March 24, 2009

-  The first ten minutes of a hot bath.
-  Being married to Donald.
-  Understanding cultural differences.
-  The laughter of children at play.
-  Experimenting in the kitchen.
-  Speaking French.
-  Photographs.
-  Watching this baby grow.
-  Wind blowing when my hair is down.
-  Selecting the “perfect” birthday card.
-  Jim Croce songs.
-  Wearing thick, comfortable socks.
-  The smell of a baby.
-  Taking Hank for long walks.
-  Flipping the pages of an old book.
-  Spending hours in bookshops and libraries.
-  The quilts my grandmother made.
-  Stories.
-  The feel of clean sheets when I get into bed.
-  Daydreaming.
-  The color green.
-  Wearing new lingerie for the first time.
-  Reading letters and e-mails from family and friends.
-  That my husband is a geek.
-  All three of my lazy cats.
-  Writing myself into an oblivion.
-  Creating pointless lists.

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Filed as Everyday Sarah 

March 23, 2009

At this point, you are a little over a foot long and OH MY GOODNESS, SO ADORABLE.

I know this because these days you spend a lot of time delivering solid blows to my innards.  Those kicks?  The ones where my entire belly is lopsided and a three square inch area looks strangely stretched out?  The ones where I can discern the outline of a knee or an elbow for about two nanoseconds before I realize that I MUST PEE.  AGAIN.?  That is how I know you are OH MY GOODNESS, SO ADORABLE.

Adorable or not, however, you are welcome to stop kickboxing my bladder ANY TIME YOU WANT.  Just sayin’.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

All in all, this whole arrangement wherein you are some sort of parasite that sucks nutrient from my body is actually pretty cool.  I constantly find myself contorted into painful positions in the name of dislodging a hand or foot from my ribcage, but it always serves as a pleasant reminder that your gestation is going well.  Thus far, I have always won the battle over my ribcage, presumably because you are embarrassed thinking about YOUR MOTHER wiggling around uncontrollably in public, but I am expecting this trend to come to an end any day now.

I figure this is practice for when you are a teenager.  I’m going to lose a lot of battles the minute you discover that I don’t have the energy to yell through slammed doors, so I might as well acclimate to being “Mom, that total dumbass loser” now.

The only thing I have left to say about the past few weeks with you is this: feeling you jerk around sporadically has provided me with a newfound sense of pride and delight in my body.  Sure, your father donated some sperm to the cause, and sure, you’re the one doing all the work on a cellular level, but JUST LOOK AT WHAT I CREATED.  My body is made to nurture you, to give you what you need so that you may flourish, and this never ceases to amaze me.  I cannot wait to look over every centimeter of you, to hold you in my arms, to know the full extent of my body’s capacity.  And, of course, I cannot wait to meet you and spend years getting to know you.  If nothing else, there will always be that you were very well-loved all along.

Momma (oh, and Daddy, too).

P.S.  Your father has also donated an awful lot of time to preparing the house for your arrival.  I’ll go ahead and thank him for you by eating those delicious chocolate eggs he bought the other day.  He couldn’t possibly have wanted those for himself…right?

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March 20, 2009

Only twice have I ever been asked who the most important person in my life might be.

The first time it happened, I was fifteen years old and it took me a very long time to decide, something I blame entirely on the fact that the adolescent brain moves at roughly the speed of cold molasses.  Or at least mine did.  Unless I saw a very cute boy, at which point my brain moved - and this is a conservative estimate - quicker than a jackrabbit on a date.  Heh.  In the end, after much consideration over whether or not my BFF FOREVER AND EVER AMEN was the right choice or not, I finally decided on someone else.  I picked the woman who brought me screaming into this world and then, by some miraculous genius, managed to tolerate me and potty-train me and rear me into a (*cough* completely illogical *cough*) semi-decent human being.  And so she was.

Yesterday, the question was popped again.  Who is the most important person in my life?

The answer came to me without hesitation (a notable improvement from last time) (unfortunately, nobody is testing me on quadratic equations these days).  But the question stuck with me for the rest of the day, tossed and turned and jostled about in my head.  It’s just, well, it was so…OBVIOUS.  I was so…CONFIDENT.  Where was this self-assured decision-maker when I had to ask a boy to Prom?  Huh?  THAT girl, the girl who asked a boy to Prom, spent MONTHS agonizing over whether or not said boy was the RIGHT boy and had kissable lips.

So my answer was Donald.  Sweet, pragmatic, geeky, lovable, attentive, masculine, (he made me include that), funny Donald.

One of my first memories of Donald happened in a kitchen.  We were guests in a small cottage, and the kitchen was a narrow yellow place.  We could hardly fit both of us in there at the same time.  There was a large window with wood shutters and Donald had a glass in his hand.  I was washing the dishes.  We had a routine wherein he made breakfast and I washed the dishes and he opened the shutters and I took pictures.  “Please be careful,“ I reminded him, “not to place the glass on the windowsill when you open the shutters.“  He said he would, but he forgot, and when he opened the shutters he shattered the glass.  When we saw our host later that day (on our way to the store for replacements), he apologized profusely.  Then he put his arm around me and kissed my cheek and said he was very sorry to be such a buffoon of a boyfriend.  And I thought WOW, this is it, I am going to marry a self-described buffoon.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

And so I have.

Who is the most important person in your life?

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March 19, 2009

I’m not positive what, exactly, gave it away.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

Was it that one, unspeakable time that I unloaded the contents of my purse into the refrigerator fruit drawer?  The moment when I realized that I’d spent the last ten minutes searching for a cell phone that I was holding in my hand?  The look on my husband’s face when I left the ice cream melting on the counter for three hours?

Maybe it was one of the many, many times that I called one pet by another’s name.  Or the time I crawled into the house through the kitchen window because I thought I’d locked myself out…only to find that I’d latched my keys to my belt loop so that I wouldn’t lose them.  It may, possibly, have been the three million consecutive evenings that I left my wallet at work.

It could have been the numerous phone calls I (inconveniently) forgot to return and the ridiculous number of e-mails I responded to twice.  It could have been the moment when I realized I’d spent an hour reading the same page in some Dr. Sears book over.  And over.  And over.  Or was it the realization that I could not remember my middle name?  MY MIDDLE NAME?!  THE SAME MIDDLE NAME I HAVE HAD MY ENTIRE LIFE?!

Whatever the trigger, a very pitiful and yet absolutely undeniable conclusion has been drawn about this pregnancy, and that is this: my baby’s placenta has devoured my brain.

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When we adopted Hank, we were told that he was four months old and still teething.  He was remarkably sedate.  For days, we commented to one another how LUCKY we were that we had adopted the one puppy that was not, well, INSANE.

Within a few weeks, we discovered that Hank had been horribly undernourished before we brought him into our home.  As soon as he started eating the recommended amount of food, he grew exponentially overnight.  One evening, we said sweet dreams to our tiny, calm puppy and the next morning we woke up to a behemoth of a German Shephered, a dog with more energy than the Energizer Bunny on steroids.  We bought him a 40-foot lead that allowed him to roam the backyard (and kill all of our gophers) and took him on long daily walks to meet the neighbors’ dogs.  It turned out that he had never been regularly exercised or socialized and that he had always been tied to a 4-foot leash, so he thrived in the new environment.

Within a few months, we discovered that NO, he was not still teething.  He was actually several months older than previously thought and had been so undernourished that he had already lost a tooth.


© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

We try to keep a pretty close watch on Hank now.  We try to be responsible pet owners, and for the most part we aren’t half-bad.  And then, every now and then we have to do one of those two things which Hank detests above all else.  We need to bathe him (LORD HELP US) or we need to weigh him (LORD HELP HANK).

Over the weekend, Donald thought that NOW would be the perfect time to see how much Hank weighs in at these days.  So he brought our dinky bathroom scale outside and stood on the scale with Hank in his arms.  At first, Hank appealed to his generosity by licking his ear.  Mmm.  Delicious husband ear wax.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

When that didn’t work, Hank thought maybe squirming would.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

Can you blame the snugglepup?  It does look rather uncomfortable!  If Donald held me like that, he’d have another thing coming to him, LET ME TELL YOU.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.

And then, do you see it?  WAIT FOR IT, WAIT FOR IT.

© 2009 Helios Media, Inc.  Please click here to see this image on Flickr.


Donald was not too pleased about the attempted damage to the family jewels, but he has since recovered.  So how much does Hank weigh, you ask?

Well, that’s a good question.  And, well, you know what would have really helped me answer that?

If I had remembered to put the camera down and read the scale.

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