Viability

I am 25 weeks and 4 days pregnant. I have, I can only assume, the typical symptoms anyone at 24 weeks should be feeling: a growing belly, a wiggly baby, raging, hellish heartburn after every meal and a probably unhealthy desire to eat cereal all day long. But more importantly than the 10 bowls of Cheerios I have consumed in the past 36 hours, 24 weeks means a lot more to me this time because it marks the age of viability.

Of course it is not my intention to have this baby any earlier than full term.  I am well aware that a baby born at 24 weeks is not in any way an ideal situation, but survival after 24 weeks is possible. When you are not sure if your pregnancy will make it past fifteen, eleven or even eight weeks, making it to a gestational age where there is even a slight chance of viability is a big deal.

Nothing about making a baby has ever been easy for me. At some point in our childhood we get "the talk" and learn how babies are made. Hopefully, while it is a horribly embarrassing experience, it comes from an adult we respect and not from on of our classmates in the schoolyard.  Most lessons in baby making fall somewhere between the stork story and a very scientific explanation and basically go something like this: "When a man and a woman love one another, they share it in only a way two people in love can and then there is a glorious explosion and a baby is made."

Yes, what I am referring to is S-E-X and as a kid, you are thinking, um gross. I am never doing that. And then puberty hits and you are all, um, hi, when can I do that and how often!?!? Of course, you don't want to make the actual baby until you are ready so you do everything in your power to prevent that from happening. And when the time comes and you are ready, you throw away the barriers and have a grand ole time; it's just that simple.

Except when it isn't that simple. And no matter how many times you try, (and believe me, we tried), it just ain't gonna happen the way the science books say it will.  So instead of something "glorious" you are going to dozens of doctors appointments and injecting your body full of hormones month after month. Instead of intimacy, there are invasive medical procedures, a rigid schedule you must follow and your doctor is prescribing sex. So romantic. You are poked, scanned and tested and each cycle ends with disappointing news.

When it finally was good news, it is exciting but not the kind of exciting as one would imagine. For me, at least, it was a tentative excitement. Since part of my struggles involved loss, and the fact that so much when in to getting to this moment at all, in someways it feels like everyday you are waiting for the other shoe to drop. But just like with Charlie, each day passed, uneventful and calm and I could only assume that things were all going to be just fine. And then the other shoe dropped and the worst thing that could happen, or so I thought, happened. At seven weeks, all signs pointed to that I was losing the baby.

I'll spare you the details but, despite everything I thought to be true, I didn't lose the baby. But my diagnosis was not great and I was sent away from the doctors visit with "it is all probably going to be okay but we'll just have to wait and see." I was placed on modified bed rest which is about as easy as it sounds with an active three year old at home who doesn't understand why his mommy can't get up off the couch and cater to his every whim.

And really, all I could do, besides lay on the couch and watch Bravo until my eyes bled, was wait and watch that shoe. There it was, dangling by a thread, right in front of my face; taunting me and slowly driving me towards what felt like insanity. As I sat and stared at the same four walls each day I kept trying to convince myself to be hopeful. But being hopeful seemed like an impossible task because it felt like, emotionally, I had been pulled apart into two different people. One part of me was able to hit the "checkout" button at the Motherhood online store because my growing belly made maternity clothes a necessity. But then the clothes came and I let them sit in the bag with the tags on for nearly two weeks, convinced I would just have to return them anyway. And as I watched friends and family come to my house and care for my son I was so thankful for the help, but at the same time, I felt like I was failing him. He was here right now and needed me more than ever. Shouldn't I be focusing on that? But if I did too much, I could be failing the little one inside me as well. Who deserves my attention more?

Believe me, I usually have no idea how to handle my emotions, even on my best days, and I am in no way qualified to give advice to anyone. Honestly, it would probably be something like, "Um, I don't know? Did you try making cookies and then just eat all the dough on the couch alone while the soundtrack to Beaches played in the background?" However, the best way I found to cope, besides the stress eating (obviously), was through indifference. I tried not to be too far to the extreme in either direction, never overly excited and never too upset about the whole thing either either. I had my moments of sadness and fear, of course, but so long as I could stay centered about the whole thing and honestly not really think about the pregnancy much at all, I could get through the days, reminding myself constantly that every day got me one day closer to 24 weeks.

The problem with indifference, once you get good at it, is that it's hard to be excited at all. Because I am finally in that place I was striving to get to and I am not sure how to feel. The kicks and wiggles I am feeling are pleasing and comforting but serve more as a reminder of, oh yeah, there's a kid in there. I should probably start planning for that. But the thought is fleeting and then Charlie runs by with something he has dug out of one of the kitchen drawers and I am back to dealing with him instead. But then Charlie will spontaneously hug my belly, give it a kiss and say, "I'm giving baby a snuggle, Mommy. I love her." This warms my heart and reminds me how wonderful what is about to happen truly is. (By the way we don't know if we are having a girl or a boy but Charlie is insistent that it is a girl. Try to explain how the science of the whole thing works to him and be prepared for an epic meltdown.)

So, I think I am getting excited and each day that passes I feel it more and more. I probably will always worry about that dangling shoe, even though it's well out of my reach now, until I'm holding my baby in my arms. But, I know that what's coming to me in November is going to be pretty freaking great.

This picture was taken when I was only 19 weeks pregnant. Good God, I am going to have another giant baby.

Mushrooms, Butter and Cream. Yes.

When it comes to food, there are few things I hate, but I really hate melons. The only one I can stomach is watermelon and if I am going to eat it I have very specific rules for it. For example, it must be nice and crisp, not grainy or mealy even in the slightest. Also, the less it can actually taste like a watermelon the better. In fact, if we could just leave the "melon" part off of the name and have it just taste like "water" that would be...you know what, someone just get me a glass of water. But instead of water could you make it red? Yes, red water and instead of water can it just be wine? Awesome. Best watermelon ever.

So fine, a little sliver of watermelon at a summer barbeque is not the end of the world but don't even get me started on honeydew. And cantaloupe? Blech!  That one's the most offensive of all. It just sits around, looking all juicy and orange and shit, ruining perfectly good fruit salads and strips of salty prosciutto.

So, you can imagine my disappointment when my veggie box was delivered today with two, TWO of those little bastards in there. I always look forward to my veggie box delivery.  The veggies and fruits are seasonal so the box is generally the same from week to week but there is usually something new and exciting in there each week which is basically the highlight of my Wednesday. But there is nothing like a week when the mushrooms come. I get really excited on a mushroom week. Like, probably too excited. But fancy veggie box mushrooms mean that I get to make the best pasta dish this side of....well, probably just the street I live on. 

"Hmmmm....I am not sure sure about these."

"Yeah, Mom. I am not going to eat these."

"Maybe if I smell them?"

All you will need for this life-changing pasta dish are these simple ingredients. (Butter not pictured but I'm going to be sauteing mushrooms so I figured it goes without saying.)

Saute the mushrooms and minced garlic in butter until browned and tender. Salt and pepper the shrooms to taste. Cook your favorite pasta (I happen to love papparadelle but anything will work.)

It is much more cost effective to buy a basil plant rather than basil every time you need it. If you don't use it all, it will go bad in the fridge in a few days but a plant will last for weeks (or longer if you, you know, take care of it properly and don't have a three year old dumping bubble solution all over it constantly.) And, Charlie gets to participate in the meal by picking the basil for me. And it is a well-known fact that children who participate in the cooking of their meals are more likely to eat it. For the record, he did not eat it.

Add the cream (roughly about a cup) and the chopped basil to the mushrooms. Bring to a a boil, being careful not to burn the cream, and then turn the heat down and let the cream simmer and thicken up a bit. Add the cooked and drained pasta to the cream sauce and mix the pasta in. If you want a saucier pasta, before draining the noodles, reserve a little of the pasta water and mix in as well.

Top with some fresh cracked pepper and don't worry about sharing with anyone.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh my, my

 2012 was often a sassy little wench, who seemed to spend much of her time pointing and laughing at me as I walked past her in the halls. There were many days that I absolutely hated her. But nearly every moment I was about to tell her we couldn't be friends any more and she was uninvited to my birthday party, she went ahead and showed me what a beautiful life I really have. Well play, 2012. Well played.

But I got news for you, '12. 2013 has a pool, and cable and I am pretty sure we are gonna be BFFs.

Our 2012, in photos from Grant Shellen on Vimeo.

Oh my, my. Who's that child? Where is he going to? Why is he so wild? What is he staring at? Why is he so taken? Seems like he's choosing to believe. Even when he's faking.

It always feels like I'm waiting for something.

A Favor

It is Christmas Eve and Charlie has no idea what is really coming to him. He understands that he will be getting some presents, but I don't think he quite realizes the multitude of gifts his grandparents, aunts, uncles and many of our friends will be bestowing on him. For these gifts, I am very grateful and I have no doubt he will play with them...for about 10 minutes a day (if you're lucky). The rest of the time will likely be spent kicking a ball he made out of a crumpled up Costco add, running around in circles with my scarf over his face or slamming his body repeatedly on the couch.

But these "toys" are nothing compared to his favorite thing to play with which is literally a bucket of water on the back porch and anything you want to put inside of it. Cups, plastic toys, his dirty laundry, just to name few. While it never really gets all that cold out here on the left coast, I realize it is still winter and playing in water, outside, might not be the best choice. (That didn't stop me from sending him out the other day, in the rain, with no shoes on...or pants. What? I didn't lock the slider and go take a bath!) That said, I figured I needed a rainy day activity similar to water play that could be done inside the dry, warm house.

So I was an awesome Pinterest mom last night and Charlie and I made "rainbow rice." I used this blog post here as my guide. Also, no, I don't have any pictures of the two of us making the rice together. Why? Well, I invite you to take some pictures of your two year old whilst food coloring and a jug of vinegar are all within his reach. If you are comfortable stepping back to capture that beautiful moment, well then, you win mother of the year, forever.

So the rice worked like a charm; he played and I glamorously folded laundry at the kitchen table. We then proceeded to have this conversation:

"Mommy, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you get that washcloth?" Assuming he needed it for his rice play for some reason that only a toddler can understand I gladly handed it to him.

"No Mommy! I don't want that! Um, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

Pointing to another one he said, "Can you get that washcloth?"

"Sure, babe. Here you go."

"No, Mommy! I don't want that thing!"

To quote the princess bride I thought to myself, I do not think that word means what you think it means, and said, "Um, okaaaay. You said 'can you do me a favor' so I thought you wanted me to give it to you. That is what 'a favor' means."

"Oh. Mommy, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, honey. What is it?"

"Can you please stop giving me those things?"

"Sure, love. You got it." And I suppose he finally did. 

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #7

So, I hate cleaning. I do it because it is one of those things you "have to do" because otherwise you'll start to lose friends and end up with your own show on TLC, but it is not at all fun to me. I know there are some people out there who actually enjoy the act of cleaning, but I just don't get it. I understand there is a feeling of accomplishment once you have cleaned a room but that feeling is brief for me. Mainly because I know I won't be able to keep it that way anyway and in a couple days, it will all be a mess again and I'll think to myself, "I could either clean this or sit down on the couch with a bag of cookies and watch Real Housewives." (The choice is clearly the latter. Also, I swear I am not depressed....that depressed.)

But cleaning is a necessary evil. Sometimes to help me take that extra step off the couch and away from the trashy TV and bags of carbs I trick myself into having to clean with of few of these simple tips:

1. Invite guests over. I mean, sure you live in squalor a lot of the time but you don't want anyone to know that! 

2. Get sick. I realize this is probably a less than desirable choice to get your house clean. See, I am just getting over the walking death and during that time I absolutely did not clean. In fact, I was the antithesis of clean considering I was hacking my germs all over everything. Great things became of this. You see, Grant wouldn't let me touch anything, like the dishes, the laundry, or him.  In fact, he slept on the couch for the past four nights and I am beginning to think that Charlie now thinks that is where Daddy sleeps now. I can't wait for him to divulge this information to the coffee shop the barista or his preschool teacher. But the best part about all this is I didn't have to clean a thing.

But then I got better. As soon as started to feel better I had to clean because, um, ew. Specifically my bathroom. I cleaned the hell out of that bathroom. And then I got winded and had to lay down. But we are still 24 hours and counting with a freaking clean bathroom. I call that a success.

3. Plan a messy activity. Sometimes I give Charlie something to do that will force me to clean up afterwards and probably have to take cleaning to the next level (ie: sweep and mop the floor.) Since today was rainy and my son was going insane it was time to get messy.

This was my favorite thing to make when I was a preschool teacher. It's technical name is "oobleck" which is annoying and preschool-teachery. There are plenty of recipes online for it, like this one, but I just mix some corn starch and water and food coloring until it becomes THE COOLEST CONSISTENCY EVER!!!

Is it a solid? Is it a liquid? Will it get all over the kitchen? Yes it will. But Charlie played with it for a good solid hour. No. Joke. That is 60 minutes, moms and dads. That is like one whole hour of Real Housewives! (Or you can play with your child, talk about what it feels likes, what it looks like, blah blah blah). If I am being honest, I was right in there with him for at least half of that time playing with the stuff; it's strangely therapeutic.

Did I mention he was also not wearing pants? No? We have a lot of days like this at our house. Neither here nor there.  Anyway, so tomorrow I am thinking about squirting shaving cream all over the floor and telling him to GO NUTS!

The Other White Meat

Grant received a shirt in the mail a few weeks ago and with it came a prize. It was one of those little sticky hand thingies. You know, those things that you could get for a quarter out of a vending machine? They are made of a sticky plastic material and is connected to a long sticky string so you can fling it against the wall. The only difference was that this one was not a hand on the end of a string but rather a Domo Kun.

My son has hundreds of dollars in toys and yet when he saw this it was the only thing he chose to play with for most of the usable hours in his day. I suppose it was at least a step up for playing with old receipts and dry cleaner claim tickets he finds in the bottom of the diaper bag. Until it broke (you will understand why this was inevitable in a moment) most of what he did with this cheap, piece of crap toy was swing it around wildly attempting to take out his own eye or one of my breakable candlesticks. It was less than pleasing but I figured probably harmless and it occupied him so I let it go for the most part. What I absolutely did not want him to do was put it in his mouth. Because, call me paranoid, but I am pretty sure a sticky plastic rubber band is the last thing you would want lodged in your throat. Since Charlie has selective hearing when it comes to rules, I threatened to take it away as well as actually took it away about...47 gabillion times. One evening, shortly before Domo Kun met his demise, Charlie, once again, tried to bite the head off, and once again, I told him I would take it away from him if he bit it again.

He took it out of his mouth, gave me a sneaky little look and then proceeded to walk behind his train table and "hide." I say "hide" because he is much taller than the train table and even if he crouches down, you can still totally see him. I knew what he was trying to do as soon as he walked over to the table mainly because he is only two and I'm a grown-up who is way smarter than him. I am also way better at hiding. I mean, come on kid, did you even once think about leaving the room I was in to commit your crime actually out of my sight? How about behind the curtians at least?

And this is why I always win at hide-and-seek.

The other reason I knew what he was doing was because after his sorry attempt to hide from me, he popped his little head up from behind the table with the domo kun actually hanging out of his mouth. He looked around and then directly at me with a look that seemed to say "Woah! How did you know I was back here!" He seemed shocked that I had "discovered" what he was doing. Yes, excellent detective work on my part what with all the sitting here on the couch and watching you do it. Fighting the very strong urge to laugh, I tried to give Charlie my best, "I am very upset with your behavior face" and instructed him to come and speak with me at once.

I explained to him that being sneaky like that was not okay. In some ways it was a lot like a lie. When mommy or daddy tells you not to do something you need to follow the rules both when they can see you and when they can't see you (even though I totally could). Because hiding your bad behavior is not being truthful and is still wrong, even if no one can see you do it.

Have I lost you? I'm sure I have. Just like the concept likely flew right over Charlie's head as well. But I don't care. He needs to learn that lying is wrong and the truth, as they say, shall set you free (although, probably still get your Domo Kun taken away).

So fast forward a few days and I make pork chops for dinner. I cut up a few pieces for Charlie's plate knowing that it is unlikely he will eat it because it is not made of noodles and covered in neon orange cheese sauce. To my surprise he starts to gobble up the little cubes of pork. He even asks for more.

"Of course you can have more, honey! You really like these pork chops, don't you?"

"This isn't pork."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not. This is chicken. I don't like pork."

Now what do I do? I looked at Grant and in my best "ventriloquist" style of speech I said, "So...are we uh, doing this or what?" Because remember, hiding bad behavior is not being truthful and still wrong even if no one....GODDAMMIT MY PARENTING COMES BACK TO BITE ME IN THE ASS SOMETIMES!!!!

I wish I could say I said something like, "No Charlie, it is actually pork you are eating and while, I know this is probably going to cause a tantrum at the dinner table because you are going to insist that it is chicken and really what is most important here is that you are actually eating the damn stuff and not whether or not it came from a furred or feathered creature, that would be a lie. And lying is wrong. That said, another chop, my dear?"

But I caved.

"I DON'T LIKE PORK MOMMY! I LIKE CHICKEN!"

"Uh-huh. Would you like some more?"

"Chicken?"

"Some more...meat?"

"Sure!"

Hey, you know what?!?! Judge all you want! No one told anybody anything about lying by omission. One lesson at a time, I say.  

Happy Halloween (late)

Here is another beauty from my good friend, Joel. While pleased with his contribution, I was a bit surprised that he chose to write a post about Halloween, considering several years ago, Joel eliminated nearly all refined sugar from his diet. This was no easy task for Joel because I know that there was a point in his life where he could eat his weight in Kit Kat bars. I think a small part of his heart still yearns for one final chocolaty wafer of pure goodness. 

PS: Sorry this post is so late. My intention was to have it up on or before Halloween but I have been dealing with some insurance company BS that was very stressful and annoying but is too long of a story for you to read and/or care about. I will tell you this though: Insurance companies can go eat a bowl of...well, I won't finish that sentence but it ain't festive snack-size candy bars, I'll tell you that much.

A Halloween Gift
by Joel Daniel

Preface: Heather, curator of I Love Tongs, asked me to write a guest blog last year about Hanukah (I think because I am the only Jew she knows). I agreed, but, unfortunately, found myself with a case of writers block. With this post, I am hoping my block is lifted and I can contribute a piece for each of the remaining secular and Jewish holidays that remain for 2012. Here is to Halloween. L’chaim.

As Halloween approaches, nostalgia and warm feelings consume me. Halloween is the greatest holiday, and not for the reasons most people think.¹ It is the giving. Sometimes it is the gift of laughter or amazement in looking at a clever costume; other times lust and a fantasy fixation for the remainder of the year; still other times a kiss with a stranger that dressed like a Klingon at a bar you can only vaguely remember how you got to. Obviously, there are gifts of candy to local children,² and finally there are gifts between neighbors and good citizens that did not know they had anything to give to begin with. I want to discuss one such occasion.

I grew up in what many would describe as an idyllic town in California’s great Central Valley. It has its fair share of rednecks, meth labs and crank addicts, but it also has quaint neighborhoods where neighbors know each other’s names and probably what they ate for breakfast.

My best friend lived in one of these neighborhoods, and he had these neighbors; by proxy, I had these neighbors. One of my friend’s neighbors (I will refer to them as the “Cleavers”) were the kind of people that elaborately decorate their house for every holiday, paying close attention to those having something to do with old J.C.: rabbits, baby Jeezey, fancy lights, etc. Another neighbor (I will refer to them as the “Bundys”) did not, at least judging by their outdoor décor, relish in the holidays.³ Importantly, the Cleavers had to pass the Bundys' house to reach their own, but because the street ended in a cul-de-sac, the reverse was not true.

When I was thirteen, and dealing with the confusion of hair sprouting from unfamiliar places, and the alienation that comes from being a teenager, my friend and I decided to take a break from scheming ways to look at the adult magazine section of the local liquor store to do a neighborly deed. It started with a ceramic pumpkin shaped candleholder residing on the Cleavers' porch – adjacent to the naked porch of the Bundys'. On the day inspiration struck, we were headed to Thrifty’s for some ice cream on some rad BMX bicycles. Upon seeing the pumpkin, a question was posed: “I wonder what we could do with that?” As nice as the pumpkin looked, it was apparent it probably had a different and better life in store. A plan formulated on our little ice cream jaunt. At the store we purchased a Hallmark-style greeting card (along with the double fudge chunk we had set out for), walked across the street, and liberated a box from the dumpster of the shoe store.

With box, card, and ice cream dripping in hand, we rode back to the “hood” and waited patiently for dark.⁴ Under the cover of clouds and darkness, we made our way to the bushes outside the Cleavers' house. When the light of their porch was turned off for the night,⁵ we took the pumpkin and placed it in our box. We sealed the box, and waited another hour until the light on the Bundys' porch went out. We placed the box on their porch wrapped neatly with a bow—found in my friend’s mother’s gift-wrapping drawer—and the card, on which we inscribed:

“To: the Bundys.
From: the Cleavers.
From our house to yours
Happy Halloween Neighbors!”

We patted ourselves gently on each other’s respective backs and went to bed.⁶

The following morning, we woke, dressed, ate a Girl Scout cookie, and climbed atop our BMXs to ride. We saw the same thing the Cleavers would see day after day (during the fall season), year after year: a⁷ ceramic pumpkin candleholder sitting on the Bundys' porch. This is the meaning of Halloween. Tricks and Treats. The warmness that comes from sharing with neighbors – even things the neighborhood may not have realized were available to share. Happy Halloween.

--

1. i.e. Boys dress like girls, and girls dress like they are auditioning to be showgirls.
2. And A-hole teenagers that just can’t let this tradition go. 
3. Oddly, one year they put up blue and white lights at Christmas. They probably bought them on clearance from the grocery store not realizing these were Israel’s colors (my town was not a bastion for Jewish people), and probably thought why not dip into holiday decorating cheaply to see how it felt. Regardless, it brought a twinkle to my eye.
4. Most likely we played Legend of Zelda, and ate Girl Scout cookies out of his parents' freezer.
5. At 10 p.m., as every night, like a well-functioning digestive system.
6. We probably played more Zelda and ate more cookies first.
7. (their)