ao neko

one

2009-07-15T17:01:00.007-04:00

We are away, visiting relatives for Kai's first birthday week. The trip did not get off to an auspicious start. See Exhibit A:

In case it needs a caption, this is a picture of our car being towed from where it broke down as soon as we pulled onto the highway.

Seven hours and God bless our mechanic later, we were finally on our way. At 1 a.m., only halfway across the state but utterly exhausted, we stopped for the night, but then the kids were so hyper- energized by the novelty of the hotel room – Iris leaping the chasm between the double beds again and again, Kai crawling desperately after Jasper, trying to re-attach his leash to his collar – that it was 3 a.m. before anyone got any sleep.

Seven hours and 34 minutes later, Kai turned one. With great ceremony, we turned his carseat around to the forward-facing position, then drove on to my cousin's house for a sweet family party.

I so wanted to get a picture of Kai in his Hawaiian shirt in front of her hibiscus plant, but he was having none of it. A perpetual motion machine like his sister.

And like his sister, too, he will have his birth story broadcast on Blogspot.

So this is how my Bastille Day baby stormed the world.

July 13: I’m one week past my due date, and my sister-in-law has arrived for a four-day visit. The pressure is on to produce a baby. At dinner, I feel distinctly crampy, but I’ve been feeling that way off and on for weeks now, so I don’t get my hopes up.

July 14, 7 a.m.: I get up to go to the bathroom and do my usual full-body inventory: did I deliver a baby in the night? Am I delivering one now? No on both counts: still hugely pregnant. Ah well. I have my now-standing Monday morning appointment with Dr. A at 10:45. I’ll find out then if signs of impending labor have progressed any further and, most likely, her thoughts on the dreaded induction should this pregnancy go on much longer. In the meantime, back to bed to rest until Iris wakes up.

8:00: Hmm. I could be mistaken, but the crampiness I’m feeling seems to be organizing itself into distinct episodes. I tell J I might be having actual labor contractions, then get up to shower and finish packing my bag.

8:17: As I’m bustling about, I keep my eye on the digital bedside clock. By this inexpert method of timing, my contractions seem to be coming at 5-7 minute intervals, but they’re so mild, I feel no sense of urgency. I do, however, decide to call my doctor’s office when it opens and ask if Dr. A can squeeze me in earlier. Just to check on my progress.

8:35: I call my mom and tell her, “I think something might be going on.” I explain my plan to try to move up my doctor’s appointment and ask if she can come stay with Iris.

8:45: J is up, dressed, and anxious for my mother to get here. He has begun timing my contractions using the stopwatch function on his iPhone (what else?) and they’re now 3 1/2 minutes apart. He’s moving into crisis mode, but for me the contractions are still pretty mild and totally manageable, so I’m relaxed and cheerful. I toast the last two of our blueberry scones for breakfast.

9:00: I phone the doctor’s office but get the answering service. “Is this an emergency?” the operator asks. Is it? “I don’t know,” I admit. “I think I’m in labor.” The operator says the doctor on call, Dr. V, will phone me back.

9:05: I’m sitting on the yoga ball in the front hall when my mother arrives. Each contraction is now noticeably more intense than the last, and I’m beginning to have to concentrate on breathing through them.

9:10: My contractions are 2 1/2 minutes apart, like clockwork. J can actually look at the time on his phone, say, “You should be getting another one now,” and as if he ordered it, I’ll feel a new contraction coming on.

9:15: Why doesn’t Dr. V call back? I’m starting to think I won’t be able to walk to the doctor’s office, 3 blocks away, for my 10:45 appointment. In hindsight, this will be the understatement of the year.

9:20: J makes an executive decision. “We’re all going to the hospital!“ he announces. “Everyone in the car!”

9:30: The drive is excruciating. Every turn and bump along the way makes my insides twist and shout, and not in a happy way. On a brick-paved alley that he takes as a shortcut, J simply stops the car to let a contraction subside before going on.

9:33: Stopped at a red light, J tries to call the doctor’s office again to tell Dr. A that I am in active labor and we are headed to the hospital. He gets a busy signal.

9:40: We pull up in front of the hospital, but I can’t climb out of the car until another contraction finishes wringing out my insides. When I do get out, Iris breaks down in tears. I so want to lean back in and comfort her, but I don’t want to (a) have her see me in any more pain, or (b) have the baby on the sidewalk, so I say goodbye, turn and walk in with J, my heart breaking a little as I leaving my sobbing daughter in my mother’s capable hands.

In the elevator to the labor and delivery floor, someone asks, “Are you in labor?” Eyes closed, I manage a single nod.

9:45: At the check-in desk, J has to do most of the talking. A pregnant woman watches me from the waiting room chairs, seeing, I imagine, a glimpse of her future. Later, a nurse remarks to me, “You came in in a bit of a whirlwind,” but it doesn’t feel like that to me at the time. Though I am breathing deeply and intently now to get through every contraction, I am still a model of composure compared to what I will shortly become.

9:50: The triage examining room is tiny; there is nothing in there to help a laboring woman cope, least of all the nurse. She has a young intern or assistant or something take my vital signs, then announces that if my pulse were really that low, I’d be dead. The assistant tries again: same result. Not reassuring. As J fends off her preparations to give me an IV and begs repeatedly for someone to call my doctor, I fight nausea (which, thankfully, passes) and begin moaning through monster contractions.

10:00: A young woman doctor comes in, quickly assesses the situation, and hurries out again to page Dr. A.

10:05: Another family practice physician, Dr. L, arrives to examine me. I will later learn that he is Dr. A’s neighbor and good friend – “We’re brethren,” is how he puts it – and I am very, very lucky that of all the strange-to-me doctors at this great big hospital, he was assigned to me.

Although contractions are coming fast and furious now, no one is more surprised than I am to discover that I am fully dilated. Dr. L disappears briefly, then reappears. He has called Dr. A himself, and “when she heard you were fully dilated, she hung up on me,” he says. Relief: Dr. A is on her way.

10:10: I am moved to one of the hospital’s beautiful labor and delivery suites, where I am too overwhelmed by contractions to take advantage of the birthing ball, private shower, or any of its other spa-like amenities. My birth plan, in which I’d said I wanted to try gravity-assisted positions for the delivery, is a distant fantasy. As a tsunami of a contraction tears through me, it is all I can do to allow myself to be helped onto the bed in the center of the room, let alone stand or squat.

Dr. L has actually read my birth plan, though. “I hear you want to go completely natural,” he says. I nod, although I now remember this moment in my previous labor well, this moment when natural childbirth doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all. But Dr. L replies, “Good! That’s best for mother and baby.” Finally, even though Dr. A still isn’t here, I feel supported.

10:22: I am bellowing like a wild animal now, and then I feel it: the urge to push, except urge isn’t really the word at all. It is a physical imperative so powerful I can’t not obey it. I never felt this during Iris’ birth – I had to be coached through the pushing, I had no instinct for it at all – so I am completely bowled over by the ferocious power of this feeling. “I’m pushing!” I yell.

10:25: I’m pushing through the “urge,” but apparently it is not accomplishing much. I hear Dr. L remark, “I think she’s holding back to wait for Dr. A.” To me he says, “The contractions are bringing the baby down, but you can have this baby very quickly if you want.”

“I want to have the baby!” I cry, meaning, as much as anything, I want to get this over with! But I’m not sure what else to do: I thought I was pushing. “I need help,” I admit.

Dr. L locks eyes with me and tells me what to do. What did he say? I’ve already forgotten. But whatever it is, I do it, and this time I am able to watch in a mirror as a blue-black scalp become visible, then, with the next big push, crowns.

Then a nurse’s voice is in my right ear, giving me urgent instructions: stop the big pushes. Take a breath, give a little grunty push. Uhh. Like that. Take a breath, give a little grunty push. It hurts it hurts it hurts!

Finally I get the go-ahead to push hard again and I push through the pain and I feel the big hard roundness of the baby’s head deliver. With the next push come the shoulders; compared to the head, they are nothing.

10:34: One more push, and the baby’s whole wet body spills out. Stressed by the stormy labor, he has passed meconium (basically, fetal poop) in utero, so there is no ceremonious “Would the father like to cut the cord?” Instead, I watch over my belly as hands, presumably Dr. L’s, swiftly and expertly clamp and snip, and the baby is rushed to an examining area under a warm light on the other side of the room to be cleaned and suctioned.

This must be the moment when Dr. A gets here, because I hear Dr. L announce, “We just delivered!” and then she is there next to me, talking to me and reassuring me about the baby. He has begun to squawk and if I look over, I can see his little legs kicking the air. “Hear that?” Dr. A says. “He sounds good. He’s going to be fine.”

And he is.

Happy birthday, beautiful boy.

putting down roots

2009-07-03T12:54:00.006-04:00

Our backyard plum tree is laden again with fruit. Every day, it's a race against the squirrels to pick the newly-ripe plums before those rat bastards help themselves.

I've been mashing them (plums, that is) with bananas for Kai, but he actually prefers to bite into them whole. Problem is, like Ramona the Pest with her apples, he likes to take just one bite of each. That's his hand sneaking into the picture above to help himself.

Speaking of trees, we have wanted a tree for our front yard for years, and this spring we finally planted a dogwood. Like so many other things in our lives (including, you could even say, our old house itself), we got it secondhand, from our neighbors, who are in the midst of a super-deluxe backyard landscaping project. They rejected this specimen because it has a couple of leafless branches, but we're okay with that. So now, between our preowned dogwood and the redbud I got for my birthday, we have almost doubled the tree population on our property, a very happy thing.

the back 40

2009-06-27T14:50:00.006-04:00

So I turned 40 a couple months ago. I try not to get too hung up on birthdays or age, but just so my entrance into this new decade would not be too sobering (literally or figuratively), J threw me a big party. I think I have already mentioned that he is the chef in our house, and he takes that job seriously, so planning the menu for this fete was no small matter of picking up a couple of trays of cold cuts from the supermarket. Oh no. J cooked up a biographical feast, complete with explanatory table cards. I already posted these to flickr, but I thought I'd share them here, too, because they make me feel good about where I've been, where I am, and what is to come.

The only thing I would add is peanut butter crackers. Not exactly sophisticated party fare, but these were/are a staple of my own childhood and Iris' (Kai, of course, is still too little for peanut butter) which somehow brings us full circle with this mother-of-small-children phase of life I now find myself (up to the ears in Polly Pockets) in.

(recipe for chick pea chili here.)

paradise lost, odd socks found

2009-06-19T12:02:00.008-04:00

There once was a time, a happy well-rested time, when I did not mind hearing Kai's first cry o' the morn, because I knew all I had to do was sleepwalk the couple steps to his crib, bring him back to our bed, and nurse him till he conked out again. Then, with a belly full of warm milk, he would sweetly slumber for one, two, sometimes even three more hours, some days allowing me to get up, shower, and actually make my hair presentable before he came to with gentle coos and baby-babble.

No longer. Now that Kai is a crawling, standing, baby on the move, he cannot wait to start his day of tearing our house apart. His first crow is at 6 a.m., sometimes even earlier, and his first nursing, instead of lulling him back to la-la land, just fuels him for marauding around our bed and standing at the (unscreened) window, threatening to defenestrate anything he can pilfer from our nightstands. This morning he was up at 5:47. I know that is a bright, bouncy hour for some of you (insufferable morning people!) out there, but we are not morning people in our family. Even Iris has been sleeping in till 9:30 since school ended for the summer. I keep telling myself this is a phase. A baby phase. Surely Kai is not expressing some renegade recessive early-riser gene. Surely he will rise (late, of course) to his proud sleeping-in heritage. But when?

Meanwhile, I am pleased, if kind of grossed-out, to report that I have solved one of the mysteries of the universe: I now know where the odd socks from several loads of laundry have disappeared to. The other day I was taking a load out of my front-loader when I spied (with my little eye) a bit of red fabric at the edge of the drum. I pulled at it, and lo and behold! one of Kai's red baby socks came out of the seam between the drum of the washer and the rubber gasket that seals the drum to the housing. (Are these the proper, technical washing machine terms? I have no idea.) Intrigued, I stuck my fingers into the channel under the gasket, and felt more fabric. Pulled some more, and all together, I retrieved five small socks from this secret, unseen place, all of them gunky and linty from their untold, insufficiently-rinsed tumbles with the family's dirty laundry.

Now that I know where those socks disappeared to, I can rest easy. Until 6 a.m., at least.

and to think that i saw it on mulberry street

2009-06-11T14:35:00.004-04:00

I do not actually live on Mulberry Street, but for a couple weeks every year, the block around the corner from my house effectively becomes Mulberry Street when a huge mulberry tree goes into fruit (is that the botanically correct term?). For years, we have simply avoided the purplish-black, seedy sludge formed by the hundreds of overripe berries the tree rains daily upon the ground by crossing the street, but this year, with two berry-crazed kids, we thought, why not? And we picked a colander-full. (As for asking the tree's owner, the house is a rental, we only picked from the branches that were hanging over the sidewalk/street, and if you saw what an invisible dent a pint or so of missing berries makes, you wouldn't accuse us of denying anyone their fair share.)

Then the very next day, there was this article about urban fruit foraging in the New York Times, making us feel unexpectedly au courant with our re-purposed plastic blueberry clamshell full of pilfered mulberries in the fridge. See? We're not poor berry thieves – we're urban foragers!

And then, a block farther down the street, on my route to Whole Foods, this:

Makes me smile every day.

In other news, Kai can crawl and pull himself up and he has – brace yourselves! – two teeth, with two more on the way.

The better to eat mulberries with, my dear. I get more than love bites now when he gnaws my chin, his unmistakable hint that he's ready to nurse. And the summer yawns before us now that Iris' school has ended. School – that's a whole 'nother subject for another post, and maybe I'll actually get around to posting it. Then again, I don't want to make any promises I can't keep.

straight from the heart

2009-03-29T04:13:00.006-04:00

Since she's been going to Waldorf School, Iris sings a lot more, both songs she's learned and ones she makes up. Here's one she belted out in the bathtub the other day:

"I don't like George Bush
I don't like John McCain
I don't like when my daddy yells at me
Or when my brother screams.

I don't like when I'm sad
Or when I'm hurt
or when I'm cut."

Iris turned five on Thursday. My big girl! We gave her a Little House on the Prairie party, to which she wore the new hot-pink-polka-dotted flamenco dress her grandparents brought her from Spain. Ma Ingalls would have had the vapors.

More birthday party pictures on flickr soon, I hope.

(Long time no see, I know! The secret to finding time to update appears to be insomnia – see date stamp on this post.)

i'm still here

2008-11-11T11:52:00.000-05:00

And look at that, so is my banner from spring, even though that plum tree has progressed from blossoms to fruit to leaves to bare branches. Oh well, no time to do anything about that now. While all the stars are aligned – i.e., I'm fed, dressed, and showered, Kai is fed, relatively freshly diapered, and asleep, and isn't quite time to pick up Iris from school yet – I actually have a minute for the computer.

So, how are you? How about that election last Tuesday? I've got to say, it really restored my faith in humankind, or at least in my fellow Americans. Have you seen that Obama has a Flickr site? Of course you have. Unlike me, you are still plugged into the world wide web of fact, fiction, and mystery. Anyway, I'm sure he checks it every day. First thing.

In the much, much smaller picture, I've managed to post to my own Flickr site every so often, but I'll level with you: I've thought about ending this here blog-thing once and for all. But I haven't been able to let go of the idea that maybe I'll come back to it one day. I don't know if today is that day, or if I'll disappear again for several months. It's not that I don't have anything to say. My days are full. It's more that... I don't know. It's hard to explain, and I guess that's one reason I haven't been here, trying to explain it.

Instead, just to give you some sense of recap, here are some posts I've thought about writing while I've been unplugged:

News Flash: The Universe is Interactive! – in which Kai discovers he can use his own hands to reach for, touch, and even grasp things that interest him, including my dinner, which he swept off of my plate and into my lap last night. Silly baby! Pasta is for people with teeth!

Baby's First Goose Egg – in which Iris drops Kai on his head, opening the door to a lifetime of dropped-on-his-head-as-a-baby jokes. I can say this only because the injury was unsightly, but not serious.

That's What I Get for Making a Deal With the Devil – in which I explain how I ended up promising Iris a Barbie (yes, a Barbie. You know those iron-clad child-rearing principles you held so dear before you ever had an actual child? Yes, well, that's how far I've fallen from mine. There actually was what I considered a good reason, but I'm not going to go into it right now) for a month of gold-star-worthy behavior, only to find that the discontinued, deeply-discounted ballerina Barbie I ended up getting her had a broken leg, occasioning an afternoon of tears, ultimately unsuccessful doll doctoring, and begging for a replacement, which was duly procured, when I was counting on that damn Barbie's diversion value to allow me to meet a looming work deadline.

Do I get a run-on sentence award for that?

Anthroposophy and Me – in which I report on Iris' transition to Waldorf school (briefly: she loves it), and why in spite of that we're trying to figure out which other school to send her to next year (briefly: money), and the time a fellow parent actually used the term "anthroposophy" in a conversation with me without blinking an eye – or, more to the point, using a tone of voice which conveyed invisible quotation marks.

Christmas – There's no way it's going to be a handmade holiday from me this year. My studio has been gathering dust and large household objects – like the vacuum cleaner and the yoga ball – that have no place else in our house to live since Kai's birth. Sigh. I miss it, but there is a certain irony to letting the baby fuss while I try to finish making something nice for the baby, so.

Oops! Time's up. Kai and I have to run to get Iris before she turns into a pumpkin. Till next time, whenever that may be...

xoxo

[Not-so-Confidential to Tracey from Paper Dolls for Boys: Thanks for tracking me down and leaving a comment! I think it was the spur I needed to finally post this post.]

WKAI

2008-08-25T19:24:00.002-04:00

Don't touch that dial! While you may have been watching the Olympics (and let's be truthful, I wish I had watched them too - despite the drug scandals and intimations of underage Chinese gymnasts, I still get sucked in by the idealistic promise of a contest among beautiful youthful athletes in their prime) I have been glued to channel WKAI, with its 24-hour programming on no particular schedule, for the past six weeks. Computer? Computer who? I'm lucky if I get to check my email once every couple days, let alone frequent my old internet haunts, the blog circuit and Flickr. It's hard to type when you're nursing anyway. Ditto taking pictures.

It's not that I haven't been thinking about posting, or even composing posts in my head. After all, I don't keep a paper journal anymore, so this is the closest I come to fulfilling my compulsion to document my life (that, and the calendar that J fills in every night before bed, recording our daily activities. We've got seven years so far! But that's pretty cursory, and this, fairly discursive). One of those unrealized posts was called "breastmilk and saltines." That was the week that Iris fell victim to a nasty stomach bug and was unable to keep anything, not a drop of water nor crumb of cracker, down. Poor kid. Thank goodness (a) that is now firmly in the past, and (b) I didn't catch it too, because I don't know how I would have coordinated round-the-clock nursing and throwing up.

But it's all good. Kai is a little dreamboat. Doesn't cry much, easy to soothe when he does. Likes things that rhyme with "ing": the swing, the sling, and sing(ing). Oh, and have I mentioned that Kai coos and smiles? I could pass out from the breathy, gummy joy of it.

Having a summer baby has been nice. Not only do we log lots of time on the porch swing, we have interrupted our regular programming on a few occasions to go to the zoo, Idlewild, and some low-key picnics and parties. As long as there's shade, a bench for nursing, and another grown-up to hang with Iris so that she doesn't have to be tethered to me while Kai indulges in one of his epic feeds, we're good.

I should have said this right off the bat, but: thank you for all the lovely comments you sent when Kai was born! People have been so kind. Almost everyone who has brought or sent a baby gift for Kai has included a big sister present for Iris, too. One faraway family friend, ignorant of the fact that my girl has worn nothing but dresses and skirts since she was 2 1/2, sent her shorts that she actually wore. Twice. Then she found some other shorts in her dresser and wore them, too. A short-lived experiment (no pun intended) or a wardrobe breakthrough? We shall see.

We have even had a bit of anthroposophy in our lives. Yes, Iris will be starting the Waldorf School in the fall – that is, in a little over a week – and our August schedule has been full of teacher home visits, get-acquainted picnics, and new parent orientations. I am impressed by the effort the school puts into forging relationships with and among its families, and so far that and the truly wonderful early childhood play yard – no plastic play equipment, just landscaping and homemade wooden features like a sandbox and playhouse as backdrop for imaginative games – have formed a positive impression that outweighs the oddity of the choral reading of a "verse" from Rudolf Steiner at the closing of parent orientation.

Myself, I have no verse to close with, so I'll just say: This is WKAI signing off for now.

a conversation while nursing*

2008-07-28T11:56:00.002-04:00

Iris: Isn't it wonderful that your body makes all the milk that Kai needs to eat?

Me [reveling in this spontaneous Our Bodies, Our Selves moment]: Yes! Women's bodies are amazing!

Iris: Do all women have nipples?

Me: Yes. You will, too, someday. [Then, deciding the time as come to correct a longstanding misnomer of hers:] Actually, you already have nipples. The full parts of women's chests are called breasts. The nipples are the pink parts at the tips where the baby nurses.

Iris: What are breasts for?

Me: For making milk and feeding babies.

Iris: Why aren't they called nursing plumps?

*Posted while nursing. Because that's my life right now: all nursing, all the time.

baby brother has landed!

2008-07-15T15:34:00.004-04:00

Kai Oliver was born yesterday, Bastille Day, at 10:34 a.m. after a labor so fast and furious that it knocked the socks off of everyone present. Seriously. They're still sweeping up socks.

I'll tell that story soon. For now, let's skip to the happy ending:

He's such a pumpkin dumpling.

here's hoping

2008-07-10T11:30:00.000-04:00

the waiting is the hardest part

2008-07-07T06:30:00.004-04:00

Actually, that is completely untrue – the giving birth is the hardest part. But I'm not sure waiting for it could make me any edgier.

Yesterday was my due date. On the one hand, I'm grateful to Baby Brother for hanging in there over the long fourth of July weekend while my doctor was out of town. On the other, I feel like a ticking time bomb. I'm trying to remain cool, calm and open to whatever his plans are, but somehow I don't think that is what has kept me awake since 3:30 this morning.

Just for a little variation from the theme, here is a gratuitous photograph of Iris on the fourth of July, standing in the middle of what appears to be a heart-shaped crop circle. Actually, J informs me that it is probably the outline of a below-ground fungus, but I prefer to think of it as a botanical magical mystery. That orb of light over her head, in case you're wondering, is either a firefly, a firework, or a UFO.

pins and needles

2008-07-04T14:33:00.007-04:00

That's what we're on around here, as signs accumulate that Baby Brother is getting ready to make his move.

Now that I don't have my book to distract me, it's harder not to live in constant anticipation of The Big Event. What was that twinge? And that one? Do I detect a pattern? I'm trying to stay relaxed and busy myself with little things, like some last-minute quickie crafting.

First, some headbands for Iris, who has been begging me for some for weeks now.

These were so fast and simple to whip up, they'll probably become the new default birthday present for her friends.

I also finished a chicken applique on one of her old onesies, which will of course be handed down to Baby Brother. Lesson learned from this: those little pieces were really hard to machine-sew. If they don't survive the wash, at least I'll have this picture. Also, who knew chicken feet would be so hard to embroider?

I actually freezer-paper stenciled these little newborn kimono shirts some time ago, but it's been hard to get the colors to come out in a photograph (Sarah, I've needed your help!). I think this is as good as it gets.

More news soon, I hope. Happy fireworks, everyone!

150 pages, 39 weeks, and 3 centimeters

2008-07-01T11:48:00.006-04:00

So this morning I was trying to take the milk out of the fridge for my coffee when a huge spasm seized my back (no, not that kind of spasm or that part of my back) and I lost my grip and milk spilled everywhere. I wasn't so much crying over the, well, you know, as the incredible difficulty of bending over to clean it up. If I'm going to be hunched over my ginormous belly, forcing my lungs into my collarbone and cutting off my air supply, for that long, I'd really much rather be giving myself a pedicure.

But it's all good. I may have not had a baby via a painless, 1/2 hour delivery, but I did finish my book! It took a month of uninterrupted concentration and a back-to-the-wall self-imposed deadline, but I did it. I think we have all heard the comparisons between gestating a baby and a book so I will not go there, except to say that this book has been in the works for a lot longer than either of my babies, not to mention demanding a lot more willpower than the forces of nature that are pregnancy and birth, so the feeling of elation and relief at having finished is tremendous. (Also, I think my editor would be very surprised if I dropped Baby Brother off with him after he is born.) Of course, what I've written is a draft. I know there will be further revisions and other tasks after my editor has his shot at it, but I feel I will be able to make time for that somehow after Baby Brother is on the outside. I am just so glad to have all the big thinking work, the updated research and pushing to new conclusions, behind me. There are still a few things on the old to-do list that I would like to cross off before life changes forever around here, but basically now the decks are cleared for Baby Brother's arrival.

Which is a good thing, because at 39 weeks I am already walking around 3 centimeters dilated. No effacement action, though, and Baby's head is still floating. But still, free centimeters! I'll take 'em (who wouldn't?).

I am also pleased to report that Jasper is running and jumping around like his old self, despite the raw, gaping hole in his leg onto which J and I have to smear liquid skin daily (yuck). Furthermore, our regular mailman is back from vacation, which may not sound like good news to you, but his daily rounds – with his little box of dog treats – are pretty much the highlight of Jasper's life, so between that and the feeling better, we've got a happy hound again.

Here is Iris' zoo calendar for the month of July. Back when she first got it, we went through all the months and made special notes and decorations on all the family birthdays and other important dates. I told her July was the month we were expecting Baby Brother to be born, but we couldn't know exactly which date. She proceeded to draw a baby on the 11th and to scribble out every other day. So there you have it: in the world according to Iris, Baby Brother will come on July 11th.

Works for me.

PS. My friend Kat wins the Perceptiveness Prize for noticing something in my last post that even J and I had not noticed: when the refinishers put the handles back on our kitchen cabinets, they replaced them backwards. I can't believe it took someone looking at before-and-after pictures on the computer to see such a fundamental change in the kitchen J and I use every day, but there you have it.

while we wait

2008-06-24T12:48:00.001-04:00

I took some time out from The Book this weekend to spend with my old (have I really known her for over 20 years? yes, I have) friend Beth, who decided to shoehorn in a visit in our waning days as a family of three. Not for anyone else would I have swept, mopped, and scrubbed the entire house at 38 weeks pregnant. But since it was very likely the last top-to-bottom cleaning this house will get before (and let's face it, after) Baby Brother arrives, it was good to get it done. And of course, great to see Beth, who is truly a fellow traveler in this life.

The only unwanted drama of the weekend was that poor Jasper impaled his thigh on a branch in Frick Park and had to be carried to the vet for treatment of a pretty gory wound. We've been nursing him with painkillers, liquid skin, lots of petting and special treats, but he's going to be an invalid for a while, poor pup, and it's sad to see him not his usual spunky self.

With all that excitement now over, and before I put my blinders back on to finish (let's hope) The Book, allow me to introduce... Ladies and gentlemen, my new kitchen! Go ahead, view it large!

Lest you merely nod politely and move on, I think a little before and after action will dramatize the transformation. The "before" shots are scans of old film prints from several years ago – in other words, not that great – but you'll get the general gist of the hideosity we were up against.

Here's the corner where the window had been walled over and we were able to install an exhaust hood. The stove and cabinets date from the last renovation of the kitchen in 1962. My father-in-law generously offered to buy us a new stove, but we like our funky old one and will keep it till it quits. The steel cabinets likewise fall under the heading of "they don't make 'em like that anymore," so we had them refinished rather than spend more money on new ones. A new pull-out style cabinet to the left of the stove provides 12 precious inches of extra counter space next to the cooktop and is where we now keep our most-used cooking oils and spice jars, saving multiple mid-sautée trips to the pantry.

Here's the other side of the kitchen. Same cabinets, new butcher block counters and tile backsplash (our one big splurge). Where you see the little bookcase in the "before" picture is where, a couple years ago, we busted through the back wall and restored a doorway to the former butler's pantry. Aside from restoring the house's original circulation pattern, this brought a lot of borrowed light into our otherwise cavelike kitchen.

A "new" sink was key to the whole project – actually an old enameled cast-iron double sink with a double drainboard, which allowed us to skip building any countertop between the dishwasher and the window. We haunted Construction Junction for this sink for a year and a half and finally picked it up for only $20, which allowed us to splurge on a super-deluxe faucet. I had no idea what a difference a a nice faucet would make. Have I mentioned how much I love my faucet? I lurrrve it.

Finally, here is the little hallway which leads from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back. Some years ago, we knocked out a broom closet on the left which allowed us to move the refrigerator across the room and install a dishwasher (another life-changing event). The two doors lead to the basement and the pantry. I painted the wall at the back of the little hall with chalkboard paint – fun for Iris, a place to write shopping lists and notes for J and me.

Even though it's not a whole new kitchen, it is. We may have kept the same cabinets, appliances, even roughly the same layout, but small improvements have made it a better space in every way. The room where we spend the most time is now a room where we like to be. So good!

another insomniac post, which brings us to how many now?

2008-06-14T12:53:00.013-04:00

I wish I could bottle some of this wakefulness for when the baby comes and I'll need it.

I am 37 weeks pregnant, and if you've been in my shoes – which are flip-flops because that is the only footwear into which I can cram my feet, which are swollen like popovers – you know what that means. It means I am officially full term, so I could go into labor at any moment, or still be pregnant a month from now. It's a weird waiting game.

Until recently I've been complacently confident that Baby Brother, like his big sister before him, will almost certainly be late. On time at best. But recently, I've begun to get some inklings that this baby might actually come early. And, uncomfortable as I am with all my late-pregnancy aches and pains, and as eager to get that pesky business of having the baby over with so I can actually meet this squirmy little person who's been taking up increasingly greedy amounts of my internal real estate, I really don't want the baby to come early. Are you listening, Baby Brother? Please don't come too soon! Because I need my month of June!

Because I am desperately trying to finish a book. Writing one, that is. The manuscript consists of my 10-year-old master's thesis, to which I need to add a host of updates and revisions, and this month – this month only! – I have the incredible luxury of being able to work on it full-time. The past couple weeks, I've been on a roll, and if I can continue at this feverish clip, I think I can finish by my self-imposed deadline of the end of the month. If no cataclysmic life events intervene.

It's not too much to ask, is it, that Baby Brother should come not too late (so I can avoid the dreaded pitocin drip this time) and not too soon (so I can put my right-brain cares away, or more accurately lob them into my editor's court, and just enjoy this boy when he gets here)? I feel like I should make a Goldilocks joke here but I am too tapped out to think of a good one... maybe you can.

On a related tangent, I got the best mail this week. For the work I'm doing on my manuscript, I decided I needed to have my own copy of a book that I had had on indefinite library loan when I was a grad student. The book is out of print, so I ordered it from an online used bookseller, which for me, as a person who is picky about books, is always a bit of a crapshoot in which I weigh the price of the book versus what little information about the edition, condition, etc. I can glean from the seller's (often unhelpful) description. The only edition of the book I ever knew was that borrowed grad school copy, which had a plain blue library binding, so imagine my delight when I opened a manila mailer the other day and found this:

It's the little things in life, I tell you. I keep this beside me even when I'm not actively referring to it because just looking at the cover makes me happy.

And, although I've severely curtailed almost all non-book-related activities lately (now you know why I haven't been around here, or your blog, or Flickr much), I did drop by the thrift store that is on my way home from my neighborhood library (how conveeeen-ient!) and bring this home recently... because another serving bowl is just what my household needs... not. But it's a slightly different size than the rest of our bowls, J pointed out, and has already put it to use. Good man.

a feeling of deep well-being

2008-05-30T15:53:00.006-04:00

Because it is sunny and warm and I think spring may finally be here to stay.

Because we brought up the porch furniture from the basement and made our favorite room in the house ready for summer. Let the outdoor living begin!

Because good friends are coming over for diner.

Because a vacant lot in our neighborhood is becoming a community garden this summer. Thank you Whole Foods! Say what you will about "Whole Paycheck" and all that... Whole Foods is a good neighbor.

Because be that as it may, greens and broccoli are growing like gangbusters in our backyard garden. We had our first home-grown salad the other night and it was good.

Because Mr. Breech Boy got himself straightened out and is now head-down in the blast-off position. 35 weeks down, five (or so) to go.

Because this weekend, our kitchen will finally be 100% really, truly done.

Because I am sitting on the porch swing with my (only somewhat swollen at the moment) feet up.

Ahhh.

little miss malaprop

2008-05-26T18:06:00.003-04:00

One of my favorite things about Iris' little-kid speech is her malapropisms. Here are a few I want to remember:

"Mama, could I have some of your tarogomi paper?" (Taro Gomi is a Japanese author of some children's books we own.)

"The pennies are the opera-colored ones." (Sorting coins.)

"When you're done petticoating, could you read me a story?" (Spoken during my neti pot ritual.)

"Cantalope." (A horned, hoofed animal that lives on the African plains.)

Any good ones at your house? C'mon, share!

bea's ensalada

2008-05-22T17:26:00.000-04:00

Even though it's more brisk than balmy today, I'm in the mood to share one of my favorite summer recipes.

Several years ago, my dear friend Gretchen went away to live in Spain. When she came back, she had me over to lunch and served me this salad, which she'd learned from her Spanish friend Bea. It's since become a staple of my own warm-weather repertoire.

1 15 oz. can garbanzos
1 tomato (in season only)
1 medium cucumber
1/2-1 red onion
1/2-1 red pepper
1-2 avocadoes
4 or so radishes
1 can tuna (splurge on the good stuff – dark meat packed in olive oil)

Dressing (not an exact science):

2 parts olive oil + 1 part red wine vinegar + a dollop of good spicy mustard + salt and pepper (add how much you think, then a little more)

Drain the garbanzos. Chop up the veggies and toss with garbanzos and tuna. Whip up some dressing and pour over the whole shebang.

This is a great hearty + nutritious lunch, no-cook summer supper, or picnic potluck dish. It's also really flexible – when I don't have radishes, I just throw in something else that's colorful and crunchy, like a carrot. Sometimes I peel the cucumbers and carve out the seeds; sometimes I don't bother. Avocadoes too hard or too expensive? Leave 'em out. The salad will still be good.

overdone

2008-05-18T19:22:00.000-04:00

So I missed the mother of all yard sales this weekend, a huge neighborhood-wide one that I try to hit every year. In the neighborhood in question, I don't think they sell you a house unless you are a family with little kids, so the pickings of toys, children's books, clothes, and baby gear tends to be especially rich. I was hoping to score some new reading material for Iris and an exersaucer and/or a swing for Baby Brudder.

Instead of yard sale-ing, I learned the meaning of overdoing it. It began a couple weeks ago with an afternoon of crouching in the garden, planting, which strained some muscles or ligaments or something in the all-important thigh-bone's-connected-to-the-belly-bone region. But did I rest? Oh no, I did not. I walked, here there and everywhere. Then I spent that one afternoon hauling baby stuff up from the basement. I felt that afterward, too. But instead of taking it easy for a few days, I walked some more. Miles more. By the night before the sale, I was in no shape for an hours-long, neighborhood-wide yard sale safari. I could barely make it up the stairs to bed. I don't just mean I was tired. I mean I was hurting.

I don't like to admit it, but I am four years older than the last time I carried twenty-five pounds of baby and all its prenatal baggage on my belly. All this time I have been mocking the fact that I am considered, in the medical parlance, of "advanced maternal age," and yet here I am, hobbling like an old lady. I hate to give up walking - it's not only my pleasure and my exercise, but my lifestyle, one of the reasons I live in a city neighborhood instead of out in the 'burbs somewhere. But I think I better put in some R & R now or pay for it later, quite possibly in damages worse than missed yard sale bargains.

So, since I have no yard sale scores to show off, here is a little something I found elsewhere for Baby Brudder's room:

A little spot-cleaning and it will be good as, well, the 1970s.

And some embellishments I have added to spiff up Iris' former infant wardrobe:

Trees. I just can't stay away from the trees.

A fox related to this one; an apple applique to hide an unsuccessful stamp attempt; and a kangaroo pocket because, ridiculous as it is, the idea just grabbed me one day.

This little elephant is here because I have a pet peeve about baby clothes with cutesy words and phrases on them. This otherwise perfectly presentable secondhand shirt had completely unnecessary ribbons sewn onto it to inform all and sundry that its wearer was "cute as a button" or some such. So, off with the ribbons and on with an elephant applique to cover up the scar. Much better! In my finicky little world at least.

does a family of three get 45 minutes of fame?

2008-05-17T16:05:00.000-04:00

Because we're putting plenty in the bank this week.

First, J and Iris were on TV on Thursday morning. They were talking up Pedal Pittsburgh, the annual city-wide bike ride and fundraiser for one of my favorite organizations, the Community Design Center of Pittsburgh. Wish I could link to the clip but the powers that be at KDKA Today Live apparently have a very different idea of posterity than I do. Booo! I actually have not even seen it myself – even though KDKA is a local broadcast channel, it doesn't come in at our house. A friend taped it though, so I should get to revel in my family's cycling star power soon enough.

Now, class, please turn to page 160 in your latest issue of Craft: magazine:

How about that! An "enchanted dresser"! I guess that makes me the salvage fairy. Hey, maybe that's what I'll put on my business card.

free to a good home

2008-05-12T23:04:00.001-04:00

OK, I can have the baby now.

I spent the afternoon in a furious fit of nesting, cleaning the nursery and then re-stocking it with the contents of all the boxes of toys, board books, cloth diapers, diaper covers, bibs, hats, and other infant-related whatnot that I hauled up from the basement. Because the baby will need toys and board books urgently, without delay! Honey, hand me a shape-sorter, stat! I am reminded of when I was pregnant with Iris and I asked a friend, who as the parent of a 15-month-old seemed cloaked in the wisdom of motherhood, what we would really need when we brought our baby home. "Not much," my friend said. "Pretty much just diapers and breasts." What a comfort that was.

Anyway, since Iris moved into her big-girl room and up until today, the nursery has basically served as a clothing-sorting station. I've been sifting through four years of her wardrobe, sorting the girlie from the unisex, that to be donated to Goodwill from that to be taken to the consignment store. (I play a little game where I try to never, or almost never, spend actual money on her clothes, but recycle the old for credit toward the "new." Does anyone else do this?) Of course I've made a little sentimental stack of things to keep – favorite dresses, the baby peasant blouse my friend sent her from Paris and which she wore for her first Christmas photos, the tiny shoes she wore to my sisters-in-laws' wedding.

But there are a couple other things I'm having trouble just boxing up and giving away. Things which Iris never even wore, but which I'd like to pass on to someone who will really appreciate them.

So, do you have or know a kindred spirit who has a small baby girl? If so, I offer the following free to a good home:

If you can resist the toadstools, polka dots, and ruffles of this outfit, then I really think someone should check your pulse. I don't even like mushrooms and I am still getting over the fact that Iris never got to wear this. My mom gave it to her because the toadstools reminded her of Germany, but sadly, so sadly, it was the wrong size/season for her little peanut baby self, and I never got to put it on her even once. It is size 6 months.

I admit I picked up this little vintage (80s?) Hanna Andersson one-piece romper/jumper thingie on a thrift expedition before I found out that Baby Brudder was, in fact, a brudder. Now, I am pretty liberal when it comes to raising a boy in a lavender-painted nursery with flowered curtains, but it turns out I draw the line at dressing him in pale pink stripes. This is a Euro size 60, which is about the equivalent of US 3-6 months.

Interested? Just email me at chartreusebag (at) mac (dot) com. And stay tuned – there may be more as the sorting continues.

happy mothers' day

2008-05-11T13:22:00.004-04:00

1972

1988

2008

telling it like it is

2008-05-10T11:19:00.004-04:00

[Waiting at the pharmacy counter, Iris spies a shelf of children's vitamins and immediately hones in on a box adorned with those accursed Disney princesses]

"Look, mama! Cinderella and Ariel and Belle! Why are they there?"

"Those are children's vitamins, and the people who made them put the princesses on the box to make them attractive."

"I'm attracted!"

* * * * *

[a conversation between Iris and our mailman]

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes, but I'm on a break right now to spend some time with my mama before Baby Brudder turns our lives upside-down."

* * * * *

"I've noticed that as your belly gets plumper with Brudder, your bottom is getting bigger too."

i heart new york

2008-05-02T22:31:00.006-04:00

It's a great place to visit and heck yeah, I'd want to live here if it were remotely affordable, which it isn't, especially not with stores like Muji and Pearl River tempting my inner consumer on nearly every corner.

We're away on a week-long trip, visiting family and friends in New Jersey and New York, sort of a last fling as a family of three before Baby Brudder (as Iris calls him) turns our lives upside down in two months (!). And what of the last month or so that has somehow slipped by since I last updated this space? Mostly, it has been full of a lot of busy-ness that doesn't make very good copy. End-of-semester push. Houseguests. Family birthdays (including mine), the quiet kind without a lot of fanfare, but which might include long afternoons whiled away at the cupcake cafe. Finishing up the kitchen, or nearly. I'd say it's about 98% done, but I'm waiting for 100% to give the triumphant full-color lavishly-illustrated before-and-after report. Preparing for the baby, including making some things, but not having very good luck photographing them (still getting to know my new camera).

In other words, daily life.

Also, to tell the truth, I actually enjoy the occasional hiatus from my fearsome internet addiction. It's been a very good month of life lived, if not blogged.