frowny faces.

So, there was not time for a complete check-up on either baby, but she hit the high points (heartbeat, placentas, skull circumference, and the sex of the babies as a bonus for us). The Level 2 u/s tomorrow at the perinatal clinic will be more complete.

Part III: In which we realize that this might maybe sort of be OK a little

There was much crying and panicking yesterday when I first got the news. I never wanted a large family. In fact, I made a big deal about not being outnumbered by our kids (again, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA). It's hard to explain the feeling -- I mean, when you see your child(ren!) for the first time, any expectations become irrelevant anyway, right? I was -- dumbfounded, I guess.

Now that I'm recovering from the shock, I am willing to admit to some cautious optimism. My pregnancy is now higher risk, but I am healthy. I will miss my job, but we will all be less stressed -- and the budget will be less tight -- if I stay home for a while. It will be hard work, but our families and friends have already promised an overwhelming amount of help and support. We will be OK.

Part IV: In which we demonstrate that laughter is truly the best medicine

After Raisin retired for the night, DH and I finally had a chance to discuss yesterday's events, including:

One of DH's first reactions: Well, I'll ask the doctor about a vasectomy.
One of my first reactions: Poor, poor Raisin. What have I done?
My favorite new word I learned yesterday: hyperovulation. My ovaries, they are hyper. Calm down, girls, the party's over.

Take a Deep Breath

Here's what we know so far:
-Each baby has its own placenta and amniotic sac. Good news.
-Best guess is that I'm carrying one boy and one girl.
-Both babies are measuring right on schedule for 18 weeks, and the quick scan the ultrasound tech was able to do looks good.
-I can no longer see the midwives, but I can see an OB in the same office, so hopefully the basic philosophy of care will stay the same.
-I have an ultrasound at a perinatal clinic on Friday so they can do a more thorough check on each baby.

The list of things we don't know is infinite and frightening, but includes:
-Whether I will be able to travel as planned this summer.
-Whether we can afford day care for 3 kids.
-Whether I am going to lose my mind 100% or if parts of it might be salvageable.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

Oh, and OH HOLY CRAP!

Twins.

TWINS.

I am a complete freaking basket case. There are so many decisions to make, and so many things to think about. I'm off to a good start, though, I think. So far today I:

1) Cried
2) Ate
3) Showed up to work 1.5 hours later than expected

So I can scratch those 3 things off the list. Whew.

Birthday Party

I am jealous of my daughter. She's got perfect hair and eyes and a stunning complexion. Not fair. And now, she has better toys than I do.

Seriously. My dad built her an entire miniature kitchen for her birthday. There's a refrigerator, a sink, and a range/oven. There are real working lights in the fridge and oven. The fridge has a crisper drawer, the oven has removable baking racks. The tiny utensils my mother-in-law gave her are in way better shape than my real ones. She has stainless steel cookware, people. And itty-bitty oven mitts. And wooden knives with which to cut up her wooden veggies. (Have you seen those things? The ones with the pieces velcro'd together so you really can cut them open? SO JEALOUS!!!!)

DH and I gave her a tricycle. She can't quite pedal on her own, but the model we picked out has a removable steering handle so an adult can push it from behind. Of course, between the rain we had all weekend and the houseful of grown-ups ready to bow to her every whim, she now believes that this is a prime way to get up and down our hallway.

"Mommy turn!" she said to me at one point yesterday.

"Oh, honey, I don't think I'll fit on your bike," I said (NAIVE MOMMY!).

She turned around and gestured impatiently at the handle. "No, Mommy turn push!"

Mm-hmmmm. You're lucky you're so cute, sweets.

Time Flies

Dear Raisin,

Today you are 2 years old. Yes, you really are, even though you told Daddy last week that you're 8, and even though you refused to let us sing "Happy Birthday" to you this morning. The force of your will is mighty, but I'm afraid it's not strong enough yet to actually influence time.

The last 2 years have been nothing like I expected, and everything I ever wanted all at the same time. I am so in love with you. I love seeing the signs of the person you're becoming. As you leave babyhood behind you, you are showing us more and more glimpses of a girl who is bright, funny, fun-loving, caring, and joyful. I am excited to find out what's next for you.

You might be surprised to hear that, since lately things have been kind of difficult at our house. There is an undercurrent of change that is hard on everyone: in a few months, you'll have a new brother or sister. At the same time, you're learning to sleep in a big-girl bed and learning how to use the potty. You're finding out that you have some control over the things that happen to you, and you're trying to figure out what to do with that control. It's a lot to deal with, and I want you to know that I understand when you get frustrated.

You need to know that your Daddy and I want you to be a strong, independent woman someday. It's just that sometimes we also want you to just let us buckle you into the car seat already. That's why we sometimes get frustrated with your experiments in self-determination -- not because you shouldn't express your opinions, but because we are still used to being parents of a baby who can't make choices on her own.

We'll learn together, Squirt. Bear with me.

In the meantime, please don't grow up too fast. Don't stop giving mid-air kisses with that audible "mwah!" sound, or trying to burrow your way into my chest when you're tired or scared. Please still get excited about every puppy that passes our house. Don't become too mature for rides up and down the hallway in a laundry basket, or to run around the house with your Hello Kitty hamper upside-down over your head. You can be a big girl and Mommy's baby at the same time, OK?

Happy birthday, sweet girl. I love you.

Love, Mommy.

Raisinisms

After posting yesterday, I thought of a couple more things I meant to record here. This is more for posterity than anything else, so feel free to move on if you're not interested in the internal workings of my daughter's mind.

Her favorite foods are chicken (meaning nuggets), cheese, juice, "kepup" (ketchup), and "syrpup" (syrup).

She's figured out that in a restaurant, you tell the server what you want, and then they bring it to you. Being a toddler, however, she's not keen on the part where you have to wait between ordering and eating. We're sometimes able to distract her with crackers or crayons, but often she'll crane her neck around constantly, looking for the server. When that hapless employee does pass our table, Raisin yells, "My chicken? MY CHICKEN!"

Once we went to a small family-owned place near our house. They were understaffed and really busy, and the poor waitress kept passing our table with trays for other patrons. She started apologizing every time she walked by us, because she was followed throughout the restaurant by Raisin's indignant cries.

Hmmm. I'm sure there was more, but of course I never think of these things while I can actually post them -- always while I'm driving down the freeway. So there might be another installment to come!

The Power of Positive Thinking

Lately I have often caught myself doing this whole "poor, poor, pitiful me" bit. I flatter myself that I've not inflicted it on anyone beyond my immediate family (and possibly the internet), although there's really no excuse for doing that to Raisin or DH. So, today, we try to move beyond "wah, I'm pregnant and my back hurts and my daughter is so sick and why must God mock me this way?" and try to look at the bright side of life. You know, Pollyanna. Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens. Etc.

Really, things are better. The number of hours since either Raisin or I have vomited is steadily increasing. We're hoping to set a new record. Score!

Also, Raisin is unbearably cute despite her trials. She's graduated to the big-girl bed, which she loves. She even asks to go to bed sometimes, although she really has no intention of staying there. She just wants to visit.

Her favorite phrase, "what doing?" has become a constant in our house. Despite our best efforts, DH and I have not been able to convince her that "sleeping" is an acceptable response to this question. If she's awake enough to ask "what doing?" we had better be awake enough to provide an interesting answer.

She loves to play pretend, and she's quite the little housekeeper. She cooks excellent pretend snacks (Grandma and Grandpa are making a mini kitchen for her birthday next week), and she'll stand on a stool at our kitchen sink "washing dishes" quite happily -- sometimes for minutes at a time.

Our family's love affair with ducks continues. There are at least two pairs nesting on the pond near our house, and Raisin loves to visit them. Unfortunately, the path around the pond is designed so that you can't get really close, which leads to a lot of disappointment. She makes up for it by shouting, "HI DUCKIES! QUACK QUACK QUACK! WHAT DOING, DUCKIES?" I'm sure the neighbors love that.

She knows her colors really well, which is a big hit with the grandmas. She's also learning letters, although I think her biggest joy in the alphabet right now is just that she thinks the song is funny. Maybe not, though -- a couple of weeks ago she handed me one of the letters from her bathtub alphabet set, and said, "i!" "My kid's a genius!" I thought. She's reading letters, and she's not even two! Of course, then I handed her an "e," and she called that an "i," too. But still.

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I'm definitely feeling movement from Baby, usually at night. I had a sneezing fit the other day, and the kid most decidedly did not appreciate being jostled. The responsive kicks were as strong as some I remember from Raisin's third trimester.

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And, as a final random thought: At our big family Easter/April birthdaypalooza this weekend, my grandmother (age 79, or thereabouts) showed up with a bright pink frisbee for my uncle's dog. When we arrived, my uncle wrestled it away from the dog to show my mom. "Our mother will not tell me where she got this," he said. We all gathered around to take a closer look; it was decorated with the logo of a Minneapolis nightspot where "girls! girls! girls!" are the primary source of entertainment. We still don't know how my grandparents obtained the frisbee of questionable morality, or why such an establishment would be giving away frisbees.

I feel better now. How about you?

The Trouble With Faith

Or, How Raisin's Mommy Lost the Last Shreds of Her Sanity in Just 5 Days.

Saturday: urgent care. Diagnosis: pinkeye. Could be viral, could be bacterial. No problem, I can handle this. Either the drops will help, or it will clear up on it's own. I believed.

Sunday: emergency room. Diagnosis: croup. This means the pinkeye is viral. Slightly scary, but doctor says we caught it early, and they give steroids that will hopefully prevent a more serious attack. Should clear up on its own after that. I believed.

Monday: at home. No new problems, so Raisin must be recovering, right? Sure.

Tuesday: at home, fever is 103. No appointments available with regular doctor, so back to urgent care. Diagnosis: secondary bacterial infection because immune system was weakened by the virus. (It seems she has a double ear infection, bronchitis, a new round of bacterial pinkeye, and possibly strep throat. $%&#.) Still, I believed in the power of the antibiotics, and it was a relief to be able to do something more concrete.

Wednesday: at home, still. Again, hoping for a day of rest so Raisin can recover. She starts throwing up, her mommy throws a tantrum. I'm running out of faith, calling the clinic in tears, moments away from insisting that SOMEONE in the medical profession had better $%&#ing FIX my child RIGHT NOW. Diagnosis: it could be a reaction to the antibiotic, but it's too soon to tell.

Then, Raisin looks over at me and says, "Mommy, what doing? I hungry." So she eats some grapes. All of a sudden, she's almost 100% back to normal. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. This parenting thing is, like, hard, dude.

Four Years

Today marks four years that DH and I have been married. By the numbers: four years, 1.33333333 kids. We're in our 2nd house and our 2nd and 3rd cars. We've travelled halfway around the world together, and had adventures in our own backyard.

Some people think it's romantic to say that they can't imagine their life without someone. I think that just shows a lack of imagination. I can imagine my life without my husband, and that's why I stay. No matter how furious I am that he has left his towel in a sodden heap on the bed AGAIN, I would never choose another life but this one.

DH, happy anniversary! I love you. Thank you for being so good at loving me.

Search Strings!

I had nothing to write about until... I checked my recent search strings. I'm a real, live blogger now, kids -- I actually have some interesting ones!

life skills class mn: I'm pretty sure I specifically said I have no skills. At all.

playb0y Brooke Shields: I don't even want to think about the kind of traffic that's gonna bring me.

Julie loves Kirby: I just said I admired the guy, OK?

raisin picture: If you're looking for pictures of my daughter, I'm very sorry that I lied to the whole internet. I'll never do it again. If you're looking for pictures of dried grapes, I'm gonna need to know why.

jamba juice pregnancy: Rock on! Just watch out for the "femme boost" -- a snotty Jamba Juice lady lectured me about ordering that one while pregnant.

Things Are... Different This Time

If it weren't for the physical symptoms of pregnancy, I would not feel pregnant this time around. I mean, it's kind of hard to ignore the puking and the growing belly (they weren't kidding when they said I'd "pop" earlier the second time!) and the constant need to eat -- post-puking, obviously. I could even swear I'd felt movement, if it didn't seem so ridiculously early.

Even mentally, I think it's sinking in that we are having another baby. I keep making lists of things we need to do. I am looking forward to the fall, and worrying about how we'll manage the needs of two kids. I keep telling people I have a "boy" vibe this time (I was right about Raisin, so we'll see....).

Emotionally, though, I'm just not getting it. I'm not experiencing the kind of connection to this baby that I felt with Raisin. Truthfully, I'm not even sure I remember how I felt with Raisin -- maybe I'm projecting the connection I feel with her now back onto the pregnancy? Either way, it's bothering me a little, when I'm not too tired to think about it at all.

I mentioned the feeling to the midwife, and she thinks it's normal. "I wouldn't say a pregnancy can take care of itself, exactly," she said, "but it almost can. Your focus needs to be on your daughter, and that's OK."

Reassuring words, but I could use some more. Did anyone else experience something like this with a second (or later) pregnancy?

13 Weeks

Dear Used-To-Be-Not-My-Favorite-Midwife, I am heartily sorry for every bad thing I ever thought or said about you. You are wonderful and compassionate, and I think you must've been having a bad day the last time we met. If, in future, you could avoid having a bad day when I am in the middle of a major pregnancy freak-out? That would be much appreciated. Thanks ever so much.

Here are what I thought were the highlights of our time together today:

Episode 1:

UTBNMFM enters the exam room, joking with the "Mid-Husband." (I was positive I had written something about him before, but I can't find it. Anyway, 2 years ago he was the only male Certified Nurse-Midwife in Minnesota. I'm guessing that's still true. I'm sure he totally thinks the mid-husband thing is funny, and he never hears it. We love him immensely, as he is the CNM who took part in Raisin's birth.)

UTBNMFM: Hi, Grape. I was just commenting that I didn't understand why you'd chosen to see this guy in the hallway. [referring to my panic visit a few weeks ago]
Mid-Husband: Well, she was desperate. She was puking. How're you doing now?
Me: OK. Better, I guess.
Mid-Husband: You're still looking kind of pale.
Etc., etc., etc. -- much caring banter and sympathetic suggestions from both CNMs. Grape feels all warm and tingly and loved.

Episode 2

UTBNMFM: I don't like my patients to worry too much about weight gain during pregnancy. Try not to take it too seriously, ok?
Me: Will you marry me?

Episode 3

UTBNMFM: Unless you feel it's necessary, I just don't think we need to do a pelvic exam today.
Me: Seriously, I think I love you.

Also, since this is pregnancy #2, she said it's fine if we spread out the early visits a little more. In other words, no more exams until the ultrasound May 3! (Unless I freak out about something, which we all know will NEVER happen.)

Just Overheard in the Office....

Person 1 is asking Person 2 about an impending tonsil surgery.

Person 1: Well, just don't end up like my dad. When he was about 12, he went in to the hospital expecting to get a tonsillectomy, but when he woke up, his wee-wee hurt instead! They'd given him a vasectomy too!

Person 2: (confused silence)

Person 1: His mom and dad told the doctors, "While he's out, do the vasectomy too!" He was 12!

Person 2: (more confused silence)

Person 1: Oh, no! Not a vasectomy! A Caesarean! No! I mean, a circumcision.

Everyone in earshot: OHHHHHH.

Message Board

To the two guys who rescued my Reese's from the evil office vending machine: I know I told you yesterday, but you really are my heroes! (Seriously, I know I was being all nonchalant about filling out the claim envelope for my 70 cents, but inside I was FREAKING OUT because I didn't have any more change and I wanted -- I mean the baby needed -- some chocolate.)

To the gentleman I encountered this morning on the commute to work: Don't you think it was a little early for all the road rage-y scariness, dude? Cut back on the caffeine, or drink more -- whatever you gotta do! Oh, and also? I'm rubber and you're glue.

To the kids in Raisin's toddler class at daycare: I love that you all shout, "Raisin's mommy!" when I come to pick her up. It makes me feel like a giant Norm on a very small-scale version of "Cheers." Of course, "Cheers" will be to you what "I Love Lucy" is to me.... Still, I know Ricky Ricardo, so you should know Norm Peterson. This is your HERITAGE. Be proud.

To the guy at the technology help desk at work: "Help desk," my foot. Thanks for nothing.

To myself: Get back to work.

Monsters

About two months ago, Raisin found something in her room to be frightened of. We knew she was scared, because she'd wake up screaming every night. Some nights it'd happen several times, and she could only fall back asleep if one of us stayed with her.

She couldn't tell us what she was scared of, though, so I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't want to introduce the idea of scary things (like monsters), because I was afraid that I'd be compounding the problem. But two months later, DH and I are tired and crabby, and she's only sleeping marginally better despite our efforts.

So, this weekend, thanks to a suggestion from Moxie, we turned her harmonicas from KinderMusik into "monster scarers." I might be jinxing it by saying this, but I think it's working. She slept until 6 or 6:30 the last three nights (previous record: 4 am, after which she would only sleep in our bed, while the two of us clung tenuously to the scant inches of space she left us on the edges).

Last night, I'd put her to bed with no problems, and I actually thought she'd fallen asleep right away, since she was so quiet. Then, about 15 minutes later, we heard harmonica playing from her room. A few minutes after that, she really was asleep. I've decided there are 3 possible interpretations here:

1. Heartbreaking: she was scared of monsters, and now she's in there all alone, fighting hell's minions with just the piddly piece of plastic her mother gave her. I am a terrible mother.

2. Empowering: she wasn't sure what she was scared of, but now has a name to put on the fear, and a way to fight it. She is whistling in the dark. I am an awesome mother.

3. Hilarious and adorable: She couldn't give a rat's ass about the monsters, and she's just been crying because she doesn't want to sleep. At least now she can play the "I gotta go to bed" blues. Artistic expression helps her insomnia. I am still awesome.

I Believe

...that grown women should not carry purple "Hello Kitty" backpacks as their going-to-the-office bag. What you do on the weekends -- well, that's your own business.

It's Possible That My Hormones Are Taking Over, A Little

There used to be a Jamba Juice in my building, but it closed. I was sad, but there are other Jamba Juices, so I moved on. Then, the building put up signs that said a sushi place would move in to that spot. Yahoo!!! Sushi right outside my door, practically. Jamba Juice could stuff it. I was thrilled.

I only got to eat a couple of delicious sushi lunches before I found out I was pregnant, but I didn't despair (too much). I thought, "Hey, they have California rolls. I'm good to go!"

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S HOLY WAS I THINKING!!!???? Do you KNOW what sushi restaurants smell like? They smell like stinky raw fish, that's what, and they start preparing the damn fish before 8 a.m. every day. Even if pregnant women have to walk right by them just to get in the elevator to the office, they just go ahead putting their fishy fish smells all up in everybody's air space. They have no consideration for these poor women, who must try to hold their breath and dash past so they don't puke on the floor. It's like the sushi chefs DON'T EVEN CARE.

*Sob* I want my Jamba Juice back.

Where Have I Been?

Well, I'll tell you. I've been in Arizona, and it was lovely. Thank you for asking.

DH and I thoroughly enjoyed our company-sponsored vacation. We relaxed, we ate lunch by the pool, I watched several co-workers drink themselves just a little silly. I had a manicure and a pedicure at possibly the world's most relaxing spa. DH got all dusty on a jeep tour of the desert. I got to see Phoenix and Sedona, two places I have never been.

Meanwhile, Raisin learned so many new things at Grandma and Grandpa's house that I'm a little bit afraid of her. Somehow she has morphed into an honest-to-goodness CHILD; one who uses subject-verb sentences like, "I go potty too"* and "I'll be right back" (complete with an admonitory wave of the forefinger).

Fueling this fear is her new-found resourcefulness. An item placed, I thought, safely out of her reach on the dining room table is now easily obtained. She matter-of-factly hauled herself right up on one of the chairs, which she first had to move away from the table to give herself room. She's also determined to get herself into the bathtub rather than being lifted. She could do it, if we'd let her, but her method is to scramble her legs against the outside of the tub until she gets enough lift to propel herself over. Head first.

I have dreams in which she attempts the same stunt to get out of her crib. She hasn't tried it yet, but a big-girl bed is nevertheless in her very near future.

*She has yet to actually use the potty for its intended purpose, but she is a very dedicated student of the process. She sits, she asks politely for toilet paper, she wipes, and she washes her hands. Any suggestions for ways I can help her to understand that the missing piece is actually quite critical?

Liar, Liar

OK, it was only yesterday when I was promising to use my newly-discovered picture-posting skills (and by skills, I mean locating the button that lets you post pictures) to post pictures of Raisin.

But last night I had dreams about internet stalkers getting their hands on pictures of my pretty, pretty baby, and now I can't do it.

Yes, thank you, I know I am the crazy. I can't help it.

Confessions

I figured out how to post a picture on my blog so that I could include a photo of a baseball player. I've never posted a picture of Raisin. I pinky-swear that I will fix that soon.

I told Raisin that I was drinking milk, but it was Sprite.

I got out the maternity clothes last night so I could wear the comfy sweats. In 4-5 months when I'm complaining about being tired of wearing them, I dare you to remind me that I'm the one who wanted to get it all out so early. (Fortunately for my ego, everything else is still too big. But I LOVE those sweats.)

I believe my friend is making a mistake, but I won't tell him that. This is partly because I don't have the right, but mostly because I'm too chicken.

I think Grease is one of the best movies ever made. Shut up.

Grease II is unquestionably one of the worst movies ever made. Maybe the worst.

It's a slow week at work, and I am -- well, I'm taking it easy a little. Shhhh.

I won/earned a trip to Phoenix from work. (I was nominated for a "good job" award, and everyone who gets those awards is eligible for this trip. I was selected.) DH and I go next week, and I'm really looking forward to it. At the same time, I feel guilty because my coworkers don't get to go. Raisin will be spoiled by Baba and Gamma while we are gone -- another source of both guilt and pleasure.

I have possibly thrown up more this week than most of the rest of my life combined. Neat, huh? (Also see, "work, taking it easy at.")

Someone told me yesterday that I was starting to look pregnant. The other people in the conversation took giant metaphorical leaps backward to avoid being associated with her. Ha!

I will probably put on my pajamas right after Raisin goes to sleep tonight. Then I will watch "Survivor" and complain about how much Shane bugs me. I can't wait.

Kiiiirrrrrbbbbbyyyyy PUCKETT!!!!!

If I had to name 5 members of the Baseball Hall of Fame to save my life, I would die.

If you needed to know who won the World Series in 1988, 1989, or 1990, I would be the very last person in the whole world you should ask. THE LAST.

I can probably only name 2-3 players on this year's Twins team.

But I sure as hell know Kirby Puckett, Kent Hrbek, Gary Gaetti, Dan Gladden, Greg Gagne, et al. I was 9 when the Twins won the World Series in '87, 13 when they did it again in '91 (I thought Chuck Knoblauch was HOTT, and I almost cried when he left us for The Dreaded Yankees).

Kirby is a hero in this state. He led us to two World Series victories. He loved the game, and he taught a new generation of ball players to love it too. (Torii Hunter is one of the few Twins players I CAN name.) He was generous, and he stuck with Minnesota even when he could have made more money somewhere else.

His last 10 years were sad and hard, and now that he's gone there's a lot of debate about whether he deserved that or not. In the end, nobody really cares anymore. This is how Minnesota will remember him. So long, Puck. We'll miss you.

Random On My Mind

Raisin has developed an aversion to weekend naps, so we are trying to get her to at least have some "quiet play time" instead. Overheard this Saturday during our first attempt at "quiet play time:" "Mommy? Mommy! MOMMY!!! Dinah, Dinah, Dinah, Dinah [a reference to her new book about a shiny choo-choo train named Dinah]. Elmo. Baby. Baby Elmo! Mommy? Mommy! MOMMY!!! Mommy, back! Mommy, Raisin! Mommy, Raisin sad!!! Mommy! Daddy? Mommy!"

It's going well, I think.

The new baby (Raisinette? Craisin? I've got nothin') has a heartbeat! Did you know that in the 8th-9th week of pregnancy, some women experience some normal very light bleeding as pregnancy functions are transferred from the corpus luteum to the placenta? I didn't know that, which resulted in a pretty severe freak-out and a trip to the midwife. (How severe of a freak-out? After being reassured by hearing the heartbeat, my systolic blood pressure went down almost 15 mm Hg.)

Bonus: relief seems to greatly reduce the not-just-morning sickness. The midwife also recommended papaya extract. Anybody tried this with any success?

In Which I Start Out Trying to be Funny, But End Up All Maudlin Instead

You know what's great about pregnancy? Nobody wants to mess with me. I'm trying not to expect special treatment (except at home, of course -- sorry DH), but damn if I don't get it anyway.

I told a friend that my plan for healthier eating had been shot to hell by the not-just-morning sickness. This friend, a total food puritan, responded, "oh, you just need to pamper yourself right now!"

Last Wednesday, I called DH when I was leaving work. He was supposed to go to class that night, but I knew there was no way I'd be able to take care of Raisin alone -- too sick. So, he skipped class. Last night, he apologized to his group for missing last week, and explained what had happened. They fell all over themselves to say that under no circumstances should this class take precedence over the needs/wants of a pregnant wife. Dude.

I've even had managers at work (not my manager, mind you -- but they still outrank me, so it counts) tell me not to worry about work projects. I'm growing a baby. Work can wait.

To a certain extent, I agree with this philosophy. I know my limitations, and I'm willing to scale back my expectations of myself while my body deals with the stresses of pregnancy. At the same time, I'm scared to think that everyone is giving me this much license. I worry about taking unfair advantage. I worry about lowering my expectations too far. I worry about jeopardizing projects and goals on which I've worked hard, but that now are taking a backseat to what's going on in my uterus.

Fortunately, this time around I have one person who will not (cannot) cut me any slack. Raisin needs Mommy to draw stick figures in soap crayon on the bathtub walls, whether or not I think I'm too tired. She needs Mommy to cut her chicken nuggets into bite-sized pieces, even when the sight of them churns my stomach. (Daddy has different jobs. This post is about me. Me!!!)

She doesn't yet understand what's changed about me, or how it will impact her (that's another post waiting to happen). So for now at least, she just doesn't accept any change in me at all. I think I'm relieved by that. It's like there's a piece of my life that hasn't been completely transformed by this pregnancy, and I guess I really need that, at least until I start feeling better and can reclaim some more of myself.

So Proud

If DH and I are to disagree about something (in a very civil and I-statement-oriented way, of course), it's likely to be the degree of cleanliness required in our home. I am of the opinion that dishes should be washed, clothes picked up off the floor, and closet doors and dresser drawers closed by the end of each day. DH is of the opinion that my obsession with hiding our mess from ourselves is, um, silly.

Yesterday, while dressing Raisin, DH pushed her dresser drawer closed only 3/4 of the way. Raisin shoved him aside and refused to let him finish putting on her clothes until she had finished closing the drawer.

Then, last night, she spent her entire bathtime "scrubbing" the tub with a washcloth.

I love this kid.

Good Times, Really Good Times

Ah, the early days of pregnancy. I'd forgotten the joys of becoming nauseated by sounds (and just about anything else). I didn't remember what it was like for my stomach to be hungry while my brain rejects the idea of food -- any food.

And sleep -- sleep is awesome too, what with the not being able to get comfortable, and the getting up to pee in the middle of the night. I'm only 7 weeks along -- I don't even have a belly yet! But I've still had to get out the trusty body pillow, which DH loves (he called it the blockade pillow today, and he's not wrong).

The hormonal emotional swings are also fun for the whole family. Oh, and the exhaustion. Check, check.

I am a delight to know these days. Please come by, you'd be in for a real treat.

The Giveaway Clue

For the answer to the riddle, we'll turn to another of the 20th Century's great literary minds, Phoebe Buffay:

Are you in there, little fetus?
In nine months, will you come greet us?
I will buy you some Adidas...

A Riddle

Metaphors

by Sylvia Plath

I'm a riddle in nine syllables.

An elephant, a ponderous house,

A melon strolling on two tendrils.

O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.

Money's new-minted in this fat purse.

I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

I've eaten a bag of green apples,

Boarded the train there's no getting off.

**If you figure this out and by some strange fluke know my parents, please don't tell them. We're having dinner with them tomorrow and I want to tell them in person. :)

Justice

Ok, so today I heard a story on the radio about a woman who left her three children (the oldest of whom is 3) alone at her apartment while she went to try to see a Jerry Springer* taping. After FIVE HOURS, the oldest one knocked on a neighbor's door for help. Police were called, charges filed, and the mother is spending 30 days in prison. (The kids will be entered into the foster care system.)

My question is: 30 days? I know nothing about this woman except this incident. Maybe she's ordinarily a very loving and protective mother. Maybe she understands that losing her kids is the worst thing that could happen to her. Maybe serving 30 days' time will convince her to get whatever help or support she needs (assuming, of course, that she can afford it).

But maybe not. I have to say, my gut reaction to this was that she deserves much worse. If she'd had the care of MY child, I wouldn't be able to think of a punishment harsh enough for abandonment. And why should her children have any less protection than mine?

*The DJ's punchline: "... and now Jerry Springer would like to have her as a guest on the show."

Yesterday

5:45 am: Decide to get up a few minutes earlier than normal.
5:45 am: Use "extra" time to have peaceful breakfast. Read.
6:15 am: Realize that "peaceful" breakfast has now actually made you later than usual. Curse.
6:16 am: Raisin uses her internal radar to realize that you are already late. She wakes up earlier than usual, demanding attention. Curse (inwardly of course).
6:17 am: Husband takes over with Raisin, allowing you to shower. Relax a little.
6:30 am: Get out of shower and commence trying to dry hair and apply makeup with Raisin underfoot so DH can shower.
6:50 am: Self and Raisin both groomed, but both in pajamas. Dress Raisin.
7:05 am: CURSE CURSE CURSE. Raisin is dressed, but you are not. Work bag not packed. CURSE.
7:06 am: DH offers to take Raisin to daycare. Relax a little.
7:19 am: Finally manage to leave house, clothed and relatively put-together. Relax a little more.
7:40 am: Almost to parking garage. Realize can still be on time to work. Decide day will not totally suck.
7:41 am: Get honked at by idiot who thinks it's your fault he's blocking traffic. Curse.
7:45 am: Watch, shivering, from the bus stop as two buses fly by without stopping. Curse.
8:00 am: Arrive at work.
8:00 - 10:00 am: Work work work, meeting meeting meeting. Feel productive and hopeful. Project may be OK. Cheer up a little.
10:05 am: Attend Weight Watchers weigh-in. Realize have lost 4 pounds. REJOICE AND SING.
10:15 am: Return to work. All hell has broken loose with project. Curse.
10:15 - 2:00: Miss several meetings while scrambling to prepare for afternoon presentation. Project falls down around ankles, but presentation WILL BE READY DAMMIT.
2:00-3:30 pm: Give presentation. Unexpectedly, it goes really well. Cheer up quite a bit.
3:31 pm: Return to desk. Different project has run into problems. Curse.
3:35-4:12 pm: Work out new problems. Relax a little.
4:13-5:00 pm: Catch up on emails and phone calls. Leave feeling cautiously optimistic.
5:00-5:40 pm: Commute home and pick up Raisin at daycare.
5:43 pm: Set Raisin up with TiVo'd Sesame Street while DH cooks dinner and you start gathering trash for tomorrow's pick-up.
5:55 pm: Finish with trash. Head out to trash can to deposit. Trip and sprawl spectacularly across deck. Twist ankle, bruise knee, and scrape hand. Curse.
6:00 pm: Put on pajamas. Cry a little.
6:02 pm: Suck it up.
6:04-6:30 pm: Eat dinner.
6:30-6:55 pm: Clean kitchen. DH bathes Raisin and puts her to bed.
6:57-7:09 pm: Talk to MIL on phone. Feel better.
7:10-8:00 pm: Watch Gilmore Girls on TiVo. Threaten writers that LUKE AND LORELAI HAD BETTER GET MARRIED DAMMIT.
8:00-10:00 pm: Watch TV, yadda yadda yadda.
11:30 pm: SLEEP. Thank God.

Please Give Me Advice, Part II

My lovely and loving husband recently brought up an interesting point. Raisin is most definitely a mama's girl. DH takes this really well, but it can be really frustrating for both of us. For him, because some days he'd rather just get a kiss instead of, "NO DADDY!!! NO NO NO NO NO!" For me, because some days there is simply no other choice but for Raisin and I to be glued at the hip. It's the only way for all of us to keep our sanity.

Does anyone out there have any words of wisdom about this? We've been told before that there are "mommy" phases and "daddy" phases. So far, her entire life has pretty much been a mommy phase, with definite peaks and valleys -- times, like the last two weeks, when she'll hardly tolerate anyone else, and other times when she's a very easy-going kid. Are the daddy phases still coming?

Also, even during the valleys, I have to admit she's still pretty easy-going. She rarely cries when being left with a trusted caregiver. She enjoys daycare and seems to really thrive there. So, I'm not even sure this really is a problem, or if we'd be creating a problem by trying to force her feelings one way or the other.

Thoughts?

Tidbits

I have readers! Thank you for commenting!

Scene 1: I am reading in the living room, and DH stops by on his way to get something to drink.
Him: On House they were just doing that CSI camera thing where the camera goes into somebody's body. Except they were going into this woman's nose. And then I paused the TiVo, and now the whole TV screen is filled up with this woman's nostril.
Me: Um...
Him: I just didn't want to be the only one with that mental picture.
Me: Thanks?

Scene 2: DH is fixing dinner, while I settle Raisin in her high chair and set the table. I finish a few minutes before dinner is ready, and Raisin is getting impatient.
Raisin: Mommy! Snack! Snack! Milk! Mommy! (ad infinitum)
Me: Raisin, you're hungry, huh? (yes, stating the obvious is my specialty. shut up.)
Raisin: Hungry!
Me: Well, tell Daddy to hurry up! (didn't think she knew this phrase)
Raisin: HURRY UP, DADDY!!!! (oops, guess she did)
DH, as I collapse in helpless giggles: Nice going!

Scene 3: After dinner.
DH: Raisin, are you all done? (no response, but also no indication of wanting to eat)
Me: Raisin, are you done? (no response, I pull her chair away from the table)
Raisin: No! Mine! Mine!
DH, recognizing this as a ploy: No, Raisin, you're done. Do you want to take a bath?
Raisin: No bath, Daddy! No Daddy, no no no!
Me, surprised: Raisin, are you sure!? You don't want to take a bath?
Raisin: Mommy bath! Yeah.

Scene 4, which I belatedly remembered after Scene 2: My brother is showing us his Napoleon Dynamite toy, which says several phrases from the movie.
Doll: ...It's pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a lion and a tiger mixed... bred for its skills in magic.
Me: Oh, boy. We should probably turn that thing off. Next thing you know, Raisin will be saying "idiot!" all the time.
Raisin: Idiot!
Me: I am the stupidest person ever.

I almost missed it....

But this is De-Lurking week!

From my stats, I doubt I have a lot of visitors who aren't commenting, but if you are, please comment this week. I'd love to know you're out there!

So tired. So very, very tired.

Sleep is very important to me. If I don't get the requisite 7-8 hours my body demands, ugly things are gonna happen. I have empirical evidence of that this week, to wit:

--One morning, I got out two spoons with which to eat my breakfast cereal. Once I realized the error, I chose to make use of both spoons because that was easier than returning one to the drawer.

--I had to do math in my head to figure out whether I needed to take the elevator up or down to get from the third floor of my office building to the fifth.

--I nearly cried when a DJ on the radio announced that excessive caffeine consumption can cause ringing in the ears. I don't drink that much coffee, nor do I have ringing in my ears. I just thought it was sad.

--A friend I rarely see is having lunch tomorrow with another friend, and I am thinking about not joining them because it would be during Raisin's naptime, and WHAT IF I NEED A NAP TOO!?

I wonder if I could get me some of those poppies the Wicked Witch of the West used to make Dorothy fall asleep?

Welcome, 2006!

We rang in the New Year at my brother's house, with his wife, my parents, my cousin, and his wife.

The awesome things about this arrangement: there was lots of booze, and laughter. We don't see much of my dad's side of the family, as represented by the cousin who came, so it was fun to catch up with him. My parents brought fireworks, which we set off in the snow in my brother's backyard. Fireworks look especially bright and beautiful in the snow.

The drawbacks to this arrangement: My cousin and his wife, and my brother for that matter, are crazy mad partiers compared to the rest of us. At first, it is just funny when someone else is drunker than you. Then you realize how old and suburban and parentlike you truly are (especially if you're like me and have always been the boring sibling). Then, it's just plain awkward. At least I was spared the part where my cousin passed out....

Also, Raisin is apparently old enough now to be frightened of sleeping in strange places. She slept fitfully, and DH and I kept missing chunks of the party while we tried to soothe her back to sleep. Finally, after watching the ball drop and toasting 2006, we gave up the party and went to bed with her between us. Not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep.

But, after all, I can't think of a more blessed way to begin my new year. My daughter was snuggled in my arms and my husband was holding my hand. The people I love most were all under the same roof. If the way the year begins foretells something of the way it will progress, then I couldn't have chosen a more perfect beginning.

And if anyone threw up this morning, I didn't witness it. Even better.

Introducing....

[First, Raisin is all better. I don't think she even remembers being sick or the evil nebulizer. She's 100% herself again. I'm so relieved that my bones get all jello-y everytime I think about it.]

And now, on to the point (that's being generous) of this entry. We have a new member of the family, and we couldn't be more thrilled! He has taken up residence in our bedroom, which is just fine with us. He doesn't use up much space, although I am still getting used to the whirring sound he makes in the middle of the night.

He's a great addition to our household, as he is already really good at figuring out what we like and don't like. I can just tell we're going to be really good friends, especially once the holidays are over and our regular schedule starts again. Then he'll really be busy keeping up with all our demands.

OK, this is lamer than I thought it would be, and I knew it was lame. We have TiVo! TiVo lives at my house! TiVo records Jeopardy! and Whose Line is it Anyway? and Gilmore Girls and all kinds of reality TV shows that I am slightly ashamed of but love anyway.

I bought it for DH for Christmas (and a little bit for myself too). I am the best wife EVAH. And he is the best husband EVAH, because he bought a flat-screen TV for TiVo to live with. (We didn't know what the other person was getting -- we are so meant to be.) TiVo and the TV are now married, and we are all living happily ever after. The end.

I Got Your Christmas Spirit Right Here

Yesterday I almost bit off a coworker's head. And not with mere words, either. Actual cannibalism was very nearly committed, by me. So, for anyone who prefers that I not sever your pretty necks with my razor-sharp Teeth of Fury, please take note:

1. Do not talk down to me. I'm nice, but my pet peeve is people who patronize (my pet peeve is alliterative, isn't that cool!?), and I will get mean.

2. Do not act as though I'm not doing my job. I am, and I'm doing a good job, and you are not the boss of me anyway. So there. [blows raspberries to demonstrate maturity and professionalism]

3. Do not keep repeating the same question. I answered that question. I do not have time or patience to tell you again that I will take care of it. I WILL TAKE CARE OF IT.

4. Do not offer suggestions if you A) do not know what you are talking about, and/or B) have nothing to do with the project at hand. See #s 2 and 3 above, and know that I AM DOING MY JOB AND I WILL TAKE CARE OF IT.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In other news, Raisin is quite herself again, except for an antibiotic-induced diaper rash with PAIN and SWELLING and REDNESS ouch ouch ouch.

Oh, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute....

A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Raisin has pneumonia. We spent about 5 terrifying hours in urgent care and the emergency room on Saturday, watching her struggle for each breath. I haven't been this scared since the very first time she ever got sick.

Now that we're two days into treatment, she is doing much better. I may even unclench enough to send her back to daycare tomorrow. (She probably could've gone today, but my mom offered to stay home with her, and I couldn't refuse.)

I, however, am struggling with several layers of guilt that I cannot shake. Empirically, logically, rationally, I know that I did not cause my daughter's lungs to fill with fluid. But that didn't stop me from scrubbing the house top-to-bottom yesterday, or doing laundry every second that Raisin was sleeping or busy. If I'd been a better housekeeper, she wouldn't have gotten sick in the first place, you see. In this same vein, now would be an excellent time to ask me for favors or donations to your favorite charity. Who says Lutherans don't believe in doing penance?

On Saturday morning, I knew she was sick. She had a relatively low fever, she was coughing. She even threw up a few times. Her breathing was more rapid than normal. I did consider taking her to the clinic. DH and I mentioned it several times throughout the day. But we looked up every symptom she had, and none of them seemed to merit a trip to the doctor.

"They'll just tell us she has a virus," I kept saying. "It's better to keep her at home and keep her comfortable."

As the day wore on, she got worse. Her breathing was more rapid, more shallow. She couldn't be comforted by any of her favorite things. DH convinced me that a trip to the clinic was warranted. Oh, God, what if I hadn't listened to him then!?

I completely went to pieces when the PA at the clinic checked her oxygen level and found it to be about 10% lower than it should be. I started to cry (didn't really stop for several hours afterward), and the PA had no idea what to do with me. Or with Raisin, apparently.* She sent us to the ER at Children's, which I now realize was the best thing she could've done.

There, we discovered that Raisin's O2 level was actually fine (whew!). They just didn't have equipment small enough for her fingers at the clinic. A chest x-ray confirmed pneumonia, while a dose of Prednisone relieved some of the irritation in her chest.

Then we settled in for the long haul. The doctors wanted to see how much improvement could be gained after several treatments with an Albuterol nebulizer. Easier said than done, since Raisin would rather have eaten live frogs than have the neb mask on her face. Even though I knew it was helping, restraining my daughter while she cried feebly and looked reproachfully into my eyes was the worst thing I've ever done.

Nevertheless, by the end of the third treatment, the doctor felt she had improved enough to go home. We're now the proud owners of our own nebulizer machine, which ought to be totally fun at parties. Raisin's even gotten used to the sensation; she doesn't fight quite as vigorously any more.

We are all recovering. Raisin is almost back to her usual self, while DH and I struggle to find some grace, forgiveness, and peace for ourselves. We are supremely grateful to the doctors and nurses at the children's hospital. They made our nightmare bearable, and they put my daughter on the road to recovery. My family will be safe and whole for Christmas, and I cannot think of a better gift than that.

*I am sure she was completely competent; she did a nebulizer treatment at the clinic, so she obviously knew what she was dealing with. But her "bedside manner" was nonexistent, and she did not answer any of our questions. There is more to the successful practice of medicine than the medicine itself. Hasn't she ever seen Patch Adams?

Now I've Done It

I have drawn my husband into the seedy underbelly of the Internet that is the blogosphere. :)

He's totally jealous of my mad blogging skillz and has started a blog of his own here. Because he truly does have some skillz, and is not lazy like me, he has also posted some pictures. So, if you've been dying to know what Raisin and I look like, now's your big chance!

When you're done, please come back and tell me that I'm pretty and that you still love me. Lie if you have to.

Heartwarming

Oh, so very tired, and oh, so very cold. Why do I live in Minnesota again? It is 3 Degrees here right now. The windchill is -6.

So, peppermint tea in hand, I am going to cheer myself up by listing The Adorable Things My Daughter Does. If it doesn't do anything for you, too bad. I am tired and cold. Leave me alone.

1. While watching a TV show with a dog (her new favorite animal), she cries "puppy, puppy!" every time the dog leaves the screen. Then she grabs the remote and pushes all the buttons, looking for the one that will make the puppy come back.

2. Books, or "guks," as she calls them, are cause for tremendous excitement. Her face lights up anytime she sees one of her favorites. (In other words, the ones with puppies in them.)

3. She is trying diligently to get her tongue around the words "Christmas tree." It's hard work for her, but her attempts are so cute that I keep pointing the tree out to her just to make her try to say it again.

4. She blows on her food when we tell her it's hot. She also blows on the oven and the hair dryer.

5. DH taught her to say "I love you," which comes out in toddlerspeak as "wuv oo." Melts me every time.

6. She knows how to play "Ring Around the Rosey," but she never wants to sing the whole song. Her version involves walking 3-4 steps around the circle, then skipping right to "we all fall down!"

7. She has a flair for mimicry. Most of it's endearing, like when she covers her mouth after she's sneezed, or when she folds her hand to pray. It's hard to enjoy it, though, when I know the day is coming when she'll swear in church or blow her nose in a napkin at a restaurant. Not that I ever swear or blow my nose in napkins, I mean, that's just rude.

8. Somehow she has discovered Elmo -- he must send out some kind of homing beacon to small children. I know WE didn't introduce her to him. She's learning the song: "la, la, la, ELMO!!!" Close enough.

9. When it's just the three of us, we play a dinner-table naming game. She points gleefully at DH, and yells, "Mama!" Then we giggle and she points out the real Mama, then Daddy and Raisin.

10. She swims in the bathtub.

Bad, Stupid, Good, Disturbing

Bad: I am at work. I was supposed to have the day off, but I am here, trying to prevent a project from becoming a complete failure. It's not looking good.

Stupid: I have been assigned cranberries for Thanksgiving, which is taking place tomorrow in our family. I don't like cranberry salads, but I said OK anyway. I'm actually bringing a cranberry-wild rice stuffing, but now I have the horrible sinking feeling that someone else is already bringing a wild rice dish. Crap.

Good: It is snowing, a very sparkly, fluffy, Christmassy snow. I am including this in the "good" column even though I would much prefer to be enjoying this from my living room, in my pajamas, while drinking hot cocoa. Labeling it "good" involves a complete denial of the fact that even when I do get to go home, I'll be stuck in awful traffic while people try to remember how the whole driving in snow thing works. Asshats. Wait, what was I saying? Pretty snow. Right.

A Little Disturbing: Wednesday night at the bus stop, I endured a 10-minute tirade from one of my fellow transit riders. Apparently, she's quite upset about the date of her b-day (she never actually used the word "birthday," but I assumed that's what she meant.)

Crazy Bus Woman: Just guess! Guess what day my b-day is! Just think what the worst possible b-day I could have would be!

My brain: If you answer her, maybe she won't kill you!
Me: Um, is it near Christmas?

CBW: NO! Why would Christmas be a bad b-day!? Why does everyone always say that!?

My brain: You angered her! Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
Me: I don't kno-

CBW: Just use your brain! Hello? What would be the worst possible b-day?

My brain: I so don't want to play this game anymore.
Me: I really don't know.

CBW: 9-11! There! See!? I have the worst possible b-day. What could be worse than that?

My brain: Today. Today is the worst possible day. Run away, run away!
Me: You're right, that's horrible. Oh, shoot, there's my bus!

Where The Devil Are My Slippers?

My Fair Lady has the worst last line ever. Of any movie. Bar none. "Where the devil are my slippers?" Seriously!? That's all 'Enry 'Iggins has to say to Eliza? And she's seriously gonna stand there and not retort? She's willing to throw all her hard-earned self-respect down the drain without any kind of explanation or apology from him?

I have never read Pygmalion. Thanks to my friend Google, however, I have just skimmed the ending, and found this:

This being the state of human affairs, what is Eliza fairly sure to do when she is placed between Freddy and Higgins? Will she look forward to a lifetime of fetching Higgins's slippers or to a lifetime of Freddy fetching hers? There can be no doubt about the answer. Unless Freddy is biologically repulsive to her, and Higgins biologically attractive to a degree that overwhelms all her other instincts, she will, if she marries either of them, marry Freddy.

And that is just what Eliza did.

So THERE, Hollywood! George Bernard Shaw got it. But you thought it would be more romantic if she ended up with Higgins. Well, THANK YOU VERY MUCH for RUINING the ENTIRE movie. Hmph.

My husband thinks that I take this a little too seriously. In my personal belief system, however, it is not possible to take a musical too seriously.

Up next, the dream sequence in Oklahoma! How awful is that!?

Trendsetters

Someone in Kansas, whom I've never met, is going to name her unborn child "Raisin" if it's a girl. That, my friends, is how freaking cool DH and I are. Strangers want to be like us. They want to name their children after our child. Thank you very much, good night.

(Kansas Lady is friends with the mother of another toddler in Raisin's classroom at daycare. This mom, evidently, thinks Raisin looks like she could be the offspring of Kansas Lady, and was therefore telling Kansas Lady about the cute little girl at daycare, Raisin, blah blah. KL decided she loooooovvvveeeedddd the name so much that she wants to steal it. And a naming fad is born, people. Watch for all kinds of little Raisins on the next Social Security popular names report.)

I think it's awesome. DH thinks it's a little creepy.

At least we're well-matched...

Am smart. Turned off comments for ALL posts without realizing it. Have fixed it now. Am sorry. :)

If you had been at the Grape household this week, you might have witnessed the following scene:

Raisin is playing on the floor with her Noah's ark from Fisher Price. She is taking the animals out one by one and handing them to me. I am attempting to turn it into a counting lesson, about which she could care less.

Grape: Oh, thank you! It's a giraffe -- one giraffe! ... Oh, look, here's a zebra. One giraffe, and one zebra. ... Hey, another giraffe! That's two votes giraffe, and one vote zebra. First person voted off of "Survivor: Noah's ark" -- giraffe!

DH: You are such a dork.

Grape: Whatever, it was funny. ... Oh, thanks, Raisin -- a toucan! ... Another toucan, that's two toucans!

DH: Would that be a fourcan?

Grape: Who's a dork!?

So, cast your votes ... of the lame jokes above, which is the lamest!?

Worrywart

*Updated because somehow I turned off the comments and because some of it was too poorly written even for me.*

I am going off The Pill (because if you capitalize it, everybody knows that you're talking about THAT pill, right?). I wouldn't say we are officially trying to get pregnant, but we are getting close -- close enough that I don't want to pay $90 for a 3-month supply of pills. {Politely saves rant about prescription drugs and insurance companies for another time and place.}

Being this close has me thinking a lot about my pregnancy with Raisin -- what went well (almost everything)? What would I change (almost nothing, except it'd be great to gain less weight)? Will I go back to the same midwife practice (I think so)? That kind of thing.

I was very very very very blessed the first time around. From conception to delivery, we only had one major scare. And now that I have discovered the blogosphere and all the scary stories out there, it doesn't even seem that major anymore. However, I come from a long line of worriers, and I just wouldn't be me if I weren't thinking about it again now as I contemplate another go-round.

It started after our first ultrasound, so it must've been at about 20 weeks. The OB who reviewed the ultrasound results was concerned about one of Raisin's measurements. An approximation of the ensuing conversation with the midwife (not-my-favorite midwife, because of a decided lack of what I like to call "personality" and "compassion" -- she was, thankfully, not on call when Raisin was born):

Midwife: So, it looks like the baby has a prominent renal pelvis on the right side.

DH/Grape: {blank stares}

Midwife: See, this {indicates black spot amid many indistinguishable spots} is her kidney. And this is the renal pelvis.

Grape: {trying to be calm and not freak-the-flying-freak out} So, what does that mean?

Midwife: Well, you'll have to make an appointment at the perinatal clinic for a level-two ultrasound. Here's the clinic number and a bunch of other useless information, blah blah blah nothing about the BABY who is suffering from a prominent something-or-another RIGHT NOW in my uterus!!!!!!!!

Grape: OK, but what does that mean for the baby? {gives up and just freaks right out anyway}

Midwife: I can't really say.

And I left it at that.*

I went home and consulted Dr. Google right away. That was a GREAT idea. A prominent renal pelvis (Google tells me that's a tube that connects the kidney to the bladder. If it's too big, stuff can go the wrong way and cause infections) in a 20-week fetus can mean:
1. Absolutely nothing, because they measured wrong.
2. That the dumb thing is just growing fast, and will be normal by birth.
3. That the dumb thing is just growing fast, and will be normal by age 1.
4. That the dumb thing grew too fast, but can be corrected by surgery after birth if necessary.
5. DOWN SYNDROME!!!!!!!!

Yeah. Would it be redundant to point out the FREAKING OUT that was done at this point?

Now, to spare you all any further suspense, in Raisin's case, it turned out to be #2. We found this out to the tune of an additional level-one ultrasound and 2 level-twos with a perinatologist (who, by the way, was the opposite of not-my-favorite midwife, and who is my HERO). These are the sentences he uttered in order to be come Dr. Hero:

"Well, it is a little on the big side right now, but I don't think it's reason to be concerned."

"I see no indication that your baby has Down Syndrome."

"I just took part in a study at the Mayo Clinic about the correlation between this measurement and actual problems after birth. Come see me again at about 34 weeks; according to my study we can't tell anything positive until that point anyway."

And, of course, when we went back at 34 weeks the measurement was in the normal range, and Raisin has never suffered any kind of urinary tract issue. And they all lived happily ever after.

*This is the crucial part of the narrative to me. I don't think I was a passive patient -- I educated myself about pregnancy before and during my own. I asked questions. I tried to keep up-to-date with what was going on in my body and in the midwife practice. But when we hit our little mini-crisis, I let the midwife shuffle me out of the office without any answers.

I got the answers later; I'm OK with that. I got good care from those midwives, so I'm not apprehensive about trusting them again. And I believe that she probably had good reasons for NOT answering my question -- she just should have told me what the reason was. My guess is that as a nurse-midwife, not an MD, she felt she might be treading on iffy legal ground.

I just wish I had asked. I wish I didn't have to guess now. And I'd like, this time around, not to let go of questions to which I feel I deserve an answer.

Questions To Keep You Up At Night

1. Why do the Las Vegas CSIs always use flashlights? Do murder scenes automatically lose electricity, rendering light switches useless?

2. Does the person who left the sushi in our office refrigerator really think it's still good after all this time? Are they going to eat it!?

3. Is George W. ever going to learn to pronounce "nuclear" correctly? Should we just rename those weapons "nu-cu-ler" so that he doesn't sound so freaking dumb?

4. Where should I take my pretty new purse to have the zipper fixed?

5. When Raisin says "ow-ie!" and pats her cheeks, what does that mean? Her teeth hurt? Her ears hurt? She just likes the new word?

These are the serious issues occupying this great brain, people. Once I solve these, I might move on to deeper problems like whether the United Nations can ever really be effective given its current organizational structure. But don't count on it.

An Update About My Pants

You will all be relieved to know that the icky glue-like stuff came off my pants. BMG, you can cancel that check I'm sure you were sending. Although, if it's already in the mail, I'll take it. I can put it towards that Coach bag the universe owes me. See? It all works out. Karma.

More Adventures in Punctuation

Remember "Bizarro Jerry" from Seinfeld? This weekend I saw Bizarro Grape on the Orange Line from downtown Chicago to Midway. She's from Cleveland, and we ran into her and the three friends she was traveling with as we were all on our way back home. She has a Coach purse, though, and she lives "on the lake." There must be some kind of imbalance in the universe, which can only be equaled out by someone giving me a Coach bag and a house on the water. Anyone?

Also seen in Chicago this weekend: The Blue Man Group. AWESOME! FUNNY! STROBE LIGHTS! CAP'N CRUNCH! CREPE PAPER! HAAAAAA! Except they owe me $50 for the pants that got ruined by the icky glue-like stuff that was on my seat (which of course I didn't notice until after I sat in it). (I doubt I paid $50 for the pants, because I am cheap and buy things on sale, but the Blue Man Group doesn't know that.)

Know what else they have in Chicago? Margaritas! And food! And shopping! Extraneous exclamation points all around to indicate reveling and fun! Whee! It was a great trip. We stayed up late and slept in late. We talked and laughed and got caught up and promised to do it again. I missed DH and Raisin, but I wasn't sad about it like I thought I'd be. They had a good time, and I had a good time, and we were really glad to see each other again last night. But it was really nice to not be the Mama for a few days.

And now, Monday. Coffee. Tired. Hate work. Exclamation points broken. Blaaaahhhhh.

Holy Rambling Randomness!

I have had absolutely zero of interest to say for the last couple of weeks. Of course, I still have nothing noteworthy, but I don't want to have my blogger card revoked, so I'll make up some slightly-more-banal-than-usual drivel to take up space.

Tomorrow I am leaving for Chicago (aka Really Fun City). Woo-hoo! The Blue Man Group is performing while we're there, so we are going to try to get tickets. I've heard they put on an excellent show.

DH and Raisin are flying to California today to spend the weekend with DH's parents. We just saw Flight Plan, so I told DH that he is not allowed to sleep at any point during the trip. I might spike his soda with No-Doz. He's also not to let Raisin anywhere near "Avionics", whatever the hell that is -- he'll have to ask the pilot, since the flight attendants are probably terrorists. DO YOU THINK THAT'S UNREASONABLE? DO YOU!? I didn't think so.

Yesterday on the bus I sat next to a man listening to his headphones. He was very guy's-guy looking. You know, slightly rumpled khakis, Columbia jacket, very not-metrosexual. He was listening to one of the Richard Gere numbers from Chicago. That made my day.

I have spent the last 5 minutes trying to think of one more thing to add, and this is all I've got: Should the comma after "Avionics" be inside or outside the quotes?

Discuss amongst yourselves. Have a great weekend!

Just Quit It!

1. Lorelai and Rory Gilmore, get your cute butts in a room together and work it out already. I started out just blaming Rory, but now you are both being difficult. Just quit it.

2. It's October, and this is Minnesota. Enough with the thunderstorms and the lightning and the worrying about more trees falling on my house and the dirty water in my basement. Just quit it.

3. Metro transit boss-type people, why must my bus route still be detoured? I do not see any dangerous construction. It's making the buses late(-er than usual), and the bus drivers cranky(-er). Just quit it.

4. Paolo family on the Amazing Race, please stop calling each other stupid. You are all stupid, end of discussion. Now, go away.

5. Trouser socks, quit falling down and bunching around my ankles. You are not old and stretched out enough for this to be a problem. And why are you called trouser socks? I don't wear trousers, because it's a word that only Wallace from Wallace and Gromit can get away with, so I shouldn't have to put up with it from you, either. "First thing, Garlic, you've got to requisition a new nickname." (If you get the reference, I'll be your BFF.)

6. People walking in the Skyway (this is the system of gerbil tubes that connects downtown Minneapolis so people don't have to walk outside in bad weather -- see above re: thunderstorms -- it's kind of like the Jetson's, but without the cool moving sidewalks). Anyway, people, walk faster. Or move to one side. Or at least walk in a straight line if you need to walk slowly. It's very hard to speed-walk around you when you are meandering zig-zag style all over the damn place. Get out of my way.

7. Julie, Grape, honey-bear, have you had enough coffee now? Can you please stop being so PMS-y and witchy-with-a-b? If you don't even want to be in the same room with yourself, how must your poor husband feel? Just quit it.

It's Good to Know Where I Stand

Last night, Raisin and I were playing in the living room. She was enjoying one of her favorite pasttimes, in which she points at family pictures and tries to say the names of the people in them. Right now everyone's name sounds like "Mama" or "Da," but the initiated ear can hear the slight differences that distinguish "Gramma," Grandpa," and "Uncle Dan." (Or, the imaginative mother can create those distinctions in her hyper-proud mommy mind. Either way.)

I thought it might be fun to add a new element to the game by asking her to find certain people.

Me: Where's Gramma?
Raisin: Mama! ::points to picture of my mother::
Me: Very good! Where's Uncle Dan?
Raisin: Da! ::points to picture of my brother::
Me: Yay! Where's Mama?
Raisin (gleefully): Mama!!! ::runs across room to point at a plastic jack-o-lantern::
Me: ::sobbing::

It's an improvement, I guess. Last weekend at my mom's she kept calling one of these "Mama." Thanks, kiddo!