Are We There Yet????

Nope, but the countdown until move-in day / move-out day continues. 7 days and counting. We are all so exhausted. Not just physically, which is bad enough, but mentally and emotionally. My brother has been a real trooper. He starts work at the house around 10am and usually does not come home until 9 or 10pm. My sister has been my life and sanity saver. She arrived just last weekend and already, I don't know what I did until she came. Basically, she's Greta's new mom. I've been working on the house from around 10am to 6pm this week; believe me, it is a long time to be away from one's baby! But I can do it because I know she has the best of care and I don't feel the awful, nagging sense that I am inconveniencing some non-family member. Josh... poor, dear, under-appreciated, hard working hubby... goes to his "day job" from 8am to 5pm, but stops by to run errands and feed his workers on his lunch break. Then he starts his night job on the house until 10 or 11pm. Between the boys and our friend Jeremy, who is our all-knowing supervisor/contractor/we'll-make-this-work-inspiration (who also has a day job and a wife and 5 awesome kids, one of who is brand new), the house is almost done.

We must have been crazy to do this. But that's God's fault. We agreed to buy the house back in April. Then our loan took ages to process. Then the government ran out of money to fund the loan. Then we applied for a new loan. Then the government printed more money. Then our mortgage person began working for a new company that required we re-apply for a loan. So we actually closed on June 30th, just squeaking by to qualify for the First-Time-Homebuyer's tax credit. So we've basically gutted and rebuilt this house in one month. All of this would be doable, if not fun, had we longer to work on the house. However, the new renters are moving in to our rental on July 31st. Oh.... joy. Hence, the 7 days and counting.

On the to-do list still? Prime the walls, paint, install cabinets, put in flooring, install new bathroom drain, install bathroom fixtures, replace old bathroom fixtures, compound/sand/texture/paint kids' room, put in carpet in bedroom, clean out basement, MOVE IN. Thankfully, we are only moving about three blocks.

So if you have any spare prayers or happy thoughts this coming week, send them our way. We are definitely going to need them. I promise to pay you back with lots of before and after pictures in the coming weeks.

What's in a name?

So now that I have my virtual audience waiting with bated breath for that oh-so-exciting announcement of "boy or girl," let me take this opportunity to make you hear my diatribe on the subject of "names." Ever since I was a kid, I was obsessed with names. Under my direction, my siblings and I played an acting game that involved picking new names for oneself, an appropriate age, etc. And of course, it involved dressing up. Unfortunately, none of my favorite names back then stood the test of time. I cycled through quite a few. I recall "Christina," "Cherry," "Brittany," "Mildred," and "Karen" being top choices at one point. But what has lasted are my Hate List. "Nancy," "Nan," "Jane," "Peggy," and "Sarah" are the ones that stand out the most. (I take part of that back; "Jane" and "Sarah" aren't bad names anymore... but "Nancy"? Never NEVER NEVER!). At some point later, when our inventive interests took a turn towards reenacting the Civil War, I developed similar lists for boy names and subsequently renamed my siblings with appropriately soldierly names.... usually something from "Rifles for Waiti," "Across Five Aprils" or "Friendly Persuasion."

Oh, why do we have to grow up? If I hadn't grown up, gotten to know more people, and developed odd turns of the mind, I might happily have named all my kids for the sibling in "Across Five Aprils." But in recent years, or rather, since the reality of naming real children has struck, I don't like giving my kids a name of someone I know. It matters not whether I like said person or not. It's just that if they have a name, it's their name and I will always associate that name with them. It feels weird to me to call a brand new kid by someone else's name. Ahhhh... the things we confess to in blogs for the sake of being amusing, interesting or different! Now, I know that if everyone thought this way, we would very quickly run out of names and everyone would be called by some new fashioned, made up name like "Jayden" or Kylie." Oh wait....

So it's lucky for the human population that most of us do not think this way. However, in my case, I can't conceive of having more than a dozen children; in which case I'm sure I can humor my preference for not using the names of friends or close relations. Greta's real name is Margaret Elisabeth Rose. I adore the name Margaret, and yes, I do have a few good friends with that name. But I conveniently got out of calling her Margaret by nicknaming her the German derivative, "Greta," No one EVER gets this connection except honest-to-goodness, first generation Germans. And I love them for it.

Are you sufficiently impatient for me to get to the point about this kid's sex? Well, the English major in me won't let me do so until I've attempted to make the connection between the evolution of names and my baby's sex. You see, I want a girl because I absolutely love the girl's name we decided on. It was everything I love about a name - unique, classic, different, traditional, and Anglo-Saxon based (as are most of the names I tend to prefer). I won't tell you what it is, but I will say I checked to make sure it was NOT on the Top 100 Most Popular Girl Names for 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, and so on. In fact, it peaked in popularity in the 1930's. And it is not Mildred. The middle name was a family name and worked beautifully with the first name.

And now, I will have to wait to use it.

Yes, we're having a boy. Once again, Josh was right and I was wrong, With Greta, I was subconsciously sure that I was having a boy, but Josh "thought it would be nice" if we were having a girl. That is how my husband is about these things... never pushy or assertive, but pleasantly suggestive. Well, his "suggestion" proved correct in Greta's case. Once I got used to the idea that I was having a daughter and might have to raise someone like myself, I was very excited about Greta. This time, Josh "thought it would be nice to have a boy. Just for variety, Maria." There, future rebellious, teenage son of mine. Read that and feel sorry for yourself. No, Josh tacked on the last part because I'm sure he knew how much I loved my girl's name and how much easier I thought it would be to have another girl at this point in time. No new wardrobe, no new momma skills to learn, two cute, little girls to dress... sigh.

But now that I actually know we're having a boy... whoopeeeeee! I can finally call "it" something other than "it" and I can start talking to Greta about her little brother. And everyone I know seems to like their little boys very much, saying that they are less complicated and more fun, etc. And who knows? Maybe Little What's His Name will love me as much as Greta adores her Daddy. So when all is said and done, I'm very excited that this baby is a boy... my first little boy, my wee Christmas angel.

But oh, what to name him!

Josh wanted "Ingeborg" for Greta. His equally creative suggestions this time were "Ignatius," "Otto," or "Honorius."  I'm going to assume that he was and is joking. We've tentatively come up with a name... not telling, of course, but here are a few you can rule out. 1) No Italian names. I hate them. No offense meant to the growing number of people whouse them, but I've been conditioned by years of reading English and American literature to associate such names with effeminacy and a lack of manliness. Thank the WASP movement for that unconsciously anti-Catholic sentiment. 2) No made-up new names. I am not a fan of all the Jaydens, Kaydens, Haydens, Raydens and their ilk running around. Maybe Sayden. Josh suggested that, but in the interests of being Catholic, I think we will pass.

Well, here's to the next 20 weeks until we meet our first baby boy. If nothing else, there's always "Nicholas Nickelby." Then Josh would feel like we are more related to our dog, Smike. "Nicholas Nickelby Montagnini." Now, that has a unique ring to it!

Aches and Pains and Pregnancy, oh My!

I was formerly of the opinion that people should abstain from blogging if they have nothing of possible interest to blog about. Writing about how much the bones in one's ass hurt during pregnancy is about as bad as it gets in the ranks of "worst blog entry ever." But that's what it's come to. We have been SO busy lately and I have been SO tired that the only thing that comes to mind as a possible topic is the only thing on my mind right now, which is... the aches and pains of pregnancy.

I suppose this opening necessitates a word of explanation as to just why I am so busy, achey and tired (other than from the work of growing a baby). We finally (yay) bought a house. Buying a house is all well and good, typically as cause for celebration. In our case, it was a very long and out process. We started back at the end of March and concluded on June 30th. To make matters more exciting, it is a fix-er-up-er in the real sense... or at least we have turned it into one. But no. No, I could not live with wall paneling of the alternating white and dark wood variety. Just no. Nor could I live with a pink bedroom. Even more so could I not live with a bathroom with no ventilation and floor to ceiling mirror tiles AND carpeted floors. I suppose I could have survived the faux brickwork in the kitchen, but that would have been a stretch. The house also had minor issues, such as bad wiring. All in all, it was the best price for a nice little house with lots of potential. So much for the house. Josh and I are wanna-be handymen (women) so redoing it would not be a big deal except for the unforseen kicker - we learned on July 1st that we have new renters moving into our current house on July 31st.

That makes me extremely unhappy. If I hate moving, I hate moving quickly into unfinished houses even more. Wait. Isn't that what happened when we moved to Gallup? Ha. And I thought it was deja vu. On the bright side, at least we are only moving a few blocks away. Also, it won't be December this time.

All this to say that I have been assisting the deconstruction and clean up efforts in the past week. Hence, I feel like a very old, achey pregnant woman at the moment. The pain in my left hip makes me fall sometimes because I just can't feel my leg at times. I know... hie thee to a chiropractor and fix the pain in thy ass! I know, I know. My feet ache, I guess because I am fattening up for the pregnancy. But should an extra 5 lbs. make you feel this way? Somehow I doubt it. Just within the past week I have become insatiably tired. I mean, don't.want.to.get.out.of.bed. tired. I'll work at the house for two hours, doing something lame like sweeping the floors and carrying out wood scraps. Then I come home, get Greta to bed, and pass out for two hours. I used to be bright eyed and bushy tailed at 8am. Now I'm unconscious until Josh makes me get up to watch Greta when he leaves for work.

I know this won't last forever and I know the end results will be worthwhile, but I predict a rough month ahead. If you have any spare prayers or kind thoughts, send 'em our way. Ciao.

Mommying and Other Things

So I am supposed to be writing my masters degree thesis! Actually, I was supposed to be writing it over one year ago. But one year ago, I was having a baby, packing, moving, unpacking, packing, moving, unpacking, and settling in. Oh yes, I may not be a master of English yet, but I am most definitely a master of excuses. On one hand, I rather like being able to say to people who ask me, "what do you do?" that "I stay at home with my little girl and I'm working on my thesis." Somehow, I always have this half guilty feeling that staying home with my baby and growing another is not quite enough in most people's minds... probably just in mine. This thesis business justifies my cushy existence as a stay-at-home mother.

But the sad truth is that I really haven't been working on my thesis. I "read" for it, but that is nothing new... I am always reading a book and since they are all vaguely literary, I call it "reading for my thesis." Granted, there was a period when we lived in Florida when I ordered a bunch of books on motherhood and writing and avidly read for about 4 months. And then I finished the books and started on "Miss Marjoribanks" which has nothing to do with my topic. And that's been the story ever since. Yet that thesis is always out there, begging to be written, pervading my sleepless hours, worse for my conscience than the pile of laundry that did not get washed, or the dirty dishes left overnight in the sink. I put a lot time and energy (and money) into my master's degree; it would be a pity if I don't ever earn it from lack of having the gumption to write a thesis.

Two days ago, I had a rebirth of interest in this bugbear of a thesis. I wrote my adviser, said hello, let her know I'm still alive, and told her I'm still going to write a thesis. Her email back to me was encouraging. She has two children of her own and somehow manages them, a teaching career, and research. With the impetus of her words, I started rewriting the proposal draft I'd previously coined. I'm about half way through and getting to the nasty, researching part. There is just so much information available that it is always a chore to use it in an organized, succinct manner.

Now a new dilemma strikes. What to do with Greta? She suddenly decided to stop taking two naps and instead, have two cranky, sleepless times in the morning and afternoon. As I procrastinate and write this entry, she is trying to crawl out the window and play with "her" dog, to whom she just fed the pen I was going to use to take notes on my research. Sigh.... Now she has moved to her crib, where she is loudly  thinking over life and the delinquencies of her mother. I should be able to work because she is out of the room, but no, how can one work with a guilty conscience? My kid is crying. I'm supposed to do something about it, right? Sigh again..... The slightly ludicrous part of this whole drama is that my topic has to do with motherhood and art/writing, how the two compliment each other as two ends of the creativity spectrum (motherhood is physical creation, while writing is mental creation). The consoling part is that every critic on the subject is beset with the same struggles I'm having right now. Somehow they manage, and manage to create lasting works. My thesis does not need to be lasting, but it needs to be written at some point in time!

Anyone else? How do you do it?

Easiest, No-Bake (Berry, Citrus, Chocolate) Cream Pie EVER

And, my friends in blogging land, it is NOT made from a can or from a mix! I put this recipe together for dessert tonight and both the baby who was craving it and the mommy who concocted it were well pleased. The best part of it is that with a little creativity, you can turn it into any kind of cream pie. First I'll give you the base recipe and then explain the variations.

Filling~
8oz. cream cheese (1 pack), softened
2 tblspoons sugar (I used turbinado and it was fine)
1 cup heavy whipping cream, whipped until firm and peaky
1 tsp vanilla extract (if making a non-citrus version)

Cream the cream cheese and sugar together. Whip the cream. Add the vanilla. Mix ingredients together. Pour into a baked pie crust (you can use a graham cracker one or a regular one. Just make sure it's already baked). Put in the freezer for half an hour if you want to eat it sooner, or put it in the 'fridge until it is firm enough to cut. I think mine 'cooled' for about 2 hours before we ate it and it was in the freezer for about half an hour. Don't leave it in the freezer too long or it will freeze solid. :)


Variations~

The Berry...

Put about 1 cup of fresh or frozen berries of your choice in the blender on a low setting. They should look slightly mashed, but not quite smoothie texture. Mix in with the whipped cream and the cream cheese mix.

The Citrus...

Zest one or two lemons. Juice remaining lemon and add the juice to-taste. If you like, set aside enough zest to lightly garnish the top of the pie. Mix remaining zest into pie mix. Don't add vanilla extract.

The Chocolate...

I'd leave off the vanilla extract. Add about 1/2 cup melted chocolate chips or cocoa powder (moistened) to the cream cheese mix. You can mix it in thoroughly, or simply marble it.

A funny incident.... or; "Miss Manners" Learns a Lesson in Discretion

Oh lordy... this pregnancy has been very hard on my brain. I feel most days as if I fall a little further from a reasoning, intelligent being to a hormonal, emotion-ridden creature. Well, I was rather poignantly reminded this weekend that the age-old adage of "think before you speak" is a wise one to remember. To think that my old boss at Ave gave me a mock award once for being "Miss Manners" because I "always said the right thing at the right time."

So it started at McDonalds, somewhere along the way to Sedona. The family drove down to Sedona this weekend to spend time with Josh's dad and family. It is a 3 and a half hour drive from Gallup. Anyone who knows me should already know how much I abhor long drives, especially when I am pregnant and since having Greta. Anyhow, we stopped for dinner (I "needed" chicken strips) and went inside to sit down. We deposited ourselves in a booth next to a young man, who was industriously typing on a laptop. He was sitting down, so all I saw of him was his laptop and the fuzzy, little mustache on his face.

Well, we ate our food, played with Greta, and sat back to observe the incoming customers. People watching is one of my favorite pastimes... and people watching with Josh is one of my favorite sports. Our conversation falls to the level of satire, if not outright criticism, which usually results in a trip to Confession for both of us. I was in rare form that day. My head ached, my legs were stiff from sitting, my stomach was queasy (McDonald's chicken strips are not to be noted for their antacid effect), and the prospect of a long drive was still ahead. Needless to say, I was not feeling in particular good humor with my fellow men at that time. Then two boys, about 15 or 16, walk in. One has on a green t-shirt, reading, "God Recycles." Both had on those patchwork, plaid, pastel shorts that men/boys have been wearing recently and which are so ready to go out of style and remain horribly dated for the next 50 years. This is what I mean.

The boys walked by and went to the counter to order. They were out of ear shot when I looked over at Josh and said in my normal voice, "Those shorts are just ridiculous. Little kids might be able to get away with wearing them, but they just look stupid on grown men." Josh was nodding and laughing when suddenly, he kicked me under the table and started laughing even harder, but quietly. He discreetly indicated the mustachioed man sitting next to our booth. I look, but don't notice anything. "What?" I ask. "Look at what he's wearing." I look and oh my! He has on the fruitiest of plaid shorts that ever appeared out.

AWWWKKKKKWWWWAAAARRRDDDD!

The funny part is that the young man never looked up, never noticed us, never made any indication that such ill bred human beings ever existed. Let's just say that we made our exit soon after.

But why, oh why, do men insist in dressing in plaid, patchwork shorts? I blame the fashion industry for this lapse of civility on my part.

Thoughts upon one year of nursing

Ha! The English major in me totally likes that title. Sort of reminiscent of Anne Bradstreet and "Upon some distemper of the body." Ok, ok, it's a little lame, but it's late, I'm tired, and it doesn't take much right now for me to find myself clever. This might get edited out tomorrow, fyi.

Well, today was not one of "our" better ones - meaning, myself, Moopy, and Doopy (the respective names of our born and unborn children). I had one hell of a headache. If one could die of headaches, I would be on my merry way to being 6 feet under the ground by now. Greta (Moopy) was not "feeling" her nap. We fought over it for a good hour, upon which time Mommy surrendered and put Moopy in her crib to think things over. I hate doing that. Whenever I do it because I am just out of options rather than as a result of a well-reasoned plan, I feel like I failed something as a mother. However, failed or no, Greta did fall asleep after complaining loudly in her crib for 15 minutes. But all that was enough to amp up the headache to unbearable heights. So what did I do? I laid on the couch, called el Husbandito, worried about my sister, and contemplated writing an entry tonight about nursing.

Which brings us (finally) to the point of the title. It's a funny thing, but as we near the end of Greta's nursing period, I'm starting to feel very sentimental about the end of one of the hardest things I ever had to learn. Note: I am not going to be one of those people who nurse two babies concurrently! I'm not denying there may be health benefits, but please! Just imagine what that would do to your boobs. Kidding, people, kidding. But seriously, no more nursing for Greta after Doopy gets here. But I digress... Oh yes, nursing Greta. Going in to it a year ago, I had no real set ideas. I refused to take the La Leche classes, simply because I thought it seemed a little much. I did read their book, but couldn't get past the very dated pictures in the edition my mother-in-aw had. I just thought I would figure it out when it had to happen. The only part I recall feeling certain about was that it was going to happen. From my own mom, who'd breastfed each of her six kids, I inherited the firm conviction that this was the only way to do it. Besides that, someone had told me that breastfed babies were healthier, and if there is anything that really scared me about having a child, it was the thought of aforesaid child getting sick, catching a cold, having an earache... God knows what. Sick people and I don't/have never mixed well.

So Greta was born and anyone interested can read that entry posted somewhere in this blog. The short version of that story was that it was the easiest birth I had ever or have ever heard about it. Literally 15 minutes after Greta was born, Josh and I were laughing about it and talking about when to have the next baby. In all seriousness, I was very blessed and lucky. I am a firm believer in the notion that God gives you only the struggles you can handle. Well, I guess I can't handle very much (knock on wood!). But what threw me for a loop was the nursing. That was TOTALLY the worst part about having Greta. The first two or three days before my milk "came in" were fine. She didn't nurse a lot and needed to be cup fed. Not fun, but nothing compared to the nightmare that ensued when I started making real milk. [TMI alert for all you boys, non-mothers, or squimish folks] For one, I was sickeningly engorged. Literally, my boobs grew to be the size of my head. And I wonder why that is the only place I have stretchmarks? It hurt like... not even like hell. It just plain and simply hurt like nothing I can compare it to. Then, of course, whenever Greta "latched" on, it felt like my nipples were about to burn off. It was so, so, so horrible. And to top things off, instead of lasting the "one or two weeks" my midwife promised, this went on for about 1 month. If that wasn't bad enough, Greta was a really poor nurser at first and had to constantly cajoled into eating.

The funny thing was that through all this, I never doubted that I could "do" this or that it would eventually get better. I suppose when you're raised by a mother who exclusively breastfed, you forget that there are other options available. Greta gained back all the weight she needed, and I appreciated that no one was around to tell me that I wasn't doing a good enough job, or that I needed to supplement, or that my kid wasn't getting all she needed. Because it did work out. Until she hit about 6 months, Greta was not a very good nurser... needed to be coaxed into eating, bad latch, etc. However, after about the 6 month mark, she became very consistent and dependable in her feedings. I actually came to look forward to snuggling with her fat, little body and nursing her. It was our cuddle time, mutually enjoyable to both of us. We'd lay in bed, side by side, and she would curl up with her little feet against my tummy, her little mouth busily working, and all was at peace between mommy and baby for the time.

So what happened to end this utopian existence? At about 9 months, I simply had enough of the whole thing. Why? (Major confession moment coming up) I got so sick of my shirts getting stretched out. I usually wear fitted, ribbed tees or tanks, and you know how those stretch out on their own during the course of the day. However, when you are lifting them up and down all day long, that nice, form-fitting shape doesn't last long. No, it lasts until the first feeding. Then you are stuck with the option of changing your shirt or going through the day looking like you are wearing a bag... and a droopy one at that! Between that and the fact that we were getting less sleep at night due to increased night feedings prompted me to finally start solids.

Four months later, I'm three and a half months pregnant, and the mother of a very fat and health child. She still nurses at night and before naps, but it's no longer her primary source of food. But now when I nurse her, there is something in me that becomes very sad, as I watch that fat little face suck so intently. Nursing has always been "our time"... just Mommy and Moopy. She really enjoys it, and although I'm back to having sore nipples due to the pregnancy, I enjoy the exclusivity of our bonding time. It's very bittersweet knowing that it will all be over so soon. Not that there aren't more fun things to come, and not that I won't be able to do this ALL OVER AGAIN with several more children (God willing), but it won't be the same. No baby will ever be my first baby, no baby will ever have to learn so much with me, and right now, I think that no baby could ever be as loving and sweet as my little Greta.

But I guess that's life... whatever does remain the same?

**************
Just for Katie...
How did teething affect nursing? I'm going to pull a brilliant one and tell you that "it's different for everyone." In our case, Greta did not cut any teeth until after her first birthday. Crazy, isn't it? However, I'm still nursing her one month later, and in all honesty, it doesn't affect it for us at all. Seriously. I wouldn't know if she had teeth if I was to go by how nursing feels now. I do take extra precautions now. I don't let her just "hang out" unless she is actively sucking. If she isn't, I take her off, just in case she starts feeling "chewy." Granted, my case might be a little different. Since getting pregnant when Greta was 9 months, my nipples have been SO sore, just from the pregnancy hormones. So I'm sore regardless, and believe me, I would know if she started biting. I wouldn't worry too much about it. From what every mom I know has said, if you either yell at them, take them off the boob, drop them on the floor (kidding), they usually get the hint pretty quickly and stop biting.

My most unfavorite-est things

You should be able to tell that I am either (1) really, really bored, or (2) trying to put off doing one of these said "unfavorite-est things" in writing this post. I'm not a big list person, but while trying to convince myself that I should use the 1 hour of quiet allotted me by my baby's nap to iron the stack of El Husbandito's shirts, I decided that there are a number of chores or activities that I absolutely abhor. If you are in a similar position (bored, or procrastinating), read on. If not, by all means don't waste your time with this one.

Dislike Number 1:
Ironing. I hate it. Plain and simply hate it. The actual work is not so bad. It's almost relaxing to watch the hot iron smooth away ugly wrinkles. There are very few other tasks in life from which you receive the instant gratification of seeing immediate results. But the set up... and the time it takes... and the putting away... and the overwhelming number of shirts to be ironed. Maybe my problem with ironing is not so much the chore itself, but the mindset I have about it. Note, watching movies helps. However, having a baby who tries to crawl up your butt while you are ironing is not conducive to a relaxing experience.

Dislike Number 2:
Dusting. I just don't do it. Plain and simple. Living in a desert means that 5 minutes after you dust, all the same dust is back. So why even bother?

Dislike Number 3:
Road trips with my baby. She isn't a bad traveler, but we've just been on way too many since she was born. I have this mental shut down when she starts crying in the car. It's either I totally zone her out, turn up the music, and drive on... or have a break down somewhere along the 100 mile mark. Either way, I feel like a bad mother. Will this change? Sure hope to hell it will or I don't know what we are going to do with the other kids!

Dislike Number 4:
Dirty sinks. This may be worsened by the fact that I am pregnant, but it is a major pet-peeve of mine that whoever does the dishes is responsible for cleaning out the sink drains and rinsing out the sink. I lose my lunch or my religion every time I see sopping bits of food or other unidentifiable squishy objects in the sink.

Dislike Number 5:
A dirty house. There is a difference between dirty and messy. Dirty refers to physical filth... something that can be wiped up, swept up, or rinsed off. Mess is simply things not being in their proper places. Now, "mess" I can handle on the average day, so long as it is put away before I go to bed. However, "dirt" is unacceptable. This paranoid state of mind developed while I was in college, when I couldn't concentrate or study until my room was cleaned and orderly. I've loosened up on the mess part since having a kid, because, well... kids and mess are sort of synonymous. But the dirt part still gets me. I hate it when Greta's knees are greyish-brown from crawling on my floor, or when she's picked up as much dust and lint as our vacuum cleaner.

There. Just from the simple activity of telling myself how much I hate ironing, I've worked myself into a much better state of mind... to the point where I can't think of anything else I dislike enough to write about it. So ya'll have a good day. Meanwhile, I'm going to set up the ironing board, refill the spray bottle, count the shirts, find the hangers, and start the damn ironing.

"Revolutionary Road"

I shouldn't ever bother writing this, but I hated the movie so much that my sense of proportion would not allow me to let this one pass unscathed. I watched this mind-numbing flick featuring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet this past weekend. I seriously felt like I was in the middle of a war zone. The relationship between this romantic pair could not have been less turbulent than drowning on the Titanic. From Scene I, the two fought and fought and fought. And it was ugly. It was noisy. It was vulgar. And it was pointless. Kate and Leo play a married couple who deem themselves too special for ordinary living. However, they find themselves stuck in this ordinary, ol' world, and hence, go around with a perpetual grudge against each other for said circumstances. Nice, right? Kate plays this AWFUL woman... silent, accusative, begrudging, contemptuous, and just ugh! Why do I always make myself watch movies in which the lead actress is a human being I really dislike? Nicole Kidman is one. Kate Winslet is another. Please don't assume I'm jealous. If I looked as mean and angry as the two of them, I might not like myself very much either. DiCaprio plays the more or less selfish, slightly indulgent husband desirous of his wife's attention. The two decide to leave their humdrum lives in the US and go to France, where Winslet will work as a secretary and support her husband's ambition of sitting around and coming up with his life's mission. But ah... she gets pregnant, they start cheating on each other, and the crazy son of a busybody neighbor tells them exactly what they are.

And here is my confession. In the middle of another stirring fighting match between the romantic couple, I shut the movie off. I'm too pregnant and hormonal to be able to sit and enjoy watching a married couple fight, even it it isn't real. I couldn't see anything getting better for this pair, except maybe having a paid assassin shoot the two of them. But as that did not seem to be in the cards, I left well enough alone and went to bed. Still, the entire performance left me with a bad enough feeling to waste my time this morning, writing a partial review of a movie that I could not finish.

When life strikes

So what is new in this odd circumstance known as my life? Well, I temporarily disappeared into the wilds of Ohio for an impromptu visit to the few family members left there. All of them are "going through" something in one way or another. I've come to the conclusion that I have a bad tendency to go overboard when it comes to my family. If there is something wrong, I worry and stress and fret over it until I've done something towards righting the wrong. This may sound like a meritorious trait, but it isn't. For one, it leads to no end of useless worry and anxiety on my part. Secondly, I often the doubt the efficacy of any action on my part. I mean, if people want to mess up their lives and if people don't want to be saved from themselves, intervention seems futile, right? Ah well, some people never learn to stop.

So one unnamed family member has been making a series of choices that have yet to prove beneficial to him/her and in the mean time, are seriously affecting the rest of the family in a negative way. Said family member indicates that he/she will be visiting Ohio for a short period of time to another unnamed family member. Big sister hears about this and decides with one day's notice to haul her butt and her baby's butt out to Ohio to reconnect with this family member and figure out what the hell is going on. Through a series of unfortunate events, big sister and baby arrive in Ohio, rent a car, and go to see said family member. Said family member then communicates that he/she will be unable to visit due to unforeseeable circumstances. Ok, then... on to Plan F... fly erstwhile family member home. Family is reunited and everyone lives happily ever after.

Not so much. As I look back now, from the fine vantage point of my comfy couch, pleasantly situated in my own cozy home, surrounded by my own affectionate family, it certainly felt like a very painful and useless experience. I'm still having a hard time deciding what exactly was so awful about the experience. Being accused repeatedly of being a liar, a traitor, and an untrustworthy human being may add to that feeling. Watching my baby suffer through a time zone change, a routine disruption, and turn into a clingy fiend was not exactly a joyful process. Facing misunderstanding and lies from other, supposedly "helpful" family members could be part of the problem. The physical discomfort of sitting through 4 long flights, by oneself, with a toddler, in one's 1st trimester, and missing two of those flights, and having to stay overnight in God-forsaken Atlanta could definitely be cause to doubt the overall success of the venture. Just being away from your husband for a week and under such stressful circumstances is hard enough. So what was accomplished, I ask myself? Well, I haven't seen my Grandma in almost a year. While never the most stimulating of visits, it was still good to see her again. And I saw another family member who I haven't seen in a long time. And as for the current problem child, well... he/she at least knows that his/her family cares enough about him/her to go through great lengths to see him/her. If actions do speak louder than words, and said family member does not close off his/her mind to reality, then he/she should realize that his/her family still loves him/her.

Whatever. Everyone is able to make their own decisions, good, bad, or otherwise. It's just a pity that often, you have to hurt yourself and others around you in order to learn from the school of hard knocks. This little episode in my family's drama is far from over yet, but I'm settling back to watch it happen, secure in the feeling that I did my best and couldn't have tried harder to give someone the chance to stop screwing up. Smug? Maybe, yes, a little... but it's also a great way to mask very real feelings of failure, disappointment and sadness. I can honestly say that I have never, in my 25 years of life, been through so harrowing and painful an experience - mentally, physically, and emotionally. Being 13 weeks pregnant didn't help, either. Oh well... pick up, and keep moving on. What else can you do? You just can't live other people's lives for them or prevent them from hurting themselves if they are determined to do so.

Yoghurt / Apple Sauce muffins - my own

1 cup yoghurt
1 cup apple sauce (natural)
2 eggs
2 tbsp. milk (give or take)
1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
1/2 to 3/4 cup sugar to taste (turbinado or raw is best)
2 cups flour
2 cups oatmeal (not "quick")
1 cup wheat germ
2 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp salt (or to taste)

*the following to taste or preference
ginger
allspice
vanilla
nutmeg
cinnamon
chopped apples
raisins

Mix all dry ingredients and then add softened/lightly melted butter to dry mix. Mix wet ingredients separately and then slowly add to dry ingredients. Grease muffin pans thoroughly with butter and fill to half. Bake in 400` oven for 8-10 minutes or until sides are brown. Remove from muffin tins as soon as possible. Cool.

Reflections after one year of Greta

You know how it is when you're dating, engaged or newly married, and you're going through what some people call the "honeymoon stage" - where your feelings about your loved one are so intense and so numerous that the most you can say about him/her is just that you "love" him/her so much? Well, I am still going through that with Greta. It's been just a year since her birth. And I'm still not reasonable about my feelings for her. Perhaps that is part of the magic of mothering. So I'm dedicating this post to her. Caveat. It will be everything emotional, sappy, and sentimental that can usually only be expressed in one big, Greta-hug.

So what is she like? Simply put, she's a little Josh. Personality-wise, she is a calm, but affectionate child. She loves to play and interact with other children and adults. However, she also amuses herself, as she is doing right now, in her little play area. She is such a happy baby! That is one of my favorite things about her. No matter where we are, or what we are doing, at least one stranger comes up to us and raves over her smiles. Whenever she and I are having a bad at home, I take her out. We'll go to a coffee shop, the co-op, the grocery store... anywhere we can find other people. It cheers her up to no end to be around other people. Going to resturants with her is one of our favorite activities. To begin with, Josh and I love eating out. Yeah, it's expensive, and yes, it probably isn't the most healthy, but it is our way of spending time together, enjoying a good meal, and not worrying about the dishes. Since Greta has learned to eat solids and sit up, she loves to join us. We ask for a booth seat, then one of us sits on the outside of the booth, while she stands or sits next to us. She can move around and look at people while Josh and I enjoy watching her.

Since having Greta, my theory of being "pro-life" has boiled down to this: if you want to convince people that children are indeed the blessing we believe them to be, then raise them to be the kind of people you would like to be around, and take them out in public! Too often, people have negative associations with regards to children - they are messy, loud, obnoxious, sick, dirty, etc. Well, you can't always help the occasional flare-up, but on the whole, you know your children and you know how they interact with people. I think that the reason most people don't want to have children or postpone having them indefinitely is because they share these all too common assumptions about children. How do you change minds and hearts? By the simplest and most effective means - example. Show folks that kids can indeed sit still in church (ok, we don't have that down yet), don't have to throw temper-tantrums in the store, allow their parents to eat in peace at a resturant. I'm not saying that there won't be an off-day, but generally you can count on more good than bad days.

So now that we're expecting Number 2, I'm worried. Worried because Greta is such a good kid, who I really couldn't improve upon. Worried that since every kid is different, that this next kid can only go downhill because I can't conceive of a nicer baby than Greta. I know it's silly, but who ever said that pregnancy improved one's rationality? Well, at the very least, Baby Number 2 will have a very good big sister to look after him/her.

Final thoughts? A year ago, I had no idea what to expect, but that didn't stop me from thinking about parenting. I would say that overall, having a child is more enjoyable than you could ever imagine. The love you feel for that growing child - who just gets more loveable and interesting as time passes - helps to smooth the harder parts of parenting. Yes, it's hard to wake up at night to nurse, I dislike poopy diapers as much as ever and pawn them off on my kind husband at every available instance, coughs and colds still leave me in a panic of uncertainty, and it is always a sacrifice to not do everything you want to do when you want to do it. But the part that you really can't imagine until you have your baby is how much love you can give. That love is what makes all the difficulties, sacrifices, and inconveniences less onerous, if not an actual joy.

Thank you, my Greta darling, for being a part of our lives and for bringing so much joy and happiness with you. Your daddy and I love you!

Here we go again!

Prior to this second pregnancy, I was so curious as to what it would be like to be both pregnant and caring for a toddler. I suppose part of it is because I felt I couldn't handle one more thing when I was pregnant with Greta - after all, working all day and going to grad school two nights a weeks was something of a hassle. But back then, it was constantly on my mind, "how do people do this with other kids around?"

Well, I'm happy to say that it's much better this time. Oh, so much better! For one, I don't have to get dressed up and go to work every day. Don't get me wrong, I had a great job, a caring boss, pleasant coworkers, and all. But going to work is going to work... you have to get dressed, look good, act normally... traits in my mind that are rather opposed to the very nature of pregnancy. If I want to be in pj's and not wash my face all day, I really want it. And it is torturous to be sitting around in professional, uncomfortable, albeit cute clothes for 10 hours. I will never forget how, everyday at 5:20 pm when we returned home, I would waddle off to the bedroom, take off all those miserable dress clothes and put on the baggiest, most unappealing pajamas I had. Of course, an hour later, I'd have to get dressed all over again to go to night class, but it was worth it.

But the best part of not working during pregnancy is that I can have my miserable days all by myself and not have to put a smiling face over it all. C'mon, every expectant mom is going to have shitty, hormonal days when we are doing a favor to humanity in staying away from people. The problem with a regular work schedule is that you can't. Those were the absolute worse days. But now... ahhh... the underrated freedom to bitch in the privacy of your own home! The funny part is that, this time around, those days are much fewer and further in between. I suspect this is because I'm not seeing people as often and when I'm pregnant, I have so little patience for human foibles... which even in the best of coworkers, is something of an on-going issue.

End of story, I am so happy to not be working right now. I love being at home, having the leisure to enjoy my little Greta grow up, having a daily routine, eating at normal times, waiting for Josh to come home, and watching that belly grow. Yeah, and playing good music all day long.

"Australia"

I've been plagued by ironing lately and needed a really long movie to get me through the pile of shirts that have been sitting in my laundry room. I remembered reading reviews of "Australia" when it came out a year ago and the critics didn't like it because it was too long. Well, let's start this by saying I finished ironing all 12+ shirts and the movie was still going on when I finished!

Pros - I liked the fact that Nicole Kidman played a semi-ridiculous person. I'm not a Kidman fan. She has a mean face, angry eyes, and her best roles involve serious, business-like women, or else the stereotypically beautiful, cold seductresses. Worse yet, she isn't even pretty for all the hype she gets. So it was nice for a change to see her as something other than unlaughable. Hugh Jackman was good... did you ever notice how much he looks like Gregory Peck? The cinematography was first-rate. I am a sucker for expansive outdoor shots and mountainous scenery. The little kid's accent was cute.

Cons - Way, way, way too long. I thought the movie was going to end at three separate points... and the sad thing is that it could have ended at any one of those points and no one would have missed the rest. But no, it dragged on. Kidman became more and more melodramatic as the movie progressed. The villain was just too bad. And pointlessly so. He just did not seem to have enough motivation or reason to act as wickedly as he did. I didn't appreciate the typical Hollywood smack at the Catholic church, portraying the priest-run Children's Island (where all the half-breed aboriginal kids were send for "proper" training) as some sort of hell on earth. The priests themselves, while not evil, were weak and stupid. But thank God, the noble, good-hearted aboriginals, with the help of Hugh Jackman, were there to save those poor children from decimation by the Japanese. Oh Hollywood.

Overall, it was a very unremarkable movie except for its length. It was VERY long. Too long, I think. The story was not uninteresting, but nor was it stirring. The emotions were overdone and the music was too much in all the wrong places. Would I watch it again? Probably not, unless I somehow start working at a dry-cleaners, pressing shirts all day.

Washington Square by Henry James

I really liked this novel. Because I liked the heroine, I wished for her sake that the ending had been happier, but for all extents and purposes, the book kept me interested and wanting to see how it would turn out.

Catherine Sloper is the opposite of that appalling Daisy Miller. In fact, she is something of an anti-heroine... plain, large, uninteresting, unintelligent, quiet, has little to say for herself, shows a great deal of unrewarded virtue of the less enticing sort. But sometimes it's nice to take a break from the beautiful blondes and witty brunettes and read about unremarkable people, who do, after all, exist in larger quantities than do the aforesaid blondes and brunettes.

So CS is the daughter of a rich and successful New York doctor around the turn of the century. He is disappoint in her in that she is not remarkable and he has what James describes as an "ironical" tone towards her. She, of course, does not understand his irony, but admires her father, who is everything she is not. Catherine meets a handsome, dashing young man, Morris Townsend, at a party. He showers her with attention, and as this is the first of the male persuasion who has showered her with attention, she duly falls completely and wholeheartedly in love with him in her quiet, reserved manner. Dr. Sloper rightly guesses that the young man is a fortune hunter (Catherine is to inherit her father's fortune) and disapproves the match. Much of the drama within the novel focuses around her father's opinion that Catherine, being in his mind an utterly tractable and meek young lady, will eventually dismiss Townsend in favor of her father's desire. But she does not. Even after a year long separation in Europe and in the face of her father's open hostility, Catherine is intent on marrying Townsend. I forgot Aunt Lavinia. She provides most of the comic relief in the form of a wannabe Gothic heroine/female Cupid, hurting the romance more than helping it. As suspected, once Dr. Sloper makes it clear that Catherine will be disinherited should she marry Townsend, the young man leaves. Catherine takes up life as a well-to-do spinster.

What I liked about her was her single-mindedness. She gave her marriage much thought, and once she made up her mind, she did not change it. Even after Morris jilted her, she still would not promise her father (on his deathbed no less!) not to marry Morris later. She looses 4/5s of her fortune because of this. Yet when Morris comes back to claim her, she will have nothing to do with him. At some point, she realizes that the one trait she possesses entirely is her faculty for using her own mind; she admirably sticks to this to the end. I liked her almost childlike honesty, her desire to do the right thing, and her stubbornness in the face of male disapproval. This book was a very clever manner of depicting an unpopular woman who learns to think for herself and trust herself. It is also realistic in the sense that she lives with the consequences of her decisions, even if the result is not pretty in a worldly standard.

Re-readability rating - 3 out of 5

Daisy Miller by Henry James

In the interests of taking a break from reading for my thesis - which involves unhealthy amounts of mother-writer bios - I picked up Henry James' "Washington Square" and "Daisy Miller." The primary reason was because it was one of the few books on my shelf that I haven't yet read. I don't love James. "Portrait of a Lady" was absolutely ruined for me by my undergraduate professor. Also, James' overtly male-interpretation-of-female-behavior grates on me after awhile. There is a taste of condesending in his writing towards women, owing to the fact, I suppose, that his tales are primarily told through the eyes of a male protagonist whose job as a narrator is to observe the woman in question and form opinions about her. There's almost something voyeristic about this.

Well, "Daisy Miller" and "Washington Square" are no different in the above regards. However, while I did not like DM, I did enjoy WS to a certain extent. To begin, DM is about HJ's pet topic - American women abroad in Europe and how they do not fit in. Portrait of a Lady is the same thing. I won't spoil the novel for you (hopefully), but my primary dislike about DM was Daisy herself. I really do not like girls like her. Never have, never will. By 'girls like her' I mean girls who are too popular with boys, who always tell you that they have more male friends than female friends, girls who too obviously prefer men's company to women's, but who are not free enough from flirtatious behavior to make this desire for male company seem platonic. Caveat - nothing about this post is supposed to be objective. Continuing.... In DM, all the women around Daisy are faulted for judging her supposed "high spirits" and innocent interest in men. James would like her to appear youthfully independent, intriguing, unconcerned with consequences, along with this odd mixture of coy flirtatiousness and innocent disregard of proprieties. Ugh! says this reader. She is just "too" something. I don't think James understands his subject because she comes across as neither naive nor simple, but just very, very stupid. I mean, she's supposed to have grown up in New York society. Is it really so realistic that she be absolutely ignorant of normal, sensible behavior? Had she been raised under a rock on a farm in the middle of Utah, I might understand the ignorance of proper behavior. But that still does not account for her obnoxious flirtatiousness which implies a great deal of worldly cultivation.

Well, the wages of sin are quick and deadly. Miss Daisy sits out all night with a dreamy Italian in the damp air of the Colosseum and yes, you guessed it. She contracts malaria and dies. Good riddance, I thought. Oh, there may be so much more to this tale that I am blocking out by my inherent dislike of Miss Daisy, but you know what? I'm not in college and no longer need to convince a teacher of the correctitude of my opinions.

Re-readability rating? 1 out of 5 stars.

Blogging Therapy

Journaling has been a means of self-expression since people figured out how to write and paper became readily available. The reasons why are interesting.

First of all, there is an element of immortalizing oneself. Now, it is arguable in each individual case as to what degree this takes place, but the fact of writing something down saves it for others to read, thus creating a potentially lasting document that links the dead writer with the living world. In a similar, albeit much more grandiose manner do we see ancient heroes striving to accomplish great deeds that would earn them a place in their people's oral history, ensuring that they would "live on" after their mortal remains were dust. I sincerely doubt that the average teenage scribbler would admit to a desire to leave a posthumous legacy of literature, but nevertheless, the thought of leaving something of one's self for future generation is at least an aspect of journal-keeping.

Probably the most important role of journaling regards release. Especially in women's writing, keeping a diary is almost requisite in saying the second half of what you believe. Take LM Montgomery as an example. With one hand, she wrote those sunshiney, optomistic tales of courageous orphans, dedicated and loving children, and reunited families. With the other, she recorded her own life, with its continual fight against depression, her disillusionment with her marriage, her severe disappointment in her children, her constant questioning of her worth as an author. Some have queried if her habit of introspection actually hastened her unhappy death, as she became so absorbed in the legacy of unhappiness that she recorded for herself to the point that she no longer could see happiness in her life for its own sake. End of digression. However, the point to this story is that Montgomery needed her diary as a channel for the unhappy emotions she hid from others or kept out of her stories. In a smaller way, many of us unknown journalers write for the same reason.

So where does blogging fit into all this? Well, it is disingenuous to say that times have changed, the digital age is upon us, and writing is unpopular if not inconvenient... but it is true. I suspect that many still do keep written journals (I do) for the keeping of truly private thoughts. But for the majority of thoughts, they can be shared with a select public. In fact, this notion of writing privately but knowing that an undetermined public with be reading your "private" thoughts is a clever way of getting your story out. Think Bram Stoker's "Dracula." Mina Harper journalizes the majority of the story, and from her style, one has the impression of reading a private diary. However, one also knows that she is writing her private impressions with the knowledge that others will read them. Clever. I think that blogging is a similar thing. The writer can write with the feeling of privacy because in most cases, he/she will never know the readers. Writing for an unknown and unseen audience often frees the author to write with less self-censoring.

Which leads to my point to this entry. I like blogging because it helps me to organize my thoughts without the physical discomfort of writing for an hour. Secondly, writing is theraputic for me. Just the exercise of coming up with a topic, developing a thesis statement, organizing an argument is good for my mind. I try to keep truly private topics for my journal, but blogging gives me a sense of sharing something even though no one may be listening.

What to feed babies?

Every mom has a different way of introducing solids and a different time. I am still fascinated by the fact that Greta does something other than nurse. I started her on solids when she was 9 months old because she was very interested in eating. She never "went" for baby food or rice cereal. She started with avocados, which are awesome because she eats them right out of the shell. Then we moved on to yams, which were not and are still not a big favorite. Carrots are acceptable on most days (I steam them until they are soft but not too squishy). Bananas also go over well on most days. Greta is 11 months now and we've moved on to egg yolks. She really liked those! I hard boil eggs and feed her the yolk. She, as experience has shown, would prefer to eat the egg whole - shell and all - but as her mother has stopped allowing her to "help" peel eggs, this near-disaster has been averted.

Greta's latest favorite?? Coffee. No, I'm not completely stupid or eclectic in my choice of suitable foods for my child. Greta LOVES to drink whatever I am drinking and every morning, rain or shine, we fight over my coffee cup. This morning, I hit on something new - I would let her taste it to show her how much she hated the bitter taste. So I did. And that's right, she loved it and kept trying to get more. I should have known that she probably developed a taste for coffee via the coffee-laced breast milk she's been getting for 11 months.

Oh babies... what a daily adventure!

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Mommy pushing... a double stroller?

That's right, Baby numero dos is going to make his or her appearance sometime around December 15th this year. Unlike with Greta, I suspected I was pregnant from the first. Not that this matters to any of my non-existent readers (Janel excepted, who should get a prize for being the first person to post on this blog =) ), but for the first time in my life, I was having normal periods. By that, I mean periods that begin and end, not simply drag on interminably month after month. By January, with Greta at 8 months and nursing full time, we were back to normal. Just for the record, we are not having another kid to get a tax deduction!! but when we were doing taxes back in February and marveling over the credit we received because of Greta, Josh jokingly asked how soon we would need to have Baby#2 in order to qualify for another next year. Well folks, we just squeaked by... December 15th!

But all joking aside, a lot of thought and prayer (and loving) went into the making of this baby. We want a big family, God willing. I've been feeling well lately and homemaking has not been overly difficult. The thesis is even making some progress! We know how natural family planning works, but have always used it to make babies rather than wait. So when this time rolled around, there was little doubt in either of our minds that we were going to let things happen as they would. Until someone aptly pointed out to me that if I did get pregnant, I wouldn't be able to put all the work into the house we are buying. For the first time, I questioned our decision to "let things take their course." I mean, after all, God did give us brains and the ability to make decisions... so maybe we ought to exercise said abilities? Then I thought back to Greta's little life... how she was our miracle baby, coming as a completely welcomed and long-awaited surprise after two years. It doesn't work for everyone, but that's how the we function. Every amazing thing in our life has come to us as a completely unplanned, unexpected gift from God.

On March 25th, I started my morning routine as I always do - make the bed, change Greta, feed Greta, pour coffee, check Facebook. I know, I am pathetic, but Facebook is the center of my social universe. I would as soon miss checking Facebook as Josh would miss reading the Drudge Report. A friend who I had met once or twice three years ago had posted on my wall: "What is God asking you to say YES to today?" It was the Feast of the Annunciation (Angel Gabriel tells Mary she will conceive by the Holy Spirit and she says yes to God's will).

I'm not sure what I will be saying yes to in this child's life and my own, but I just pray that I always have the trust to continue to do so.

********

End of story ~

Greta and I fly out to Florida for a visit to family. The day my period rolls around, I test and there were those two little stripes. Josh wasn't with us, but my family was. After all the difficulties and misunderstandings of our moving away from them, it meant a lot to all of us that I was there to share with them the good news.

The birth of our first child

It has been ten months since our first daughter was born. Even now, looking back on that event, I'm filled with a feeling of disbelief that this ever happened. But it did. And we have a beautiful little girl to prove it. Still....

Greta was technically due on June 6th, a date confirmed by two OBs, based on my hormone levels and her in-utero size. Note to self and expecting moms... due dates are just an estimate! According to our midwife, Greta was born with the gestational development of a 39 week old, rather than a 37 week old baby as she supposedly was. But I digress... Needless to say, when I started my maternity leave, Josh and I had these wonderful expectations to have a relaxing three weeks to prepare for Baby. We were both exhausted - I had just finished my last semester in the English program at Eastern Michigan, while Josh completed his last final for law school on Friday evening and attended Commencement on Saturday morning. Initially, I had intended to work until the end of the month, but on Wednesday of the same week, I came down with an awful cold, which when compounded with pregnancy symptoms, turned into a pretty hellish situation. My amazing boss called the situation for what is was and helped to make my last day the same Friday before graduation.

So most of the family that came into town for graduation left by Sunday night. May 17th. We invited Josh's mom to stay with us until Tuesday because the midwife was coming over for a visit and we wanted Mom to be around for that. Well, she certainly was around and for much more than any of us anticipated at the time! That Sunday night, as we sat around and visited with my Dad and Josh's Mom, we started timing contractions between 8 and 10 minutes apart, but after awhile, I got bored and stopped. After all, this baby wasn't due for another 3 weeks, right? :) Monday the 18th was a beautiful day - the sun was shining and we went to the Law School for Mass, after which I met my Dad for lunch. I think that awesome latte I had then had something to do with Miss Greta's early entrance!

Anyhow, we went to bed around 1am on what was then Tuesday morning, the 19th. Josh went to sleep immediately, but my contractions were too strong and too regular for me to fall asleep. So I lay still and worked on my breathing and relaxation, just as a good Bradley student should. This went on for about 2 hours. Then, out of nowhere, the contractions became really hard and painful. There was just no way I could breath through anything. At about 3am, I woke Josh up and gave him some very mixed signals about rubbing my back or not rubbing my back. That and saying "Hail Marys"... something about the rhythmic words of the prayer was very soothing. This went on for half an hour. All this time, however, I didn't think I was in labor. I was totally convinced that I was going through false labor and that somehow, the painful contractions were going to go away at some point. Furthermore, I was determined NOT to be one of those hyper young mothers who called her midwife out of the house at 3am for false labor! Plus, Josh kept reminding me that my water wasn't broken so I "couldn't be in labor." Give us credit, though... it was 3 am and we were ridiculously tired.

All of a sudden, I started shaking all over uncontrollably. Something in the back of mind recalled a sentence in the Bradley book about "transition" and shaking being a sign of transitioning in the the pushing stage of labor. So I told Josh call our midwife. Something told me that "something" was going on and it was going to be messy. I recall very calming telling Josh that I was going to sit on the toilet in case my water broke, to please pick up the rugs in the bedroom and bathroom, and to tell his Mom to call my parents and tell them to pray because I think I'm in labor.

Well, I sat on the toilet and immediately there was this little pop and my water broke. I felt this huge pressure "down there" and I just pushed without even meaning to. It was the craziest feeling in the world. I screamed so loud that I thought my throat was going to tear. It was frightening, relieving, exciting, painful and shattering, all at the same time. If ever there was a moment when I absolutely loved and admired my husband, it was then. Immediately after I stopped yelling, the first thought through my head was "Oh no, Josh is not going to like me screaming. But damn! if he tries to make me stop!!!" The things your mind latches on to at moments like this.... But my husbandly hero didn't visibly flinch, although later he said he was wondering how long the night would be if this continued. He knelt down next to me and put his arms around me. He started to slowly rub my back and I settled my head into his warm shoulder. And my favorite part of this whole experience happened. I suddenly felt to relaxed and pain-free, as if I was unconscious and just floating away. My whole body untensed and for a moment, I was somewhere else. In retrospect, I guess this relaxation let the baby out because seconds later, I heard myself scream again and jump off the toilet, yelling for Josh to "grab the baby!!! she's coming out!!!"

And that's how Greta narrowly missed entering the world via the toilet.

I grabbed her and then Josh grabbed, too. I will never forget the emotion in his voice as he cried, "She's here, she's here!" And I saved my placenta from being yanked out as I reminded Josh that "She's still attached"... he being prepared to run down the hallway with Greta to show her to his Mom. :)

For the next 15 minutes, we wrapped our daughter in a towel and held her to my chest. She was so little, warm, greasy and dark haired! Man, that child has a lot hair! I was in total disbelief and shock as I held her. I didn't even feel like I had given birth; it had happened so quickly. The pushing stage (all two pushes) lasted no more than 10 minutes. 15 minutes later, our midwife arrived. Very vaguely, I remember Josh cutting the cord... me pushing out the placenta, showering, being incredibly dizzy, changing, nursing Greta, getting into bed, pictures being taken... and I really don't remember anything until I woke up around noon and ate about 4 eggs with toast. MMMMM!

And that's how it happened.