The lady bugs are rampant and biz-ay up in my windows. A little research on the web tells me that it is incorrect to call them lady bugs. Huh? They are actually Asian Lady Beetles. Oh. That is a huge difference. I don't want to kill them, and apparently releasing them outside is an exercise in futility. They have pheremoned my walls so completely that any ALB's within a quarter mile will be showing up to hibernate in the cold and get biz-ay when it warms up, from now until all eternity. Good thing they are cute and not here to eat the house.
Do not wash black denim with powder detergent. Even if you think you let the powder detergent completely dissolve. The splotchy jeans look was barely cool enough in the 80s; it has no chance here in the future.
I got a new-to-me car. Wheeee! It was first bought in North Pole, Alaska, so we named it Santa's Little Helper.
I really, really, really wish the neighborhood dogs would stop barking right now. Really.
Pre-natal vitamins have turned my finger and toe nails into steak knives, and they seem to be growing faster than I can maintain them. For the first time in my life, though, they kinda look pretty, even when sticking out of the holes in my socks.
Ollie and I went for a walk the other day on a lovely trail, and next to it was a small pond with the most glorious frog chorus I've heard in some time. It sounded like thousands of frogs chirping away. Ollie didn't know what to make of it and kept trying to figure out where each sound was coming from. I just stood there and basked in the noise of it all. It got louder and deeper and more complex and fervent and I just giggled and smiled like a lunatic. Two ladies walked by talking loudly and they all stopped croaking simultaneously. Instant silence. I was a little sad but still giddy about it all. A moment or two passed and a lone bullfrog rat-a-tat-tatted off an indignant call at the interruption. I laughed and began walking again, and a few minutes later I could hear in the distance that the party started again. It was tremendous fun.
Tuesday, March 9
Tuesday, March 2
What every new mom wants...
...is a clue about what to register for. So if you're still hanging in there with this blerg and you know what goods made your mom arsenal better, please lay it on me. I'm pretty sure I need a crib, but I'd like your expert advice on the rest of it, as opposed to consulting another sponsored checklist on a baby site.
thanky kindly.
thanky kindly.
Thursday, February 25
20 weeks
hooray, halfway!
what a lovely day
to toast with a
bottle of water
root, toot!
the poots
are not so bad
even for this gassy otter
woohoo, high five!
I'll do a jive
and dance with that
guy that I'm lovin'
July, it's a date!
I can barely wait
to meet my lil'
bun in the oven.
what a lovely day
to toast with a
bottle of water
root, toot!
the poots
are not so bad
even for this gassy otter
woohoo, high five!
I'll do a jive
and dance with that
guy that I'm lovin'
July, it's a date!
I can barely wait
to meet my lil'
bun in the oven.
Wednesday, February 24
Simple pleasures
It's been a chill-chilly winter in these parts, but we just had a miraculously warm and gorgeous weekend. Sunshine! Blue sky! Happy birds! Short sleeves! It was delightful.
Yet something was missing.
What is it about a warm, sunny day and a comfy porch chair that just begs for a nice, cold beer? I feel like a lush for saying it, but it's true. Short of sushi, I really haven't been jonesing for anything on the do-not list, including my fave adult bevies. But I found I was practically salivating from the thought and some sweat even broke out on my upper lip. I got ansy and peered over my shoulder to see if anyone noticed my momentary meltdown. And I was at my house. Alone. What a goose.
But there is nothing like the first beer. Any after that are just another beer, but that first one is like a taste of all the joy and bliss and happy things floating around in the universe. Don't get me wrong, the trade-off for abstaining is unquestionable and the resistance has been effortless, but oooh, what a sweet and simple pleasure. I laughed at myself for the reaction I had...my body physically responded to the idea of having a cold snack. I managed to enjoy the porch with an Italian soda instead, but I thought about that cold cold delicious hoppy beer the whole time.
As of late, I've started feeling a lot warmer than is typical for me. My fingers and toes, generally capable of paralyzing my husband with their subarctic touch, have been, well, normal. My face is flush more often and I struggle to determine tomorrow's wardrobe the night before, trying to come up with the right combination of layers so I won't pant like a dog or nap on my keyboard. Plenty of women have already made the "just you wait" comments when I've said that I'm more tolerant of heat than cold. I suppose their "I told you so" remarks will be next, because these warm flashes have taken on a different feeling. It's like my entire body is becoming a radiating sun, layered by one of those crazy silver blankets used in medical emergencies. In other words, I'm a walking sauna with a sweaty lip. I like not having the Jack Frost appendages, but the one-size-too-small-snowsuit sensation is interesting to say the least. My little ball of energy is radiating some major sunbeams in there.
As always, it really could be worse. I am fortunate beyond my comprehension. So I'll keep looking at the bright side of this chill-chilly winter...these overcast skies are not so bad since I am my own sun these days. Maybe that's what people mean when they say I'm "glowing." Ha. Hand me a cold beer in a few months while my sweet baby snoozes in the warm afternoon sun and I'll show you a real glow.
Yet something was missing.
What is it about a warm, sunny day and a comfy porch chair that just begs for a nice, cold beer? I feel like a lush for saying it, but it's true. Short of sushi, I really haven't been jonesing for anything on the do-not list, including my fave adult bevies. But I found I was practically salivating from the thought and some sweat even broke out on my upper lip. I got ansy and peered over my shoulder to see if anyone noticed my momentary meltdown. And I was at my house. Alone. What a goose.
But there is nothing like the first beer. Any after that are just another beer, but that first one is like a taste of all the joy and bliss and happy things floating around in the universe. Don't get me wrong, the trade-off for abstaining is unquestionable and the resistance has been effortless, but oooh, what a sweet and simple pleasure. I laughed at myself for the reaction I had...my body physically responded to the idea of having a cold snack. I managed to enjoy the porch with an Italian soda instead, but I thought about that cold cold delicious hoppy beer the whole time.
As of late, I've started feeling a lot warmer than is typical for me. My fingers and toes, generally capable of paralyzing my husband with their subarctic touch, have been, well, normal. My face is flush more often and I struggle to determine tomorrow's wardrobe the night before, trying to come up with the right combination of layers so I won't pant like a dog or nap on my keyboard. Plenty of women have already made the "just you wait" comments when I've said that I'm more tolerant of heat than cold. I suppose their "I told you so" remarks will be next, because these warm flashes have taken on a different feeling. It's like my entire body is becoming a radiating sun, layered by one of those crazy silver blankets used in medical emergencies. In other words, I'm a walking sauna with a sweaty lip. I like not having the Jack Frost appendages, but the one-size-too-small-snowsuit sensation is interesting to say the least. My little ball of energy is radiating some major sunbeams in there.
As always, it really could be worse. I am fortunate beyond my comprehension. So I'll keep looking at the bright side of this chill-chilly winter...these overcast skies are not so bad since I am my own sun these days. Maybe that's what people mean when they say I'm "glowing." Ha. Hand me a cold beer in a few months while my sweet baby snoozes in the warm afternoon sun and I'll show you a real glow.
Friday, February 12
my furry kid
Po, po, puppeh dawg. Our Ollie Bear is sick. We didn’t know that the “kennel cough” shot was necessary twice a year. He will be fine after we load him up with the horse-sized meds and steroids the vet gave us, but we feel sick knowing we could have prevented it.
Ollie is a high-energy doggle, indicated early on by his wild puppyhood. Truly, you couldn’t pet him unless he was asleep. He’s also an enthusiastic eater/drinker, and an occasional gag or cough is typical. In the past few days, this has increased tenfold and he's been a bit lethargic. We didn’t put those clues together with the coughy-dog warning signs posted at the doggie daycare where he goes at least once a week. I took him twice this week, which means he had two days to share cooties with his dog buddies. More sick doggles on my mind. I called the daycare to confess and they graciously didn’t make me feel worse about it. But I still felt soooo guilty.
I laughed with a friend one time about my guilt complex, telling her I would have made a great Catholic girl since I can carry guilt like an ant…if it’s 50 times my body weight, lay it on me, Sister Mary Maria. I have now contaminated dog nation. Po, po, puppeh dawgs.
Of course, the natural progression of my thoughts led me to the panicky feeling I expect to have when my child gets sick. Oh, the heartache of it already! I vowed to not sweat the small stuff this year, which should include not worrying about my unborn child’s future ailments. Hmmmf. Much easier said than done….a lifetime of new worries is upon me.
Ollie was once sick when he was a puppy, and it was terrifying. He had the wrong things coming out of the wrong places. Again, my ability to carry the guilt of it all was astounding. What did I feed him? What did he chew up that I missed? What is in the backyard? Worry, worry, worry. Who knows what actually made him sick?! Ollie couldn’t tell me the problem and just stared back with the most pitiful puppeh eyes I have ever seen. I called in the details to the vet, who more or less said she'd charge a small fortune to tell me to wait it out. Stellar. So I watched his every move like a psychotic hawk, circling and circling and occasionally running into things. Luckily, he was back to his crazy self within a week and I could begin to breath easier, though never quite the same. I would have to be more attentive since I can’t speak doggle and he can’t speak English.
When he drives me crazy or scares the bejeezus out of me, I tell my husband he's his dog. But he’s still my puppeh dawg. We’ve had him since he was 8 weeks old and he’s been our trainer-kid…giving us — especially me — revelation after revelation of our strengths and weaknesses as caregivers. Reminding me that in spite of his shenanigans, this too shall pass and he's more than worth it. For now, I’m going to give him some extra lovins and hope he gets back to his doggone self soon. And maybe trust that I’m paying attention and honing the skills necessary to care for another when words are not an option. Ease off on the guilt and concentrate on making the right now better.
Rest up, Ollie Bear. Your dog buddies will be happy to see you again soon.
Ollie is a high-energy doggle, indicated early on by his wild puppyhood. Truly, you couldn’t pet him unless he was asleep. He’s also an enthusiastic eater/drinker, and an occasional gag or cough is typical. In the past few days, this has increased tenfold and he's been a bit lethargic. We didn’t put those clues together with the coughy-dog warning signs posted at the doggie daycare where he goes at least once a week. I took him twice this week, which means he had two days to share cooties with his dog buddies. More sick doggles on my mind. I called the daycare to confess and they graciously didn’t make me feel worse about it. But I still felt soooo guilty.
I laughed with a friend one time about my guilt complex, telling her I would have made a great Catholic girl since I can carry guilt like an ant…if it’s 50 times my body weight, lay it on me, Sister Mary Maria. I have now contaminated dog nation. Po, po, puppeh dawgs.
Of course, the natural progression of my thoughts led me to the panicky feeling I expect to have when my child gets sick. Oh, the heartache of it already! I vowed to not sweat the small stuff this year, which should include not worrying about my unborn child’s future ailments. Hmmmf. Much easier said than done….a lifetime of new worries is upon me.
Ollie was once sick when he was a puppy, and it was terrifying. He had the wrong things coming out of the wrong places. Again, my ability to carry the guilt of it all was astounding. What did I feed him? What did he chew up that I missed? What is in the backyard? Worry, worry, worry. Who knows what actually made him sick?! Ollie couldn’t tell me the problem and just stared back with the most pitiful puppeh eyes I have ever seen. I called in the details to the vet, who more or less said she'd charge a small fortune to tell me to wait it out. Stellar. So I watched his every move like a psychotic hawk, circling and circling and occasionally running into things. Luckily, he was back to his crazy self within a week and I could begin to breath easier, though never quite the same. I would have to be more attentive since I can’t speak doggle and he can’t speak English.
When he drives me crazy or scares the bejeezus out of me, I tell my husband he's his dog. But he’s still my puppeh dawg. We’ve had him since he was 8 weeks old and he’s been our trainer-kid…giving us — especially me — revelation after revelation of our strengths and weaknesses as caregivers. Reminding me that in spite of his shenanigans, this too shall pass and he's more than worth it. For now, I’m going to give him some extra lovins and hope he gets back to his doggone self soon. And maybe trust that I’m paying attention and honing the skills necessary to care for another when words are not an option. Ease off on the guilt and concentrate on making the right now better.
Rest up, Ollie Bear. Your dog buddies will be happy to see you again soon.
Tuesday, February 9
Choosing a good beverage
Some people love the taste of NO. They sip it like fine wine, swirl it around their gums and teeth, lick their lips excessively, savor it for hours on end. To them, it is a delicious glass of drunken power that, ironically enough, is always at least half full and ready to party.
I have a coworker who savors that flavor, with whom many a conversation seem to require delicate negotiations and an act of Congress. We'll call this person Piddles McDeebag. Today Piddles spilled a big ole' glass of NO before I could even finish the question. I'd like to say this was a first, but it wasn't. I stumbled for a moment, amended the question at hand and was again interrupted with a sloshing NO. It reminded me of that Austin Powers movie when Dr. Evil is repeatedly interrupting his son with shushes..."Knock knock. Who's there? Shh! Even before you start. That was a preemptive Shh! I've got a whole bag of Shh with your name on it!"
That was funny. This was not.
I almost hung up on Piddles, a practice I try to avoid because I think it is ru-u-ude. I'm pretty sure it's unprofessional, too. But I was so aggravated that Piddles belched a NO before hearing me out. Not cool, Piddles, not cool. I feel like I'm a fairly patient person, with a high tolerance for absurdities, be they funny or not. But I don't do negative people very well. I've always been very sensitive to other people's energy and will find my otherwise collected self suddenly scrambling to get away from Piddlesque peeps. But today, I felt horns sprout from my head, such was my desire to slam the phone down. Take that, Piddles!
Then I heard my mom's voice in my head: don't stoop to their level. Fiddlesticks. So, I didn't. I kept my cool, finished the 'conversation' and griped to myself for a few minutes. Then I reached for one of my favorite beverages: Seth Rogen's laugh. Boy howdy, did I chug. Gulpity gulp gulp.
And you know what? When Piddles' name later showed up on the caller ID, I didn't answer. You know why? Because I already drank Piddles under the table [burp].
I have a coworker who savors that flavor, with whom many a conversation seem to require delicate negotiations and an act of Congress. We'll call this person Piddles McDeebag. Today Piddles spilled a big ole' glass of NO before I could even finish the question. I'd like to say this was a first, but it wasn't. I stumbled for a moment, amended the question at hand and was again interrupted with a sloshing NO. It reminded me of that Austin Powers movie when Dr. Evil is repeatedly interrupting his son with shushes..."Knock knock. Who's there? Shh! Even before you start. That was a preemptive Shh! I've got a whole bag of Shh with your name on it!"
That was funny. This was not.
I almost hung up on Piddles, a practice I try to avoid because I think it is ru-u-ude. I'm pretty sure it's unprofessional, too. But I was so aggravated that Piddles belched a NO before hearing me out. Not cool, Piddles, not cool. I feel like I'm a fairly patient person, with a high tolerance for absurdities, be they funny or not. But I don't do negative people very well. I've always been very sensitive to other people's energy and will find my otherwise collected self suddenly scrambling to get away from Piddlesque peeps. But today, I felt horns sprout from my head, such was my desire to slam the phone down. Take that, Piddles!
Then I heard my mom's voice in my head: don't stoop to their level. Fiddlesticks. So, I didn't. I kept my cool, finished the 'conversation' and griped to myself for a few minutes. Then I reached for one of my favorite beverages: Seth Rogen's laugh. Boy howdy, did I chug. Gulpity gulp gulp.
And you know what? When Piddles' name later showed up on the caller ID, I didn't answer. You know why? Because I already drank Piddles under the table [burp].
Sunday, February 7
movement
At the doctor's on Thursday, I was asked if I've felt any movement. Having no previous experience with movement, other than those digestive in nature, I told her no.
Yesterday, I felt like a chorus of "Beans, beans, the magical fruit" was on the way, but I'm not convinced it was gas. Not delightful, but not uncomfortable either. Mainly in one place instead of the typical bubbly trek across my abdomen. Could it be? I'm close to this 18 week mark she spoke of, when first-time moms start feeling something.
Among the baby books I'm currently browsing, I'm also reading a book called The Host by Stephenie Meyer, though I'm not sure how much more of it I can take. I read her Twilight series with surprising enjoyment, even though they are written for a younger audience. This one is not nearly as funny (I don't think they are intended to be comical, though). Anyhoot, the premise of the book is an alien invasion where "Souls" are implanted into human bodies. The main character, the Soul called Wanderer, has been placed into Melanie's body. Well, Melanie wasn't ready to resign. And so begins an internal dialogue between Soul and Host, with the Host gradually getting stronger and influencing the Soul, even occasionally regaining control of a bodily function or two. I'm ready for the part where she punches herself in the face, but so far no dice.
Enough about the story, or lack thereof...the premise of two souls in one body is intriguing and has had me thinking. It's one thing in early pregnancy to see your body physically changing...in my case, an expanding waistline, a bustier bust [ah-hem], the beginnings of cankles (yay, sock lines! sexy!). And it's a whole different thing to feel your body changing, to get more than just a visual confirmation that something's up. Feeling that first kick, or punch, or whatever fly new break dance move the baby is trying out. To consider that there is thought behind the reflexes.
I didn't necessarily start this blog to exclusively talk about pregnancy, and I'm not ready to wax philosophical on the beginnings of a soul...I've got bigger things to ponder, like what to make for dinner and when to go shopping for mom jeans. But it is on my mind, and it is mind-boggling cool to think about a new soul sharing your space...operating independently of you, it's own identity shaping itself, it's spirit and energy concentrating into a new life. Granted, I've had gas before that felt like it had its own personality, but this is far, far more fun.
So bust a move, baby! I'm ready for the soul train. Dah-nah-nah!
Yesterday, I felt like a chorus of "Beans, beans, the magical fruit" was on the way, but I'm not convinced it was gas. Not delightful, but not uncomfortable either. Mainly in one place instead of the typical bubbly trek across my abdomen. Could it be? I'm close to this 18 week mark she spoke of, when first-time moms start feeling something.
Among the baby books I'm currently browsing, I'm also reading a book called The Host by Stephenie Meyer, though I'm not sure how much more of it I can take. I read her Twilight series with surprising enjoyment, even though they are written for a younger audience. This one is not nearly as funny (I don't think they are intended to be comical, though). Anyhoot, the premise of the book is an alien invasion where "Souls" are implanted into human bodies. The main character, the Soul called Wanderer, has been placed into Melanie's body. Well, Melanie wasn't ready to resign. And so begins an internal dialogue between Soul and Host, with the Host gradually getting stronger and influencing the Soul, even occasionally regaining control of a bodily function or two. I'm ready for the part where she punches herself in the face, but so far no dice.
Enough about the story, or lack thereof...the premise of two souls in one body is intriguing and has had me thinking. It's one thing in early pregnancy to see your body physically changing...in my case, an expanding waistline, a bustier bust [ah-hem], the beginnings of cankles (yay, sock lines! sexy!). And it's a whole different thing to feel your body changing, to get more than just a visual confirmation that something's up. Feeling that first kick, or punch, or whatever fly new break dance move the baby is trying out. To consider that there is thought behind the reflexes.
I didn't necessarily start this blog to exclusively talk about pregnancy, and I'm not ready to wax philosophical on the beginnings of a soul...I've got bigger things to ponder, like what to make for dinner and when to go shopping for mom jeans. But it is on my mind, and it is mind-boggling cool to think about a new soul sharing your space...operating independently of you, it's own identity shaping itself, it's spirit and energy concentrating into a new life. Granted, I've had gas before that felt like it had its own personality, but this is far, far more fun.
So bust a move, baby! I'm ready for the soul train. Dah-nah-nah!
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