Just some random thoughts...
If it's true that "you're not fat, you're pregnant," then is part of my baby growing in my face, arms and butt?
As heard in an Aerosmith song, "Life's a Journey, not a destination."
No, Barack Obama is not a Muslim. He is a Baptist.
Why is it that I can remember to pack a perfectly healthy lunch, balanced with protein, vegetables and dairy, and forget to grab it off the counter when I head out the door?
Does my dog really know that I'm having a baby, or does she just think mommy is bulking up for the winter?
As heard in a Carrie Underwood song, "And now he's wrapped around her finger, She's the center of his whole world. And his heart belongs to that sweet little beautiful, wonderful, perfect All-American Girl."
I told a colleague the other day that she was "such a blessing." De ja vu from my Mom telling my brothers and I to "be a blessing" (aka -- shut the heck up) when we were throwing tantrums in public.
When I tell you I work at the newspaper, why is it automatically my fault that your newspaper delivery person keeps throwing your paper underneath your car?
As heard in an Alicia Keys song, "Life's too short to waste one day."
Should I be offended when someone says, "I'm a dork. I live at home alone with my dog..." lol (if you're reading this) ;-)
If you ask for your burger without a bun because you are on a low-carb diet, it does you no good to eat 3 loaves of our bread (Outbackers, you know what I mean).
The coolest thing about living in Orlando are the 5-year-old girls from Indiana who ask you if you are friends with all the Disney princesses.
Why do I feel convicted when I watch Family Guy, and Stewie makes fun of his dog, Brian, for supposedly working on his "novel?" (Stewie: How you uh, how you comin' on that novel you're working on? Huh? Gotta a big, uh, big stack of papers there? Gotta, gotta nice litte story you're working on there? Your big novel you've been working on for 3 years? Huh? Gotta, gotta compelling protaganist? Yeah? Gotta obstacle for him to overcome? Huh? Gotta story brewing there? Working on, working on that for quite some time? Huh? Yea, talking about that 3 years ago. Been working on that the whole time? Nice little narrative? Beginning, middle, and end? Some friends become enemies, some enemies become friends? At the end your main character is richer from the experience?)
The snow covered buildings in downtown Chicago are best enjoyed in a red pea coat, cream-colored gloves and a really fluffy scarf, while drinking mint hot chocolate (snowflakes swirling around your pink face).
The only (repeat) ONLY time it is allowed to eat two fully-loaded Chicago style hot dogs is from the bleachers at Wrigley Field.
Hot wings have never smelled so bad...
People aren't "liberal" or "conservative" -- their own experiences place certain issues closer to their heart.
Place a dryer sheet in your pocket. It will keep the mosquitoes away.
Don't be too hard on your pets if they want a lot of attention -- how would you feel if you sat at the door all day, just waiting for one pet or kind word from your best friend?
And finally... (per Veronica) -- love even those people who anger you because it isn't our call to judge, or hate. Being kind keeps your heart open to the opportunities around you, instead of closed off in rage...
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Newly Single -- But on the Market?
Just this week I realized that there is a whole other tier to my life that is new that I had completely overlooked. Sure, the baby thing is a "biggie," but subtly accompanying the growing belly and excitement about my little girl is another "new" me that I had overlooked until the past few days.
That fact is that I am single. Duh, right? Sure, I know it. And I've been enjoying my own personal space, especially in dealing with how much I've been changing. But I had been ignoring one big component of being single -- the fact that I can talk to, hang out with and date whoever I want.
Dating has definently been the LAST thing on my mind, but a few days ago, it reared it's unexpected head during a conversation with a stranger. He was attractive, and young, and a professional success. It seemed that there was no end to what we had to talk about... And before I could think about it, he was asking if I wanted to go out to dinner. I wrote down my number, and told him to give me a call. No big deal, right?
But as I laid in bed that night, rubbing cocoa butter on my tough shell of a stomach to prevent stretch marks, with my feet propped up on a stack of pillows to prevent swelling, as I drank a glass of tomato juice with my prenatal vitamin to prevent indigestion, a thousand new questions and doubts entered my mind.
What had I done? I had given my number to a complete stranger, just like I had so many times in bars and clubs when I was still skinny... The difference, of course, is that this time I was sober, and probably looked a bit on the chubby side to him, and I had failed to mention the fact that I was over 6 months with child. What if he really called? Then what? Should I tell him I was pregnant? Should I just accept a dinner invitation and act like my bump was a beer gut?
What if he was a con-artist who just wanted to kidnap me and steal my beautiful unborn child and sell her to gypsies in Thailand?
And just like turning your back on that incoming wave on the horizon, a new realization engulfed me and swept me off my feet into the current.
It would no longer be just me -- single or not. Maybe I am free to date whoever I want, but the questions will forever be weighted. Instead of "I wonder if he likes to go to the movies?" I will be asking, "How would he look with a pink diaper bag over his shoulder?" And the truth is, any overnighters will be out of the question because it will take a long time before I trust anyone -- stranger or not -- around my little girl. It certainly is a change from the days I woke up to a living room full of people on the couch I had never seen before in college (hey, we lived 10 feet from the most popular bar -- it was a crash pad).
Still, it's flattering and somewhat liberating to know that I can accept those offers, and that there are guys out there who will make them. And maybe, just like this baby has been such an unexpected joy in my life so far, someone will pop up in my life and surprise even me.
But just being cute is no longer a date-able quality. There are two girls' happiness I have to consider.
That fact is that I am single. Duh, right? Sure, I know it. And I've been enjoying my own personal space, especially in dealing with how much I've been changing. But I had been ignoring one big component of being single -- the fact that I can talk to, hang out with and date whoever I want.
Dating has definently been the LAST thing on my mind, but a few days ago, it reared it's unexpected head during a conversation with a stranger. He was attractive, and young, and a professional success. It seemed that there was no end to what we had to talk about... And before I could think about it, he was asking if I wanted to go out to dinner. I wrote down my number, and told him to give me a call. No big deal, right?
But as I laid in bed that night, rubbing cocoa butter on my tough shell of a stomach to prevent stretch marks, with my feet propped up on a stack of pillows to prevent swelling, as I drank a glass of tomato juice with my prenatal vitamin to prevent indigestion, a thousand new questions and doubts entered my mind.
What had I done? I had given my number to a complete stranger, just like I had so many times in bars and clubs when I was still skinny... The difference, of course, is that this time I was sober, and probably looked a bit on the chubby side to him, and I had failed to mention the fact that I was over 6 months with child. What if he really called? Then what? Should I tell him I was pregnant? Should I just accept a dinner invitation and act like my bump was a beer gut?
What if he was a con-artist who just wanted to kidnap me and steal my beautiful unborn child and sell her to gypsies in Thailand?
And just like turning your back on that incoming wave on the horizon, a new realization engulfed me and swept me off my feet into the current.
It would no longer be just me -- single or not. Maybe I am free to date whoever I want, but the questions will forever be weighted. Instead of "I wonder if he likes to go to the movies?" I will be asking, "How would he look with a pink diaper bag over his shoulder?" And the truth is, any overnighters will be out of the question because it will take a long time before I trust anyone -- stranger or not -- around my little girl. It certainly is a change from the days I woke up to a living room full of people on the couch I had never seen before in college (hey, we lived 10 feet from the most popular bar -- it was a crash pad).
Still, it's flattering and somewhat liberating to know that I can accept those offers, and that there are guys out there who will make them. And maybe, just like this baby has been such an unexpected joy in my life so far, someone will pop up in my life and surprise even me.
But just being cute is no longer a date-able quality. There are two girls' happiness I have to consider.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Leaving Comments
I have adjusted my settings to allow anyone that wishes to post a comment on my blogs. Some email addresses were restricted before, unbeknownst to me. Don't be shy....tell me what you think by clicking the comment button at the bottom of each blog. Maybe it will start up further discussion...
Wife And/Or Mother??
We've all heard the old wives tale... get married young, and long before you have a baby, or you will end up alone forever. Forget war, and disease, and global warming -- if you aren't married, and you're knocked up, you're inevitably screwed.
Well, by the standards of whoever those ladies were, I am probably too old to be unwed. And there's no denying that there's a baby inside that bump. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, and work two jobs to be sure I get by, and live over 1000 miles away from my family -- so shouldn't I be a bit more terrified?
Don't get me wrong... I believe in marriage. My parents have been married over 35 years, and despite setbacks along the way, they are two of the happiest people I know. And I think there's a reason why a woman (and man, for that matter) leave their families to form one of their own. But I also think there are way too many people that do it for the wrong reasons, and live in misery because of it.
But I woke up this morning to nothing but the sound of my dog snoring. I stumbled around the apartment half-asleep for about half an hour and read the morning paper, and eventually woke that snoozing pet of mine and took her for a walk. It was my day off, and I literally had nothing to do. Sure, I had plenty of things that I could do, and should have done (like organizing those closets, ugh), but I didn't have to. There was no one there to make plans with, or to look over my shoulder, or to even talk to.
And instead of being miserable, I was very content. Perhaps too content. It was nice to just be there alone.
I know once my little girl is born, I can kiss my independence and sleep good-bye (isn't that what all those old wives say too?). I look forward to that chapter of my life.
But when everyone told me how sick I was going to get in my first trimester, and how I would be hugging the toliet for weeks, I hoped for the best. I have yet to throw up one time. When I was told to expect spurts of unexplained crying and misery for no reason, I seriously doubted the tears would come. Barring one really low day when my childhood pet died, I seem to be constantly chipper. And even though the ultrasound tech was pretty sure that no 3-D photos of my little girl would turn out, I asked her to try. What I got in return are some of the most precious first shots of my baby's face that I will always treasure.
The point here (and I swear I'm getting to it) is that I'm not going to feel bad for myself, or scared, or worried just because someone, somewhere decided my situation is grave. I'm healthy and have accomplished a lot of the things I set out to when I was a little girl. So the marriage piece hasn't fallen into place yet. It will.
Now isn't the time to be a wife. It's the time to be a mother. Just as both can go so wonderfully hand in hand, one can certainly be accomplished without the other.
Well, by the standards of whoever those ladies were, I am probably too old to be unwed. And there's no denying that there's a baby inside that bump. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, and work two jobs to be sure I get by, and live over 1000 miles away from my family -- so shouldn't I be a bit more terrified?
Don't get me wrong... I believe in marriage. My parents have been married over 35 years, and despite setbacks along the way, they are two of the happiest people I know. And I think there's a reason why a woman (and man, for that matter) leave their families to form one of their own. But I also think there are way too many people that do it for the wrong reasons, and live in misery because of it.
But I woke up this morning to nothing but the sound of my dog snoring. I stumbled around the apartment half-asleep for about half an hour and read the morning paper, and eventually woke that snoozing pet of mine and took her for a walk. It was my day off, and I literally had nothing to do. Sure, I had plenty of things that I could do, and should have done (like organizing those closets, ugh), but I didn't have to. There was no one there to make plans with, or to look over my shoulder, or to even talk to.
And instead of being miserable, I was very content. Perhaps too content. It was nice to just be there alone.
I know once my little girl is born, I can kiss my independence and sleep good-bye (isn't that what all those old wives say too?). I look forward to that chapter of my life.
But when everyone told me how sick I was going to get in my first trimester, and how I would be hugging the toliet for weeks, I hoped for the best. I have yet to throw up one time. When I was told to expect spurts of unexplained crying and misery for no reason, I seriously doubted the tears would come. Barring one really low day when my childhood pet died, I seem to be constantly chipper. And even though the ultrasound tech was pretty sure that no 3-D photos of my little girl would turn out, I asked her to try. What I got in return are some of the most precious first shots of my baby's face that I will always treasure.
The point here (and I swear I'm getting to it) is that I'm not going to feel bad for myself, or scared, or worried just because someone, somewhere decided my situation is grave. I'm healthy and have accomplished a lot of the things I set out to when I was a little girl. So the marriage piece hasn't fallen into place yet. It will.
Now isn't the time to be a wife. It's the time to be a mother. Just as both can go so wonderfully hand in hand, one can certainly be accomplished without the other.
Friday, January 18, 2008
What's in a Name?
I am soliciting the help of anyone, and everyone, who has an opinion on what my little girl should be named (which is probably anyone and everyone!). I would especially love first and middle names combinations. Weird, classic, modern... I don't care, just send them.
I will post a blog later with all the suggestions, and get further input. If your suggestions have a special meaning, let me know.
I will post a blog later with all the suggestions, and get further input. If your suggestions have a special meaning, let me know.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Connecting the Dots...
Maybe it's because it's a new year, or that fact that I just gave my apartment a facelift... Or maybe it's the idea of a brand new life getting ready to start -- one in which I will be a forever witness....
Whatever the reason, I have been thinking a lot about events in my own past, and trying to piece who I am today together. I'm trying to connect the dots between those times that I may have said, "Someday this will all make sense," and if that statement really stands true today.
I remember getting ready for Spring Break my junior year in college, and instead of being really excited, I was so bummed. The guy who I LOVED (thought I did) was 2 hours away at a different college and after months and months of "are we together or are we not?" and dozens of long distance visits, it seemed that the perfect guy and I were not actually meant to be. I was hurt, and angry, and mad at myself -- why couldn't I just like one of the hundreds of other guys in my classes, apartment building, own college? So, as I threw my tanning oil and bikini in my suitcase, I determined that when I got back from this trip, I would be over mr.... what was his name again?.... "I'm giving him up for Lent," I told my roommate, a baptist who had no idea what I was talking about. "Just as long as you're not giving up tequila," she said.
What followed was probably the craziest, wildest and, at times, embarassing week of my life, spent partying with six of my best girl friends and thousands of drunk strangers. When I got back to BSU, I was rejuvenated (when the hangover wore off) and I stayed "over" Mr. Incredible for a lot longer than Lent. It wasn't long before I started another relationship, one that lasted 5 years.
Fast forward two years to my first "real" job out of school. No annoying professors to file papers for, no peanut shells to sweep up at the end of my shift, and a regular paycheck (and insurance). I loved the office, and my desk, and the professional people I dealt with on a daily basis. Still -- I had been promised a lot of writing work, and I found myself proofreading and making phone calls on a regular basis. In my heart, I knew that it wasn't the right place for me. But my bank account and sense of stability talked me into staying longer than I should have.
I showed up early one Monday morning and my bosses told me they wanted to talk to me. Pretty normal for a Monday morning, so I sighed and took my notebook in the office. Five minutes later I was packing up a box with what few personal things I was allowed to have on my desk, and getting back in my car for the long commute back home. "Fired? They can't fire me!" I thought. I was offended and vindictive -- more than anything because they had beat me to doing what I wanted to do all along.
That very afternoon I sent out a resume to a small newspaper in Shelbyville, Indiana who hired me later that week. My desk wasn't nearly as fancy as my old job, but I got to put as many pictures of my dog and silly parents on it as I wanted. Most of the other reporters (all 5 of them) wore jeans everyday, and the woman's restroom was covered in forest green linoleum that looked like it had been stolen straight from the set of Boogie Nights. But I got to write -- everyday. Whether I covered the llama costume contest at the Shelby County fair, or was invited to Governor Daniels' press conferences, my words and name were in print. On my last day working there at the end of my two-week notice, the ladies of the office took me for a cheeseburger at Cow Palace. Leaving that newsroom was one of the saddest moments of my life...
But the experience and actual printed material I wrote there helped me land a position with a bigger newspaper in a MUCH warmer climate. Sure, I don't write everyday. And I'm at the bottom of the office totem pole. But I love going to work each day and am being challenged way beyond any other tasks I've done before.
Which brings me to my latest, "Someday this will all make sense." Feeling neglected by someone that I left everything behind for (family, job, friends) pushed me into some actions that were not only stupid -- they had a lasting effect on my life. All my dreams of a few more years focused on my career, a wedding, a house and more traveling before starting a family went up in smoke. I had it all planned out... how could I be so careless? The moment that I looked at the plus sign on that CVS pregnancy test was one of the loneliest, and scariest, of my life.
And of course, I am still not sure of how, or when, it will all make sense. But I do know this much so far -- in four months, I will be doing something that several doctors told me would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to ever accomplish. I don't know who will be in the delivery room with me, or if I'll be able to handle the pain without medication. But I do know that I will hold my little girl for the first time -- and for a moment, all the random dots will be connected, and it will all make sense.
Whatever the reason, I have been thinking a lot about events in my own past, and trying to piece who I am today together. I'm trying to connect the dots between those times that I may have said, "Someday this will all make sense," and if that statement really stands true today.
I remember getting ready for Spring Break my junior year in college, and instead of being really excited, I was so bummed. The guy who I LOVED (thought I did) was 2 hours away at a different college and after months and months of "are we together or are we not?" and dozens of long distance visits, it seemed that the perfect guy and I were not actually meant to be. I was hurt, and angry, and mad at myself -- why couldn't I just like one of the hundreds of other guys in my classes, apartment building, own college? So, as I threw my tanning oil and bikini in my suitcase, I determined that when I got back from this trip, I would be over mr.... what was his name again?.... "I'm giving him up for Lent," I told my roommate, a baptist who had no idea what I was talking about. "Just as long as you're not giving up tequila," she said.
What followed was probably the craziest, wildest and, at times, embarassing week of my life, spent partying with six of my best girl friends and thousands of drunk strangers. When I got back to BSU, I was rejuvenated (when the hangover wore off) and I stayed "over" Mr. Incredible for a lot longer than Lent. It wasn't long before I started another relationship, one that lasted 5 years.
Fast forward two years to my first "real" job out of school. No annoying professors to file papers for, no peanut shells to sweep up at the end of my shift, and a regular paycheck (and insurance). I loved the office, and my desk, and the professional people I dealt with on a daily basis. Still -- I had been promised a lot of writing work, and I found myself proofreading and making phone calls on a regular basis. In my heart, I knew that it wasn't the right place for me. But my bank account and sense of stability talked me into staying longer than I should have.
I showed up early one Monday morning and my bosses told me they wanted to talk to me. Pretty normal for a Monday morning, so I sighed and took my notebook in the office. Five minutes later I was packing up a box with what few personal things I was allowed to have on my desk, and getting back in my car for the long commute back home. "Fired? They can't fire me!" I thought. I was offended and vindictive -- more than anything because they had beat me to doing what I wanted to do all along.
That very afternoon I sent out a resume to a small newspaper in Shelbyville, Indiana who hired me later that week. My desk wasn't nearly as fancy as my old job, but I got to put as many pictures of my dog and silly parents on it as I wanted. Most of the other reporters (all 5 of them) wore jeans everyday, and the woman's restroom was covered in forest green linoleum that looked like it had been stolen straight from the set of Boogie Nights. But I got to write -- everyday. Whether I covered the llama costume contest at the Shelby County fair, or was invited to Governor Daniels' press conferences, my words and name were in print. On my last day working there at the end of my two-week notice, the ladies of the office took me for a cheeseburger at Cow Palace. Leaving that newsroom was one of the saddest moments of my life...
But the experience and actual printed material I wrote there helped me land a position with a bigger newspaper in a MUCH warmer climate. Sure, I don't write everyday. And I'm at the bottom of the office totem pole. But I love going to work each day and am being challenged way beyond any other tasks I've done before.
Which brings me to my latest, "Someday this will all make sense." Feeling neglected by someone that I left everything behind for (family, job, friends) pushed me into some actions that were not only stupid -- they had a lasting effect on my life. All my dreams of a few more years focused on my career, a wedding, a house and more traveling before starting a family went up in smoke. I had it all planned out... how could I be so careless? The moment that I looked at the plus sign on that CVS pregnancy test was one of the loneliest, and scariest, of my life.
And of course, I am still not sure of how, or when, it will all make sense. But I do know this much so far -- in four months, I will be doing something that several doctors told me would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to ever accomplish. I don't know who will be in the delivery room with me, or if I'll be able to handle the pain without medication. But I do know that I will hold my little girl for the first time -- and for a moment, all the random dots will be connected, and it will all make sense.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
That's what little girls are made of?
Sugar, spice, everything nice? Bones, blood, water? A closet full of shoes, purse stuffed with lip gloss, pink feathered boas over a purple sequin dress? What really makes a little girl, well, a little girl (aside from the obvious...)
This is the question I've been asking myself since I saw her sweet little face for the first time yesterday, and got a 100% guarantee from the ultrasound tech that there really is a tiny girl camping out in my belly.
At first glance, she looked sweet and precious, just like she should. But after 20 minutes of trying to poke and prod her into waking up for the camera, it was clear that this little angel is stubborn (or just a very heavy sleeper). The tech joked that "she must have been up partying all night" and I laughed nervously because indeed, I had awoke to her one-lady festivities at 1am, 3:30am and then again at 5am overnight. She wasn't kicking me exactly... it was more like a Cinco de Mayo fiesta, where every time she threw back a tequila shot, she felt the need to break into a conga line. She was excited, and I was excited that I could feel her moving around. With heavy eyes, I rolled out of bed at 8am and started to get ready for my ultrasound. Surely there would be some great photos -- she was a baby on the move!
Until I actually wanted her to move so that a measurement of her brain, and kidneys, and heart could happen. Then it was like, "Wake me up when you're ready to hit the clubs Mom. This is boring."
I almost felt apologetic, offering to come back at 11pm that night because "surely she would be waking back up." It was the one chance I would have before May to see what she was up to inside there and I KNEW she was doing a lot more than sleeping like a cherub all the time. The bags under my eyes proved it. But just as I was starting to get slightly disappointed in her inactivity, the ultrasound tech started to talk to me about her own son.
Heather (the tech) had been a very young mother when her son was born, and from the time she was four months pregnant until delivery, she was considered "high risk." It seemed that a heart defect and brain abnormality appeared on her son's ultrasound, and from that point on, she faced worry everyday for the rest of her pregnancy.
And the problems only grew worse after Blake was born. He had to undergo two open heart surgeries and removal of a tumor in his head by the time he turned three years old. Now, he was a healthy eight-year-old who had to eat a low-sodium diet and avoid contact sports -- but other than that, was perfectly healthy. But his road to normalcy was long, and frightening. Heather had been so impacted by how her ultrasound results had changed her life that she decided to make a career out of guiding people through the process -- whether the news was reassuring or unnerving.
Even though her story had a happy, triumphant ending, I couldn't help but feel beyond lucky that the results of my ultrasound were so different from hers. Sure, maybe my baby wasn't moving and grooving on command, and was keeping me up at night, but there was one word on her medical chart that made me thankful beyond my expectations: normal. No defects, no abnormalities, no obvious reasons to worry during the next four months. Just a sleeping baby who had worn herself out from playtime the night before.
So maybe the chart didn't say "extraordinary" or "fantastic" or some other equally technical term. She was peaceful. And beautiful. And normal. There would be time for her to amaze the world with her talent, and stun her mother with her simple kindness. But yesterday, it was what I took for granted to be run-of-the-mill, and even boring, that made her incredible.
And whether she ends up being made up of athleticism, or intelligence, or creativity, or romanticism -- all of the parts needed for her to chose those paths are in place. I realized that just being normal is a fearfully wonderful thing to be.
This is the question I've been asking myself since I saw her sweet little face for the first time yesterday, and got a 100% guarantee from the ultrasound tech that there really is a tiny girl camping out in my belly.
At first glance, she looked sweet and precious, just like she should. But after 20 minutes of trying to poke and prod her into waking up for the camera, it was clear that this little angel is stubborn (or just a very heavy sleeper). The tech joked that "she must have been up partying all night" and I laughed nervously because indeed, I had awoke to her one-lady festivities at 1am, 3:30am and then again at 5am overnight. She wasn't kicking me exactly... it was more like a Cinco de Mayo fiesta, where every time she threw back a tequila shot, she felt the need to break into a conga line. She was excited, and I was excited that I could feel her moving around. With heavy eyes, I rolled out of bed at 8am and started to get ready for my ultrasound. Surely there would be some great photos -- she was a baby on the move!
Until I actually wanted her to move so that a measurement of her brain, and kidneys, and heart could happen. Then it was like, "Wake me up when you're ready to hit the clubs Mom. This is boring."
I almost felt apologetic, offering to come back at 11pm that night because "surely she would be waking back up." It was the one chance I would have before May to see what she was up to inside there and I KNEW she was doing a lot more than sleeping like a cherub all the time. The bags under my eyes proved it. But just as I was starting to get slightly disappointed in her inactivity, the ultrasound tech started to talk to me about her own son.
Heather (the tech) had been a very young mother when her son was born, and from the time she was four months pregnant until delivery, she was considered "high risk." It seemed that a heart defect and brain abnormality appeared on her son's ultrasound, and from that point on, she faced worry everyday for the rest of her pregnancy.
And the problems only grew worse after Blake was born. He had to undergo two open heart surgeries and removal of a tumor in his head by the time he turned three years old. Now, he was a healthy eight-year-old who had to eat a low-sodium diet and avoid contact sports -- but other than that, was perfectly healthy. But his road to normalcy was long, and frightening. Heather had been so impacted by how her ultrasound results had changed her life that she decided to make a career out of guiding people through the process -- whether the news was reassuring or unnerving.
Even though her story had a happy, triumphant ending, I couldn't help but feel beyond lucky that the results of my ultrasound were so different from hers. Sure, maybe my baby wasn't moving and grooving on command, and was keeping me up at night, but there was one word on her medical chart that made me thankful beyond my expectations: normal. No defects, no abnormalities, no obvious reasons to worry during the next four months. Just a sleeping baby who had worn herself out from playtime the night before.
So maybe the chart didn't say "extraordinary" or "fantastic" or some other equally technical term. She was peaceful. And beautiful. And normal. There would be time for her to amaze the world with her talent, and stun her mother with her simple kindness. But yesterday, it was what I took for granted to be run-of-the-mill, and even boring, that made her incredible.
And whether she ends up being made up of athleticism, or intelligence, or creativity, or romanticism -- all of the parts needed for her to chose those paths are in place. I realized that just being normal is a fearfully wonderful thing to be.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Long Ride Home... (sigh)
When I was a kid, my dad was notorious for taking ALOT longer to get us home then he actually needed to. Whether it was unecessary errands, or stopping off at grandma or grandpas, getting home to call my friends (who I had just seen all day at school) seemed like it would never come, and I usually told my dad how I felt.
The worse case scenario was if dad was feeling especially nostalgic, and decided to take the "shortcut" by the lake. Even if we were miles from town, out in the cornfields of Indiana, he would try to convince us that it would take a shorter amount of time to swing by Lake Michigan and take a peek at the lighthouse than to just take the direct route home.
It was on these drives that he would recount the stories of running on the shores when he was a kid, cutting open his foot on broken glass, or almost drowning at the mercy of riptides. I knew the stories. So did my brothers. We lipsynced to the memories like it was his Top Gun cassette tape. And it didn't matter how many times I sighed, or rolled my eyes, or tried to be the voice of reason in the mobile prison... dad kept right on talking, using his shortcut as a medium.
It was years later that my dad joked about the two or three years of my life when the household phone was "glued" to the side of my head, or all the nights I locked myself in my room with a book instead of hanging out with my family. "I missed you then," he said.
I remembered that conversation just last week as I was tapping my brakes on Highway 4, just trying to get to work less than a half hour late. I rubbed my belly, and thought of my own little one inside. I thought how lucky I was to have my child with me -- all the time. To know that when I decided to go grocery shopping, he or she was going to come to. When I was researching old articles, or answering my phone at my desk, or getting the daily paper ready to be microfilmed, my baby was there too. There were no car seats, or diaper bags, or emergency phone numbers I needed to carry with me (just the ones for really good chinese food -- hey, the baby likes garlic chicken).
And I realized after my angel is born, those days will be over. Sure, at first the baby will have to go everywhere with me just because he or she can't protest. But what about the days that I have to leave him or her with a friend or (gulp) a sitter because I have to go to work? And I don't even want to think about the days when school, and swimming lessons, and sleepovers start. What about when a high school sweetheart enters the picture and he or she would rather spend weekends over at that person's house than with boring old mom?
It made me view those long rides home so many years ago in a different light. My dad wasn't trying to make us miserable. He was trying to steal a few extra minutes in the lives of his increasingly busy children for himself. A few moments when it was just him, and us, and the sound of waves crashing on his favorite stretch of beach -- miles away from phones ringing, televisions blaring and bedroom doors being shut.
It made me thankful to have my own child just under my skin, and to have a dad who cared that much.
The worse case scenario was if dad was feeling especially nostalgic, and decided to take the "shortcut" by the lake. Even if we were miles from town, out in the cornfields of Indiana, he would try to convince us that it would take a shorter amount of time to swing by Lake Michigan and take a peek at the lighthouse than to just take the direct route home.
It was on these drives that he would recount the stories of running on the shores when he was a kid, cutting open his foot on broken glass, or almost drowning at the mercy of riptides. I knew the stories. So did my brothers. We lipsynced to the memories like it was his Top Gun cassette tape. And it didn't matter how many times I sighed, or rolled my eyes, or tried to be the voice of reason in the mobile prison... dad kept right on talking, using his shortcut as a medium.
It was years later that my dad joked about the two or three years of my life when the household phone was "glued" to the side of my head, or all the nights I locked myself in my room with a book instead of hanging out with my family. "I missed you then," he said.
I remembered that conversation just last week as I was tapping my brakes on Highway 4, just trying to get to work less than a half hour late. I rubbed my belly, and thought of my own little one inside. I thought how lucky I was to have my child with me -- all the time. To know that when I decided to go grocery shopping, he or she was going to come to. When I was researching old articles, or answering my phone at my desk, or getting the daily paper ready to be microfilmed, my baby was there too. There were no car seats, or diaper bags, or emergency phone numbers I needed to carry with me (just the ones for really good chinese food -- hey, the baby likes garlic chicken).
And I realized after my angel is born, those days will be over. Sure, at first the baby will have to go everywhere with me just because he or she can't protest. But what about the days that I have to leave him or her with a friend or (gulp) a sitter because I have to go to work? And I don't even want to think about the days when school, and swimming lessons, and sleepovers start. What about when a high school sweetheart enters the picture and he or she would rather spend weekends over at that person's house than with boring old mom?
It made me view those long rides home so many years ago in a different light. My dad wasn't trying to make us miserable. He was trying to steal a few extra minutes in the lives of his increasingly busy children for himself. A few moments when it was just him, and us, and the sound of waves crashing on his favorite stretch of beach -- miles away from phones ringing, televisions blaring and bedroom doors being shut.
It made me thankful to have my own child just under my skin, and to have a dad who cared that much.
Please, no yellow and green
I wish that I was good with surprises. I mean, I really REALLY wish that when someone told me that there was a "surprise" in store, that I could just leave that fact alone and wait for the time to come for it to be revealed. It would make those moments when it was revealed special, and joyous, and well.... a surprise.
Instead, I develop a temporary case of OCD when it comes to surprises. I just can't wait to know what it is. It's not that I'm even all that excited -- it's that I want to be ready for whatever it is.
So, you can imagine how unbearable these past 20 weeks have been for me. I know that there is a healthy baby inside me -- I've gained 9 pounds and a protruding belly, and I feel the little angel kick me (usually when I'm desperately trying to get some sleep). My blood pressure is good, my blood work has all been clean and I haven't even noticed any blood when I brush my teeth or go to the bathroom (apparently all things that can happen in a pregnancy).
A good person would be satisfied with that. An even better person would say, "thank god I have a healthy baby. that's all I need to know."
But I am no such person.
Visions of 100 yellow onesies being unwrapped at my baby shower, and little green socks and bibs are giving me night tremors.
I want -- no, I HAVE -- to know if there is a little Susie, or Bobby, or Apple, or Adian, or whatever the heck people are naming babies these days, on the way. I want the pink lacy headbands, or the manly blue puppy dog shoes. I want to decide on a Tinkerbelle or Baseball-themed nursery. I want to be able to answer any and all baby-related questions with "she will be here in May" or "he is going to be so handsome." In short, I want to keep (most of) the yellow and green baby gear of the world on the shelves and out of my life.
Only 4 more days, and the surprise will be gone. But knowing me, once I've been told the gender, my worries will turn to bigger things like "what kind of person will i raise?" or "will my baby love me right away?" or even "what kind of life will i provide for my child?"
So maybe wondering about this surprise has been a pleasant distraction from the bigger questions so far. And maybe, in having this surprise spoiled, 1000 more will surface.
Instead, I develop a temporary case of OCD when it comes to surprises. I just can't wait to know what it is. It's not that I'm even all that excited -- it's that I want to be ready for whatever it is.
So, you can imagine how unbearable these past 20 weeks have been for me. I know that there is a healthy baby inside me -- I've gained 9 pounds and a protruding belly, and I feel the little angel kick me (usually when I'm desperately trying to get some sleep). My blood pressure is good, my blood work has all been clean and I haven't even noticed any blood when I brush my teeth or go to the bathroom (apparently all things that can happen in a pregnancy).
A good person would be satisfied with that. An even better person would say, "thank god I have a healthy baby. that's all I need to know."
But I am no such person.
Visions of 100 yellow onesies being unwrapped at my baby shower, and little green socks and bibs are giving me night tremors.
I want -- no, I HAVE -- to know if there is a little Susie, or Bobby, or Apple, or Adian, or whatever the heck people are naming babies these days, on the way. I want the pink lacy headbands, or the manly blue puppy dog shoes. I want to decide on a Tinkerbelle or Baseball-themed nursery. I want to be able to answer any and all baby-related questions with "she will be here in May" or "he is going to be so handsome." In short, I want to keep (most of) the yellow and green baby gear of the world on the shelves and out of my life.
Only 4 more days, and the surprise will be gone. But knowing me, once I've been told the gender, my worries will turn to bigger things like "what kind of person will i raise?" or "will my baby love me right away?" or even "what kind of life will i provide for my child?"
So maybe wondering about this surprise has been a pleasant distraction from the bigger questions so far. And maybe, in having this surprise spoiled, 1000 more will surface.
Cancellations
I've realized the only thing I hate worse than surprises (see previous blog for more on that topic) is cancellations. And I'm not talking about when someone you really didn't want to see anyway cancels lunch, or a writing assignment is cancelled on a day when you really just wanted to go shopping anyway.
I'm talking about cancellations of things that you are really REALLY looking forward to. Like an audition for a musical group you've been envying for months (got postponed two days ago), or a meeting with someone who has tons of great nutrition and baby health advice (cancelled this morning, she is sick --- go figure).
Or the worse cancellation of all -- an appointment when you are supposed to hear, feel and SEE your adorable alien of a baby on a giant plasma screen. It's basically like going to see that amazing Natalie Portman movie that you've been waiting months to see, and then being denied a ticket at the door. Sure, you can go back later and see it. But on that night, you were ready -- you read all the critics' reviews, watched the trailer online and had your gas station candy in your purse. Being told to "come again on Wednesday" is not only annoying -- it's crushing.
As you may have gathered, I was supposed to have my ultrasound yesterday, and I was supposed to see little hands and feet on a colossal screen while I sobbed into a box of Kleenex (and nibbled on the gas station candy in my purse). I was going to hear the words "you are having a boy" or "you are having a girl." I had read all the online guidelines for the ultrasound and viewed dozens of other mommies' pictures from their visits. I was ready -- but the ultrasound tech had the stomach flu.
And as mad as I wanted to be -- how could she do this to me? --, my better judgement was kicking into overdrive. Who was really the victim here? Myself, who had to wait a few more measly days to see an even bigger and more defined baby, or the tech who was hugging her toliet all day and swearing off sushi? No one was at fault. So why did I feel so abused?
I realized then that this is only the beginning of what little control I will have over the life of my child. Sure, I can make an impact, but there are too many other factors outside my control that will influence his or her experiences on Earth. And I really need to get used to that fact and stop trying to be uber-mommy. There will be days when he or she spits up all over the cute outfit that I picked out especially for our visit to see Grandma Sally. Other times, no matter how much hugging, singing and cajoling I give, my child will continue to cry and disrupt my vision of domestic bliss. And at some point my child will look at me and say, "Mom, I know you may not approve, but this what I am going to do." I know this is true, because I have been that child in all of those situations.
There is no crystal ball for parenting. I won't always be able to see my child when I want to, on my exact terms. I can carry the diaper bag, and digital camera, and all the cheap candy 7-Eleven has to offer, but the fact is that there are moments I will miss, and times that I will drop the ball.
So there's a lesson (cue the cheesy Full House music) in all of this. Maybe a cancellation is just a postponement to something even bigger and better, and maybe with just a little help from Mom, the inevitable influences of the outside world really can be bearable.
I'm talking about cancellations of things that you are really REALLY looking forward to. Like an audition for a musical group you've been envying for months (got postponed two days ago), or a meeting with someone who has tons of great nutrition and baby health advice (cancelled this morning, she is sick --- go figure).
Or the worse cancellation of all -- an appointment when you are supposed to hear, feel and SEE your adorable alien of a baby on a giant plasma screen. It's basically like going to see that amazing Natalie Portman movie that you've been waiting months to see, and then being denied a ticket at the door. Sure, you can go back later and see it. But on that night, you were ready -- you read all the critics' reviews, watched the trailer online and had your gas station candy in your purse. Being told to "come again on Wednesday" is not only annoying -- it's crushing.
As you may have gathered, I was supposed to have my ultrasound yesterday, and I was supposed to see little hands and feet on a colossal screen while I sobbed into a box of Kleenex (and nibbled on the gas station candy in my purse). I was going to hear the words "you are having a boy" or "you are having a girl." I had read all the online guidelines for the ultrasound and viewed dozens of other mommies' pictures from their visits. I was ready -- but the ultrasound tech had the stomach flu.
And as mad as I wanted to be -- how could she do this to me? --, my better judgement was kicking into overdrive. Who was really the victim here? Myself, who had to wait a few more measly days to see an even bigger and more defined baby, or the tech who was hugging her toliet all day and swearing off sushi? No one was at fault. So why did I feel so abused?
I realized then that this is only the beginning of what little control I will have over the life of my child. Sure, I can make an impact, but there are too many other factors outside my control that will influence his or her experiences on Earth. And I really need to get used to that fact and stop trying to be uber-mommy. There will be days when he or she spits up all over the cute outfit that I picked out especially for our visit to see Grandma Sally. Other times, no matter how much hugging, singing and cajoling I give, my child will continue to cry and disrupt my vision of domestic bliss. And at some point my child will look at me and say, "Mom, I know you may not approve, but this what I am going to do." I know this is true, because I have been that child in all of those situations.
There is no crystal ball for parenting. I won't always be able to see my child when I want to, on my exact terms. I can carry the diaper bag, and digital camera, and all the cheap candy 7-Eleven has to offer, but the fact is that there are moments I will miss, and times that I will drop the ball.
So there's a lesson (cue the cheesy Full House music) in all of this. Maybe a cancellation is just a postponement to something even bigger and better, and maybe with just a little help from Mom, the inevitable influences of the outside world really can be bearable.
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