Lawyerish

Taking it in Stride

Well, that was an AWESOME birthday. 

Despite an initial hiccup in getting to Charlotte (we got on the plane, taxied out to the runway, sat on the runway for a long while, then taxied BACK to the gate and deplaned to wait out a weather delay for an hour, then reboarded and finally took off), I arrived in NC on Friday afternoon and Allison and I dove right into our girls' weekend. 

When we got to our room at the resort, we found a very generous gift card from my parents (which I used my for hot stone/deep tissue massage on Saturday) and a single long-stemmed rose and, shortly thereafter, a bottle of wine and a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries arrived, courtesy of Joe (he is really gunning for Husband of the Year (and winning), wouldn't you say?). 

We moseyed down to the bar and had drinks and shared a bunch of appetizery dishes for dinner, then returned to the room for some pajama time and tickle fights (ok, not really -- just seeing if you were paying attention).  We went to bed at a reasonable hour since we had to get up at the buttcrack to run a 5K, although some women decided to park themselves outside our room and CACKLE their heads off for a very long time so it took a while to get to sleep.  When we got up at 5:45 (OOF), I considered running through the corridor, laughing maniacally and pounding on the walls for payback, but I restrained myself.  

We headed out in the steamy dawn toward the Panthers stadium, where the race started.  Then we rocked the ass off that 5K! 

Twinsies!  (Check out the forearm definition on both of us.  We are Muscle Women!)

I did my best to comport myself with grace and dignity. 

And Allison did her best to pretend she didn't know me.

After the race, we headed back to the hotel, freshened up, and ate an enormous breakfast worthy of an Everest expedition.  I wanted to climb into my dish of grits and weep, they were so good.  You can get grits in New York, but they are never quite right (see also: biscuits -- why doesn't anyone up North know how to make a proper biscuit?).  Then we did our Fancy Shopping at Target, Ulta and a Border's (RIP) that should have been GIVING it away what with being bankrupt and all, but instead only offered moderate discounts.  I still bought some books, though, because it SEEMED like I was going to save a bunch of money, what with all the fluorescent signs everywhere, screaming about deep discounts, and the almost-empty shelves.  WhatEVER, store! 

That afternoon, we had our spa appointments, and ooooooh, man.  That massage was tremendous.  I hadn't had a hot stone massage before, and this incorporated deep tissue as well.  It was one of those experiences that is kind of an agony/ecstasy thing.  Like, WHOA NELLIE I THINK MY HEAD IS GOING TO POP OFF OW OW OW, but then afterward you feel like you could just slither off the table onto the floor.  I came out of there looking sort of shaken, but in a good way.  Also, I had gotten a scalp treatment so my hair was full of oil and sticking out like an Eighties hair band gone wrong.  But I did not care, because all my knots had been kneaded out and my system was flushing out toxins (or something -- all I know is I always pee a million times after I have a deep tissue massage) and I was in a state of bliss. 

After we collected ourselves and drank some fruity water, then sauna-ed and showered, we headed out to the pool and took a dip.  But then the golf course alarms went off and we were ordered out of the water by a boy who probably did not even have a driver's license.  The thunder and lightning descended, so we retreated to the room and watched the rain pour down as we drank wine and read Allison's old diaries on our terrace, then ordered room service and talked late into the night. 

I learned from perusing Allison's journals that I spent a great deal of the time between about fifth grade and the end of high school "being kind of a butt" or "getting on [Allison's] nerves."  This is hilarious, and not really surprising, because I have no doubt that I WAS kind of a butt and not as good of a friend as I should have been.  As Allison noted in one tenth grade entry:  "Meredith has an official new best friend: BALLET" -- which was true, plus I know I could be an insufferable know-it-all as well as boring and self-absorbed. 

But hey, we were teenagers, so self-absorption comes with the territory, and as was apparent from these archival documents, we were both jealous as hell of positively everyone else, including each other.  And my own diaries, by the way, bear this up as well; I spent a tremendous amount of time worrying that Allison had changed -- meaning that she had DARED to find friends other than me since I was always at BALLET -- and thinking that I deserved things that she had (usually attention of some kind), and generally being a total ass. 

God, I would not accept ANY amount of money to go back and be a teenager.  But I do love that we documented so much of our tortured existence, because it SURE is funny to go back and look at now.  And also, it makes me all the more appreciative that Allison and I stuck through all the rough times and stayed friends, and now even though we live (WAY TOO FAR) apart, our friendship is one of the best things I will ever have in my life. 

On Sunday, I had an easy trip home, and I came back to find a pile of cards from friends and family, an exhausted husband who went out into the hot afternoon to get me some birthday cupcakes, and a bright-eyed toddler who shrieked with delight as we played hide-and-seek over and over again.

And I didn't even have to make a birthday wish, because I already have so much more than I could ever ask for.

Good Times

It's been a good week so far. 

Last Sunday, when Joe and I sat down to dinner after putting the sprout to bed with her armful of stuffed animals and dolls, Joe took a sip of beer and then casually remarked that he was going to have to figure out what to do with Felicity next weekend.  It took a second for me to realize what he said, and I think my response was something like, "Huh?"  And he said, "Because you're not going to be here.  You...are going on a girls' spa weekend with Allison." 

Kuh-WHA? 

On Friday (that's TOMORROW!), I'm heading down to Charlotte, thanks to Joe's careful planning and conspiring, and Allison and I are going to spend the weekend lolling about and lounging by the pool and getting massages at a resort/hotel/spa and running in a 5K on Saturday (we are hardcore like that).  And obviously we will be gabbing our fool FACES off, because we have not hung out, just the two of us, since...well, I think since before Maggie came home, so we're talking August 2006.  FIVE YEARS.  We've spent lots of time together in the interim with our husbands and kids, and that has all been Very Good Stuff, but there's still a lot to be said for having one-on-one time with your best friend since first grade. 

Oh my God, you guys.  I just realized that this month it will be THIRTY YEARS since Allison and I met. 

Shit, I am old.

So, anyway, that was a great way to kick off the week, and then on Tuesday I had an exciting win in one of my pro bono cases, and to top THAT off, on my way to the subway from our little victory party near the courthouse, a random dude on the street complimented me on my shoes (and not in a creepy way, just with a breezy "Great shoes!" as he passed by). 

Plus, I got a card in the mail from Starbucks for a free drink!  It's the little things, really, that thrill me the most, because I was actually TOUCHED that Starbucks would celebrate my birthday with me in this way.  Yes, I need to get out more.

Today the week promises to take a brief downturn, as I'm going to the dentist for a chipped tooth and a belated cleaning, and I just KNOW that I am going to end up having to have some kind of gum procedure, because that is how things go for me.  If I get my teeth cleaned every three months (!) and floss like a crazy person, I can MAYBE avoid the dreaded scaling and root-planing or whatever the eff it's called; but if I end up going a mere five months between visits, invariably there is some area of my mouth that needs rehabilitation and it SUCKS.  Oh, it SUCKS.  I end up having it at least once a year, and it's dreadful.  I just have bad gums, it seems; it's a genetic thing, not much to be done except LIVE at the dentist's office. 

Nevertheless!  That is but a small price to pay for the weekend o' fun that awaits.  And while I'm going to miss my little family like mad (Felicity is so stinkin' FUN), I am incredibly excited about going through airport security with just my own body and bags to deal with, and then sitting on a flight and reading my Kindle for a long, uninterrupted stretch, and then seeing Allison for 48 whole hours.  And when I come home, there will be dinner and birthday cake, and right about now I don't even care that I'm turning 36 on Sunday, because where else would I want to be than right here, right now?

The Good Life

Nantucket is one of those places that just fits me; it gives me a feeling of, "Yes.  Here." 

I first went to the island the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, for a cousin's wedding that involved five days of clambakes, cocktail parties and bachelor/bachelorette shenanigans, and culminated in a spectacular celebration on a bluff overlooking the beach in 'Sconset.  The next time I went was with Joe in 2003, over Easter weekend a couple of months before our wedding.  It was cold and gray, but we biked from Town out to Madaket and had brunch in a deserted Arno's on Main Street and wrote our wedding vows in a low-ceilinged B&B room that looked like it had been hosed down with cabbage roses. 

Summer there is my kind of summer -- misty mornings, warm days, sweatshirt nights.  Usually, beaches and I have trouble getting along; I don't do well in hot, humid conditions and I get rashes from the sun (I am a delicate flower), but the New England beach climate is ideal for my sun-fearing Northern European constitution.  I can sit out for hours (under an umbrella, of course) and not break out in hives or faint from heat stroke.  The ocean is cold, yes, but after a few days you don't mind the chill; it feels invigorating and thrilling to feel the surf pound around you.  And if you have a pool at your rental house, all the better -- you can take a dip without fear of ocean life (Joe saw a SEAL in the water one morning!) or hypothermia. 

I also love the weathered-shingle aesthetic of the houses, and the explosions of color in gardens tucked around gray cottages, and the prevalence of red, white and blue flying in front of houses and draped in buntings on picket fences.  Plus, I'm a sucker for the classic New England village skyline, punctuated by pristine white steeples. 

Felicity loved Nantucket, too.  She had so much space to putter around in at the house that she almost seemed confused by the wide-open floorplan and the sun streaming in every window.  She adored the backyard, especially the back-door and porch steps that she wanted to climb and descend about 1000 times a day.  She also explored the little secret garden path past the yard, flocked by daisies and honeysuckle and feathery stalks that my mom taught her to use to tickle people's noses.

She was initially skeptical about the beach; we would carry her toward the water to show her the waves and she would say, "All done!"  She did enjoy sitting on a towel or on our laps and playing with her baby doll, though, and by the end of the week she actually ran down the sand to the edge of the surf.  If we'd stayed longer, she would have gone plunging into the water on her own, I'm certain.

And, oh, she had so much fun with her Grammie and Granddad (and I had so much fun watching them together).  She thrived on having so many people's full attention for a week, and she was absolutely mesmerized by my mom's repertoire of children's songs. 

The second or third day we were there, she was walking in the backyard with my mom and said, "Hand!" and reached up for her. 

She called my dad "Dada Dada", as distinct from Dada, and was content to jabber at him with the apparent assumption that he knew exactly what she was saying.

We also had some midweek visitors, who were generous enough to haul over on the ferry with the world's heaviest Pack-n-Play for an overnight stay with us.  Sam, I should tell you, is child-star beautiful and so much fun.  Felicity thought she was the coolest person in the world; she followed Sam around saying, "Sham!  Sham!" and the next morning before Sam and Jonna came upstairs she wandered around looking for them, calling, "Sham! Sham!"  The girls danced and played in the backyard and we had a morning trip to the beach that was somewhat abortive but still a hoot, and Jonna and I packed as much chatter into their visit as we could.  As with my parents and several other far-flung friends, I will never know why they don't live next door to us, but I hope we can continue to steal time together whenever we happen to be in each other's neck of the woods. 

We biked and beach-combed and swam and explored and shopped and grilled and drank and played, and by the end of the day all of us were worn out.  We were up with the sun each morning and ready to crash by 9:30 each night.  But it was a good kind of tired. 

Admittedly, our arrival that first day was a little rough, with an absurdly long wait for our bags and a VERY tired toddler and bad Google Maps directions, but once we arrived at the house and Felicity was able to collapse in her rented crib for a few hours, everything fell into place.  By Friday, I was desperately wishing we'd booked two weeks instead of one -- we were just hitting our stride, it seemed, and getting into our Vacation Routine, and then it was time to say goodbye. 

But we have next year, and the year after that, and on and on into the future.  Yes.  Here. 

Escape with the Mom Posse

This past weekend, I left Joe and Felicity to their own devices and headed upstate with a gaggle of Mamas for an overnight spa retreat. 

As it turns out, my husband and child do not require my presence for the world to continue its rotation, which is somehow almost as deflating as it is comforting (you mean you DON'T need me to direct your every move?  Then what could possibly be my purpose on this Earth??).  Not only that, but I think Felicity was a tiny bit disappointed to see me upon my return.  Even at fifteen months, she has caught onto the fact that Daddy is the Purveyor of Fun, while Mommy is the Hammer of Enforcement. 

The amusing thing is that six other toddlers within a ten-block radius were having the same weekend o' fun with their permissive, doting fathers, while my Mom Posse and I (we've known each other since our wee ones were around two months old, when we all randomly joined a neighborhood first-time moms' group and became fast friends) jaunted about the Catskills sans cell service.  So much for criticizing diapering skills and food choices fulfilling our co-parenting duties via text message; we actually had to pick up the room phones and DIAL HOME to get in touch.  Which was fine, since anything more would have interfered with all the spa-going, bathrobe-lounging, wine drinking and mom-bonding, not to mention the sleeping past NINE AM on Sunday.  In short: ahhhhhhh.

For my spa treatment, I got a facial that also included a head, foot and arm massage.  It's been two years since I had a facial, and since I have been feeling extra-craggy lately I thought it was time to excavate my pores and wrinkles a bit.  While facials are not really the most relaxing item on the spa menu (what with the lighted magnifying glass and all the squeezing), I could still become quasi-comatose in one, given the right conditions.  OR, I could end up in a 75-minute chat-fest with the facialist. 

I am, to no one's surprise, highly conflicted about how to approach Spa Conversation.  Usually, I find that the facialist or masseuse opens with some discussion of the treatment and perhaps some chitchat about where I'm from/what I do and then things taper off as they get down to business.  With facials, though, often they offer commentary about my skin and talk about what products they're using (which are generally available for purchase afterward, and because I suffer from some kind of Spa-Goer's Guilt, I always end up hauling all of them away for some astronomical sum, lest the spa people consider me cheap or fail to garner a commission or WHATEVER), and sometimes this includes personal conversation as well. 

Now, some people I know will actually say, flat-out, "I'm just going to zone out, if you don't mind," or something to that effect, but I CANNOT DO THAT.  I don't want to offend anyone, and if I said that I would NEVER be able to relax, because I would lay there sweating over whether the spa person thought I was a giant asshole.  Even though that's a COMPLETELY acceptable and polite thing to say, and I bet the facialist just as often as not would prefer not to have to make small talk, EITHER.  But still.  I HAVE ANXIETY about this.  So I don't make any requests -- the treatment table could be ON FIRE, and I would be like, "No, this is super comfy!" -- and I follow the other person's lead on the conversation front.  And honestly, I really DON'T have a preference; I am game for talking or game for lying there, I just don't want to be the one expected to make a decision about which one to do.

So anyway, long story short, despite my initial paralyzing fear of Whether to Talk, I ended up having a lot of fun chatting with my facialist, and I found it energizing to delve into her life a bit and give a bunch of unsolicited advice while getting my head rubbed and my pores scrubbed, instead of lying there like a corpse as I might otherwise have done (in which case undoubtedly I would have obsessed over whether I should start some conversation -- you can see by now that it's a wonder I ever manage to leave the house).  I also did not mind that she told me I looked like I was in my 20s (ha ha HA!  the lighting was VERY dim) and said I had gorgeous skin (thank you, Noxema, Aveeno and benign neglect!).  AND, she didn't say one word about products, so I left without a suitcase full of creams and masks. 

I think I may need to call in a few days to see how she's doing. 

It bears mentioning that my mommies (as Joe calls them) are awesome.  I have known for over a year -- through our playdates and moms' nights out and occasional spouses-included events -- that they were My People, but it became all the more clear how perfectly matched we all are when I realized on Saturday that, in the zillion emails we exchanged to coordinate this retreat, not one of us asked what anyone else would be wearing.  Not that there is anything wrong with consulting on what to wear (I almost sent that very email myself as I was packing, about five minutes before I walked out the door), but somehow it didn't occur to any of us to discuss wardrobe.  And, at every meal, we ate like lumberjacks, ordering extra manhole-sized pancakes and sides of bacon and cheese grits for the table.  We are a No Judgment kind of crowd. 

After the brief time away, I came home feeling refreshed and happy and oh-so-lucky to have such friends and such support, and of course even luckier to have my two favorite smiling faces waiting for me.

Lived to Tell

To kill the suspense, I will go ahead and tell you that Joe and I managed to survive our first trip without the baby.  As with most things, the anticipation was much worse than the reality.  A few days before we left, I was awash in anxiety, certain that the building would burn down in our absence or a babynapper would steal Felicity as a cosmic retribution for our weekend of childless jollies.  Fortunately, the universe is less concerned with our travel plans than I thought, and we emerged (mostly) unscathed from our weekend in Chicago. 

I teared up a little as we walked out the door (it didn't help that Felicity was crying in her crib, resisting her morning nap -- she knew something was up), but by the time we got to the airport and I purchased a nice, fat magazine and a cinnamon roll for the flight, I was fine.  Turns out it's pretty fun to hang out with your husband and his college friends, and visit some of your favorite law school friends, all by your adult self.  And then to sleep in til almost 9 (Central time!  ALMOST TEN EASTERN TIME!). 

We didn't have time for much sight-seeing since we had events to attend, but that was fine by me.  We kicked things off the first evening with delicious cocktails at our hotel bar (have you HAD a French 75?  Heather B. is right on the money -- that is some awesomeness in a glass right there), and from there our socializing proceeded apace.  It was quite the whirlwind of activity, considering we were there for less than 48 hours. 

Since Joe and I started out as coworkers, then friends, and then started dating all on-the-sly-like, I didn't have many opportunities to meet his friends until after the deal was pretty much already sealed.  But over the years as I've gotten to know his people, I have been -- without exception -- thrilled to find that they are MY people, too.  I don't mean that they like me just by association; I've never once felt like his friends were pleasant to me simply because they want to spend time with my husband.  Rather, every one of them, from every part of his life, has embraced me as if I were somehow a part of their shared history, too.  And we all just FIT together -- I would be as comfortable going by myself to hang out with any of his friends as I would with my own. 

Maybe this is how most relationships are, but I had not experienced that before -- certainly not to this degree.  I definitely have met people through friends or boyfriends with whom I formed independent friendships, but I've also been in relationships in which I felt merely tolerated as The Girlfriend, included only in name and treated as a hanger-on or, worse, an interloper.  I've also had the experience of being baffled by someone's friends -- of meeting people my significant other cared about and finding zero common ground with them (and then wondering, if you like this person, how in the world can you like me??).  So it is a relief and a distinct pleasure to find so many new, wonderful people who aren't just his-or-hers friends, but OUR friends, even if they've just met me five minutes ago, and he's known them since freshman year. 

It's incredibly sweet to see your husband through the lens of friends who've known him since he had a flat-top and wore knock-off Sebagos.  So many people came up to me and said, "You married the BEST guy!" or "I had such a crush on him!" or "He was the greatest friend to all of the girls in our dorm!"  And of course, I know that he's the best guy and totally crush-worthy and the greatest friend a girl could ever want, but it's fun to hear it from others, too -- to hear that even at 18 he was fundamentally the same sweet, smart, funny guy that I adore to the ends of the earth today. 

Plus, it was nice to spend time with him, just us two.  I mean, HELLO CAPTAIN OBVIOUS, but it's so easy to forget when you enjoy your kid and feel like you don't spend enough time with her as it is and think you should use every weekend moment to be together as a family.  That's good stuff, too, of course.  But so is staying in a sweet hotel, eating a ninety dollar breakfast (I swear, all we had was EGGS AND SMOOTHIES) and being asked by a waiter if you'd "tied one on" the night before.   

Chicago, you are good people.  We will most definitely be back soon.

Details, Details

I apologize in advance for YET ANOTHER pregnancy-related post, but you know -- kind of a big deal and all (see also: not much else going on except work, geh), and I realized the other day that I could already barely remember what the early weeks were like (we're at Week 15, y'all -- less than six months to go!) so I figured I'd better write about it, lest this crucial information be LOST FOREVER. 

Like most women who start trying to get pregnant, from the moment I tossed out my Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo, I started obsessively analyzing every twinge and burble and pang that my body had to offer.  I also spent a tremendous amount of time Googling "early pregnancy symptoms" and "lower abdomen pain hot cramp 9dpo" and the like, which takes you right into the heart of the madness that is the TTC world of the Internet (back away slowly, slooooowly).  I even started keeping a log during the two-week wait so I could at least compare what happened from month to month and see if I could discern a pattern. 

As it turned out, I wasn't entirely crazy, because the month It Happened, I did indeed have oddly specific and unique symptoms -- a swollen lymph node under my arm (evidently this is related to the immune system backing the heck off so as not to reject the embryo), sharp pangs in my lady area (implantation!), crampiness after I peed or exercised, hot flashes, a smattering of pimples across the top of my back, bloating, mood swings, intense hunger, heightened senses (aside from the bionic sense of smell, everything I ate tasted AMAZING and, I kid you not, my eyesight became sharper), dreams about pregnancy and babies (and EVERY dream I have had, and there have been MANY, has been about a baby girl, by the way -- hmmm) and, um, a lot of gas (sexy!). 

Once we knew that MVM was, in fact, In the House, the crampiness and bloating and gassiness escalated, and the carnival of new symptoms began.  Mostly it was the fatigue -- oh, MAN, was I tired, almost to the point of hallucination -- which ramped up around Week 6 and bludgeoned me until about Week 12; it's so much better now, although still at any given time if given the opportunity I could drop off into an hour-long nap.  (I'm great at parties these days.)  There was also the Yuck, which as I've mentioned wasn't full-on nausea for the most part (and, OH, am I grateful for that), but it was like at all times I'd just gotten out of an un-air-conditioned cab ride where the driver was weaving all over the place and starting and stopping abruptly and wearing pounds of Axe Body Spray.  Unsettled, is the best way to describe it. 

And by the way, let us remember that I had to SHOWER AT THE GYM every day during those early weeks, thanks to our dang retiling project, and BLARGH, the mere thought of the toothpaste-like scent of the gym's shampoo and body wash gives me The Yuck, even now.  Although I have to admit, the (forced) exercise seemed to help lessen the less pleasant symptoms, including The Yuck.  So, yeah, the exercise relieved The Yuck and the showering at the gym brought it back. 

I never had especially severe mood swings or increased teariness, and still don't.  If anything, I'm on a more even keel now than I was before.  For the most part, I'm not a wildly moody person, but after I went off the pill?  DUDE.  I became a BASKETCASE.  It was unreal.  I felt out of control and unbearably sad and it was the weirdest thing.  Intellectually, I knew it was probably my hormones readjusting after 12 years of being...suppressed or artificially supplemented or...whatever, but at the same time, I couldn't control it in the slightest.  I mean, we were also mourning the HORROR of the failed adoption, so it's not like I didn't have a perfectly valid reason to be a disaster, but this was really extreme and I felt kind of unglued and kind of terrified that I might always be that way.  It turns out lots of people have this reaction, but no one had ever warned me it might happen so I was unprepared for the violence of it. 

But!  Happy ending!  Now I'm a level-headed pregnant lady (although I will admit to having the occasional bout of snappishness, especially in the afternoon when people want me to get shit done and what I really want is to be NAPPING, PEOPLE). 

What else?  OH, yeah.  Pregnancy brain.  Definitely a real thing.  I would forget my butt if it were not attached to my body.  In fact, right this moment I'm trying to remember what other thrilling pregnancy details I wanted to share with you, and I'm drawing a complete blank.  (Not that you haven't had PLENTY of this by now, jeez). 

OH, oh, oh.  The other thing was that, even though my symptoms were pretty mild, if they decreased on any given day, I flew into an instant PANIC because of course I thought that meant something awful had happened.  For a few hours, I'd be frantic and filled with dread, and then The Yuck would return, and I'd mentally celebrate as I swigged ginger ale and munched on Saltines.  Hooray for The Yuck! 

That pretty much brings us up to date on the gory details.  

Another thing I should mention is that not only is Joe positively ECSTATIC about this baby, but he's been a fantastic support for me on this wild ride -- I mean, I fully expect that any partner of a pregnant woman should bend over backwards for her, but he exceeds even my already demanding standards.  He's been taking care of way more than his usual share of household stuff while I've been tired or out of it; he's dashed out countless times, day and night, to get me ginger ale or Gatorade; he makes sure I'm staying fully hydrated and well-rested; he (of course) has come to every doctor's appointment and participated with great enthusiasm, asking questions and getting all giddy at the ultrasounds; he massages my stinky feet; he's read everything in sight about pregnancy and newborns; he's gone shopping for maternity clothes with me; and he has stayed calm and upbeat even when I was JUST SURE that something was wrong and all was woe. 

It's funny, I always thought that pregnancy would be sort of isolating, that it would make me feel resentful that the guy doesn't have to go through ANY of this and I have to SUFFER THROUGH IT ALL; but it hasn't been like that at all.  Quite the opposite.  It feels like we're in this together, that this is our little collaboration, our project; we just have different roles and responsibilities.  We're a team, like we've always been and like we promised to be in our wedding vows -- now more so than ever, and that's only going to increase as we go forward and as we get to experience parenthood.  I mean, we're creating a new person together, one who's never existed before, and that's...man.  That's something. 

I'm so damned lucky. 

Boys and Girls

We spent the past four days in Georgia for a mini-family reunion, and I used the majority of that time to huff the intoxicating baby head smell of my niece, who is three months old and insanely adorable, with perfectly round cheeks and pillowy thigh rolls and an ecstatic smile that bursts forth with a full-body wriggle at regular intervals.  Needless to say, when my brother and his family were piling into the airport limo this morning, I almost created a diversion so that Joe could grab her car seat and run for the hills.  (It's barely twelve hours later now, and I am jonesing for that scent like crazy.)

We also got to relive some childhood memories with my bright and funny and sweet 3-year old nephew, as my mom had bought some classic Fisher Price toys -- the airport, the village -- and a Lite Brite (now battery-operated and in flatscreen!).  I think we may have had even more fun than he did playing with the jumbo jet and the mail truck and the little wooden people with the plastic heads (the bald guy in green, the baby with the lacy collar, the curvy blonde woman with the blue dress). 

In addition to lots of family time and a trip to the beauty parlor for a much-needed haircut and some gossip, we got to have an after-hours ultrasound at the office of a family friend who is an OB/GYN there in town and had offered to give my parents their first live peek at their next grandchild.  I was, of course, game, since I jump at any opportunity to see MVM, and I thought it would be cool for my parents since they didn't have such high-tech options back in the 70s when they were reproducing. 

It turned out to be the coolest one so far, because it was long and unhurried and MVM was really active.  The kid was stretching his/her (long) legs (now with visible bones -- the kneecaps looked like they were glowing) into the outer corner of my uterus and waving his/her arms and sucking his/her thumb.  We counted limbs (four!) and fingers and toes (ten and ten!) and saw a spinal cord and even a (full) bladder. 

Naturally, we asked if the doctor could see The Goods, and after trying a bunch of times to get a glory shot, as it were, he peered and contemplated and said he would write down what he thinks we're having.  He said we should wait until the 20-week anatomy scan to open it (yeah, right) and that we should keep in mind that it's quite early (we know, we know) and he didn't get the right angle (shy baby!) AND that he would put his confidence for this guess at 50-50 (so...right where we were before).

We pored over the pictures he'd printed out and thought...hmmm.  Is that...do you see...gosh, that looks like something...dangling out in space there.  Right?  Maybe?  You think?  And when we all piled back into the car, Joe looked at the stapled-up note and said, "He wrote down 'boy'!"

Now, y'all, I KNOW it's early (I was 14 weeks, one day at the time) and half the time I can't tell WHAT is going on in an u/s picture, so who the heck knows -- I'm not banking on this by any means, and we won't be buying any remotely gender-specific baby things until after an Official Confirmation at the 20-week ultrasound.  But still, it's fun to mull over.  I've thought since the very beginning that there was a wee guy in there and, I don't know, even before we knew I was pregnant, I figured we'd have a boy.  Maybe it's because we went through so much in our (failed) quest to adopt a girl and this new (ad)venture is such a total reversal of how we thought we'd start our family that it makes sense that we'd have a boy.  Or maybe it's because we have a truckload of girl clothes in our nursery, so of course we'd have a boy and need to start the wardrobe over (not that I object to a Big! Shopping! Spree!, especially when sailor suits and tiny overalls and engineers' caps are involved).  Or...I don't know.  I just kind of felt like that's what would happen.

And truly, it should go without saying that I am beyond thrilled either way.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY.  We want to be parents; we want a baby; we want THIS baby.  We're not picky about What It Is.  It's going to be a complete blast either way.  (Again:  DUH.)  I've figured out by now that the universe tends to unfold in the way it should (thank you, Harold and Kumar), so this baby is going to be exactly the baby we need.  And baby head smell is not gender-specific, so it's a total win-win regardless. 

The Part of My Summer I Didn't Tell You About

Back over the Fourth of July, as you may recall, we went to Chicago.  And after we got back, I was met at our front door one morning by a crow.  When I wrote about it, amandam commented that crows are a harbinger of change, signaling the death of one thing giving way to the birth of another.  Kathy similarly noted that crows "give us the message that there is magic alive in our world and this magic is ours to use and create a new world for ourselves with."  

Well!  Well, well, well.  

Exactly one week after the crow encounter (can you see where this is going?  not so subtle, I realize), we found out I was pregnant.  It wasn't, like, a "whoops, how'd that happen?" kind of surprise, but it was still a surprise in its own way, since given everything we'd been through with the (Non)Adoption From Hell (which ended, once and for all, in late February) we were a bit in the place of COME ON ALREADY even though this venture hadn't been going for that long, relatively speaking.  

So naturally there was much rejoicing, which quickly gave way to much worrying, because God knows after falling in love with two babies halfway across the world and not getting to bring them home, you start to be a little gun-shy about anything related to babies whatsoever.  (I should clarify that the worrying was pretty much all on my end; Joe was ecstatic from the get-go and not terribly concerned that DOOM WAS NIGH like I was.) 

But on my birthday, we saw the little smudge for the first time and we witnessed the wee-tiny heart galloping away in there, and then a few weeks later we saw a little snowman-baby with little nubbly flapper-arms and a slightly bigger heart still galloping away in there, and THEN last week we saw an almost human-looking baby on a big screen with a phantom hand and a button nose -- and a heart galloping away at a solid 153 beats per minute (it was partying in there, too, jumping all around and sliding about like it was in a ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese).  While I can't say I'm TOTALLY relaxed at this point, I am feeling much less FRAUGHT than I was up to now.  Like this might actually happen.  (KNOCK ON MUCH WOOD.) 

I'm also feeling like kind of an idiot, because pregnancy for me has not been nearly the ride through Hades that I had always feared it would be (not that that was THE reason we pursued adoption first, of course, but it was there in my mind -- my whole life I have dreaded pregnancy like one might dread being attacked by rabid bats...sigh, all that wasted energy).  Dude, I could have done this YEARS ago.  We could be on kid number FIVE by now!  Durr. 

I have escaped most of the first trimester woes, having the occasional woozy moment or bit of nausea, but I've only thrown up once (ONCE!) and that was because I didn't eat immediately after taking my prenatal vitamin.  I have had a lot of fatigue, to the point where sleeping while standing up on a crowded subway train seemed like a viable option and accomplishing any high-level cognitive functions between the hours of 3 and 5pm became a life-threateningly arduous task, along the lines of summiting Everest.  And my body temperature is all weird -- I'm freezing one minute, gasping for air in sweaty panic the next.  But other than that, things have been fine, really fine.  Fun, even!  It's like an adventure every morning to wake up and see what's going to happen yet.  Plus, the milestones!  There are appointments and weeks to cross off the calendar and things, like, progress as time passes.  It's quite thrilling. 

I have had some food cravings and aversions; for the first week or two after we found out, I was obsessed with cherries, even though I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've eaten them prior to getting pregnant, while, on the other hand, chicken has become absolutely abhorrent to me.  Don't even mention it to me.  Well, actually, if it's in nugget or patty form, it's acceptable; but the thought of preparing and eating a chicken breast -- or, oh god, coming into contact with chicken ON THE BONE --makes me want to throw myself off a bridge.  Between that and the affinity for ginger ale and crackers and the overriding general preference for starchy, bland food, my palate has been reduced to that of a fussy two-year-old. 

At work, I've been looking like Maude, what with the billowy cardigans and oversized handbags strategically placed to cover the belly that seemed to pop around week six and continued to grow ever since.  I don't know if it's my build or what, but this thing seems to be an overachiever; it may soon have its own gravity field.  I just read about some super-skinny soap star who didn't tell her coworkers until she was FIVE MONTHS along, and I was all, DUDE.  I figured the office rumor mill was spinning the first week I knew I was pregnant.  Who are these people?  I know, we're all unique pregnancy snowflakes (TM Jonna), but it is duly noted that I am not one of those tiny women with a mosquito bite-sized bump that still fits into regular clothes for half the pregnancy.  Ho!  No.  I'm in maternity pants, baby, and I am loving every minute of it.  Do you know how COMFORTABLE this stuff is?  Elastic waistbands and roomy hip/seat areas!  I may never go back to regular clothing. 

Anyway!  So that's the news around here.  I told you we save our excitement for September.

I'm 12 and a half weeks, due March 26.  An Aries baby (assuming the due date holds any water, which I know it really doesn't -- the doctor said it could be three weeks before or two weeks after the due date, which seems...well, rather hazy, but still definite enough for my taste, all things considered) and a summer strolling in Central Park with a little guy or gal.  For now, the bean is known as MVM -- Magnus von Magnuson, the World's Strongest Embryo (now the World's Strongest Fetus, actually).  Given his or her superhero paternal parentage (have you seen my husband's arms?), and his/her tenacity thus far, we thought it appropriate. 

Hot damn, we're excited.  We're having a baby, y'all! 

Five Years

You've probably gathered by now that I'm a bit of a sentimental fool, and also that I'm something of a crier, that things like lost luggageand shelter dog commercialsand Olympic human interest storiescan set off one of my puffy-eyed snuffle-fests.  And yet, I've been surprised by the times that I haven't cried, times I was sure I'd end up looking like a wet dishrag but instead turned out to be a dry-eyed bundle of sunshine. 

Our wedding day was one -- for years, even before I knew who my groom would be, I had a hazy vision of myself in a white dress, floating down a long aisle, and the thought of such a momentous occasion, and all the emotions it would bring and all that it would represent, moved me to tears.  And when I was actually engaged and the date loomed in the future -- June 14, 2003, to be exact -- I fretted over the thought of ruining all my wedding pictures by having red, swollen eyes, how I would mess up my professional makeup and ultimately seem a little foolish for all the waterworks. 

When the day arrived, though, with its buzz of activity and clamor of family and friends, I was calm and collected.  I laughed with my mom and my girlfriends as we got our hair and makeup done; I made sure to eat and drink enough so as not to have a fainting incident at the altar; and even when my dad saw me for the first time, all brided up, I held it together. 

Once we were at the church, I got annoyed that the boutennieres weren't what I wanted and I stressed over whether to pee before the ceremony (I did, with at least three girls to help hold my loooong train and veil up and out of the way of the toilet) and I ducked nervously behind a table to keep the groom from catching a glimpse of me in my bridal ante room and I worried momentarily that my bridesmaids (and man of honor) would be caught in the rain as we sprinted from the rectory to the back of the sanctuary, just in time for the sky to open up with a boom of thunder as we heard the opening strains of the processional beginning.

There just wasn't a lot of time for crying.  And then, after the bridal party had headed down the aisle and I stood under the arches of the nave, waiting for the verger to open the double doors for my grand entrance, when it was just my dad and me sharing a moment we'd both imagined countless times before, I felt nothing but pride and love and astonishment that it was all really happening.  I didn't cry then, and I didn't cry when the doors opened or when my music (Tchaikovsky's Serenade in C) began or when I saw the faces of so many people I loved, from every part of my life, collected under one roof.  I didn't cry when I got up to the front of the aisle and my dad did the hand-off, or when I held J's hands for the first time and we stared at each other in awe, or when we exchanged the vows we'd written and were declared man and wife.

Ok, fine, I DID tear up when my friend did a reading, but that was because SHE started crying, and I couldn't very well just sit there and let her cry alone, could I?  And then I DID cry when my new husband and I made it to the nave together, as man and wife, and we hugged each other as the rain poured down outside and a crowd gathered in front of the Swedish Fish truck -- which was parked, inexplicably, in front of the church, something I hadn't seen before and haven't seen since -- and all the passersby applauded us and the church bells rang out into the downpour. 
 

The rest of the day was sheer exuberance, from the ride in the antique Packard with glasses of Champagne and a horn that honked "Here Comes the Bride" (it was not a low-profile way to travel) to the brilliant toasts given by my dad, my brother and my man of honor to the hours and hours of dancing (our DJ ruled).  It was the kind of day that leaves you breathless at how fast it went, and as it goes you have to keep telling yourself to remember all the little moments but not to hold on to them too tightly, because over the years they'll fade but the imprints of emotion that they leave behind will still be precious to you forever.

Of course every day can't be as thrilling as all of that, but what followed it -- and what lies ahead -- is every bit as wonderful.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that, as of the moment that we were pronounced husband and wife, everything changed.  The two of us knew well before June 14, 2003, that we would be together forever, that we would do anything for each other; but all the love and intention in the world was no equal to being joined together by vows, blessings and law. 

We felt different immediately; it was as if a huge unknown had been made known, or a previously unsettled, uncertain question had been answered.  That part of our lives in which we were two single, separate people -- however much we adored each other and planned to make it all work as a couple -- was over.  Our fate was decided, sealed and endorsed by all of our loved ones and by God. 

Of course marriage takes work, and there can be trying times and so on and so forth; I'm no Pollyanna about these things.  But for us, the level of security that came from being married was unparalleled in our lives.  It felt different to be together, and it felt different to be out in the world, knowing that we had an avowed partner, teammate and best friend for life.  It is something that gives me tremendous comfort to this day, and I imagine it will forever -- he's in my corner, and I'm in his, and we're taking this walk together through the world, side by side.  And that brings tears of joy to my eyes. 

(Photo set on Flickr.)

You Can Go Home Again

I'm back!  It was a great weekend in ye olde hometowne, though too short as always.  And!  We've raised enough for three playgrounds.  Just two more to go, y'all.  Two more!  $2,500 more will get us to our goal.  I am beyond thrilled at how well we've done in such a short time -- with the help of you awesome, awesome people.   

Thanks for the linky love and the donations -- I am touched and humbled by your generosity.  Handwritten thank you notes are on the way (my mama raised me right!). 

Also on the way will be a full weekend recap, avec les photos (courtesy of my mom, since I whiffed on bringing my camera, and then carried one of hers around to the walk and the exhibit, but failed to take more than a couple of hasty, blurry shots).  You can also look forward to the usual post-hometown visit existential dilemma:  who am I?  What should I be doing, and where do I want to be doing it?  And how does my Southern accent come back within thirty seconds of my arrival at the Atlanta airport?  (Seriously.  I have a DRAWL all of a sudden.)

Incidentally, this week will be the six month mark of our wait for a referral.  The time has flown by, really flown., in an almost eerie way.  This fundraising project definitely helped (and will continue to help, as we work to close the gap to reach our goal), and now I feel more connected than ever to Vietnam and to our child and to the hundreds of children who will be left behind, but whose lives are about to get just a little bit better. 

Now I'm off to bed, to dream of see-saws and children's smiles and the little baby girl in Vietnam who remains unrevealed to us, but whose face we hope to see within the next two months.  We're getting so close.  I can't wait.