tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20932080596462956562024-02-20T04:16:27.908-08:00Babe(s) and the BeastB&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-24643925534579257502011-06-20T16:09:00.000-07:002011-06-20T16:19:58.095-07:00Contact!Things have been, well, busy around here. Business trips for Zach (to tropical destination islands, AHEM), visiting family in Washington with Louie, preparing for the our big move, which I alternately block out of my mind and go on crazy preparation frenzies. <div><br /></div><div>Addie turned two the last time I posted. Since then, we found out Pops has ALS which has become a daily reminder to not be stupid and ungrateful for life and it's trivial annoyances. I try to start every day with a clean slate and try not to beat myself up for the stumbles and occasional bouts of laziness...letting the kids watch (too much) TV, ordering pizza for the third time in a week, giving in and arranging for a day or two of half-days at a home day-care so I can have a little me-time. Overspending on clothes I have no business buying. Sigh. Moving on!</div><div><br /></div><div>Just going to try getting back into the groove of posting. We'll see. No pressure. </div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-14370126982480178292011-04-01T12:22:00.000-07:002011-04-01T12:25:52.820-07:00bathtime, japan-stylee<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ntkDKYHYcA/TZYmoXfTF_I/AAAAAAAAAdo/n-wE7JxkiM4/s1600/BabyA%2B1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ntkDKYHYcA/TZYmoXfTF_I/AAAAAAAAAdo/n-wE7JxkiM4/s400/BabyA%2B1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590698462368962546" /></a><br />The Japanese take their bathing very seriously. Even in a studio apartment with a postage stamp-sized bathroom, there will be a tub that you can soak in with the water up to your shoulders. It's awesome, and I wish I could have one built like that when/if we ever buy a house. <div><br /></div><div>Photo came to me recently from a family friend and it made me smile. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-9558097211899420782011-03-30T22:58:00.001-07:002011-06-20T16:20:51.653-07:00a new chapterI haven't written here in a long time...since Addie's birthday back in December. There have been a lot of new changes in our lives. Correction: unexpected news in our lives. <div><br /></div><div>The day I found out my dad was diagnosed with ALS, we had gone to a little boy's birthday party at a park in the afternoon. It was a spontaneous party where everything turned out absolutely perfect in a way it wouldn't have if it was planned ahead of time. The weather was gorgeous--the air was warm with the faintest cool breeze, and it was that golden time of the afternoon where the sun was just sinking into the hills. We blew bubbles and the kids squealed and chased them around on the grass, faces covered in chocolate cake. I had a moment of pure contentment seeing such unfiltered joy. We drove home happy and tired. </div><div><br /></div><div>My dad called me...was it on the phone, or did he catch me on Skype? I told him about the day we had and then the subject somehow veered into health insurance, life insurance. Making sure we were prepared for all cases considering we had children. </div><div><br /></div><div>He told me that his oncologist recently informed him he was free of cancer, one year after his surgery to remove it. I gave a little cheer, which he interrupted with, </div><div><br /></div><div>"...and I saw a neurologist a week later and I have ALS."</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't finish the rest of the conversation because I will start crying again. I didn't know what ALS was. Now I do and I wish I didn't. Or I wish I knew what it was in general, but not for this reason. </div><div><br /></div><div>This really, really, really sucks. And then some. </div><div><br /></div><div>I vacillate between feeling calm and accepting, to overwhelmed and terrified, to devastated and angry, to strong and grateful. Grateful because there is not a single time or event in our relationship that I regret or feel badly about or wish we had done things differently. That I know the man my father is, and I have been crazy lucky to have experienced an idyllic childhood with a strong, supportive, eternally-optimistic, goofy, a million-other-positive-adjectives father. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's all I want to write about now. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-56593648310399764342010-12-27T22:46:00.000-08:002010-12-28T16:48:34.179-08:00two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYQhOeyKI/AAAAAAAAAdU/EKId53b2FR8/s1600/DSC_0108.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYQhOeyKI/AAAAAAAAAdU/EKId53b2FR8/s400/DSC_0108.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555639024902654114" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYQXaTgyI/AAAAAAAAAdM/l9U3N95lhyo/s1600/IMG_0395.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYQXaTgyI/AAAAAAAAAdM/l9U3N95lhyo/s400/IMG_0395.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555639022267892514" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmIQfVl3bI/AAAAAAAAAcs/TBNnaOa9Yes/s1600/DSC_0019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmIQfVl3bI/AAAAAAAAAcs/TBNnaOa9Yes/s400/DSC_0019.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555621432209563058" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dear Adeline,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Two years ago, you came into our world on a cool, gray afternoon. Or should I say, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">we</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (your father and I) came into </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">your</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> world. A world we could not have imagined prior to it happening. Sure, we pictured the sleepless nights and a faceless you filling the little onesies we folded into your drawers, but never could we have guessed what your laugh would sound like when we tickled you, or how it would feel the first time you clasped your hands behind our necks and proclaimed, "I love you." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The leap from one to two was at times unnoticeable--so gradual your development appeared because I would see you every day...that is, until I looked at you one day as you sat in your chair eating yogurt you requested with a spoon like a normal human being, and I marveled at how just a few months ago, I was washing most of that yogurt out of your hair after every breakfast. Or how at fourteen months, you were still wobbly, learning how to balance, shuffle, and scoot along on your feet for the first time, and now you run full tilt down a sidewalk with your arms swinging along your side. How you've taught yourself to bend your knees and jump, something I never realized was a learned skill. You love to hop around, especially on the bed while holding my hands for extra leverage...I even made up a song for you that I hope you'll remember when you're older. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm a little bunny, I'm a little bunny, I'm a little bunny, and my name is Addieeeeeeeeee. And I like. to. HOP, HOP, HOP, HOP, HOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPP." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Yes, mom's songwriting skills are not the greatest, but she made it up on the spot so give her some credit.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You are such a chatterbox. Most of the time I can understand your toddlerese, acting as an interpreter to everyone else when you speak to them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmXD7EGuOI/AAAAAAAAAc0/NoICAmatXuw/s400/DSC_0209.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555637708988528866" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You ask to wear your Halloween costumes. You remind me to give you gummy vitamins. You tell Zoe to get the toy you threw at her head. You LOVE to sing...your current repertoire includes, "Twinkle, twinkle", "Itsy-Bitsy Spider", "Row Your Boat", "ABC's", and of course, the ever-monotonous, never-ending classic, "Old McDonald Had a Farm". </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"...and on his farm he had a...?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"A SEA OTTER!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Speaking of which, you are also obsessed with animals. Especially animals that live in the ocean. It's a good thing we have a membership to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and how much do I love that you want to read my book about Sharks every day...not even a children's book about sharks, but a thick, serious-looking one with lots of text and photos depicting terrifying scenes of Great Whites leaping out of the water and shark feeding frenzies. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Look mama, sharks! So cuuuuuuute."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(everything is "cute")</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Mama, let's go to ocean. Jellyfiiiiish. Sea otterrrrrrs. Shaaaarks. Whaaales. Dolpheeens."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Your dad says you mimic the way I speak to you--lengthening out the end of each word. )</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I feel bad that your birthday is jammed in between Christmas and New Year's. I promise we will always do our best to make this day your very own and keep it separate from the common festivities. I also promise to never wrap your birthday presents in Christmas wrapping paper (ok, this is the last year). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYPqpcHkI/AAAAAAAAAc8/DbHt_3j1V8w/s400/IMG_2792.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555639010251775554" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Tonight (the night before your birthday), your dad put together the balance bike your Cheney Family got for you, and I blew up balloons and arranged your presents on the coffee table. I tidied up the living room and moved the bike three times to secure an optimal location for it's discovery in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll hang the hand-made birthday banner and we'll wear the party hats I spent way too much time making last year for your first birthday. I know you probably aren't going to remember any of this when you're older, and like your dad said to me, this fussing about and making sure everything looks nice is mostly for myself, but I replied (a little defensively), that it matters because we </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">make</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> it matter...because that's how you celebrate anything you value. It may just be another day to everyone else in the world. But to your father and me, to your extended family and the friends you have made, it's a day that will be spent being happy and giving thanks that you were born. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TRmYP2p4J9I/AAAAAAAAAdE/-TJy9qRXdwA/s400/IMG_2844.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555639013474838482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Happy Birthday, monkey.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Love, your mama</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-78874484352886223842010-11-29T08:25:00.000-08:002010-11-29T08:25:00.702-08:00little green thumb<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjs02sfQI/AAAAAAAAAcY/Ua-4cNmCGUU/s400/IMG_2640.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544392606767414530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My father has maintained a garden in my great-grandmother's backyard for the past eight or nine years. Every year he and my step-mother plant tomatoes, daikon radishes, squash, cucumber, arugula, carrots, turnips and the like, as well as a variety of herbs. I wish I could do this. Correction: I wish I had the attention-span to do this. A veggie garden always sounds so nice in my head, and then when I buy a pot of herbs at Trader Joe's to give it a test run, they're dead by the end of the month. I've bought this same pot of herbs five times now. I can be very poor at carrying things out...Zach calls it shiny-object syndrome.</span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Luckily Addie and Louie will be able to experience the joys of gardening through my father and Zach's mother. It was far too cold this last trip up to Washington to get any real gardening experience in, but Addie was still able to spend a little time with her Grandpa Johnson, digging up turnips and carrots, and raking leaves in the yard. Child labor is always the way to go in these situations...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjtewVWwI/AAAAAAAAAcg/-kge1ZZ-g1g/s1600/IMG_2648.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjtewVWwI/AAAAAAAAAcg/-kge1ZZ-g1g/s400/IMG_2648.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544392618015021826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjsk3p93I/AAAAAAAAAcQ/4Qx2j8tI7NA/s1600/IMG_2637.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjsk3p93I/AAAAAAAAAcQ/4Qx2j8tI7NA/s400/IMG_2637.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544392602476476274" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjsGY9KsI/AAAAAAAAAcI/SFQseQG3PNo/s1600/IMG_2633.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGjsGY9KsI/AAAAAAAAAcI/SFQseQG3PNo/s400/IMG_2633.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544392594294647490" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">How have I managed to keep this child alive for two years, yet killed every plant in my possession?!</span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-46573890106682513662010-11-28T08:04:00.000-08:002010-11-28T22:44:40.630-08:00trading brothers<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My friend, Kat, had her second baby last month, and I am so happy she did. It's comforting to know that you're in the same boat with someone, especially when that someone is as awesome as she is. Her older son and Addie are very close friends, and they recently had fun trading little brothers during a recent visit.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdR9bMAyI/AAAAAAAAAbw/DpfJUdUupAc/s1600/DSC_0221.JPG"></a></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdRvzcbQI/AAAAAAAAAbo/joNbviqDwK0/s1600/DSC_0202.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdRvzcbQI/AAAAAAAAAbo/joNbviqDwK0/s400/DSC_0202.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544385544485367042" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdRNUYcRI/AAAAAAAAAbg/9O4yoPxY-ak/s1600/DSC_0193.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdRNUYcRI/AAAAAAAAAbg/9O4yoPxY-ak/s400/DSC_0193.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544385535228277010" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdQx1WMhI/AAAAAAAAAbY/M55JSIa20_g/s1600/DSC_0167.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdQx1WMhI/AAAAAAAAAbY/M55JSIa20_g/s400/DSC_0167.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544385527850349074" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdR9bMAyI/AAAAAAAAAbw/DpfJUdUupAc/s400/DSC_0221.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544385548141724450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdQqVhnKI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/b-b_gbT5EjE/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGdQqVhnKI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/b-b_gbT5EjE/s400/DSC_0063.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544385525837831330" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A big hip-hip hooray for little brothers (and their awesome older siblings)!</span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-63745719367871967302010-11-27T15:18:00.000-08:002010-11-27T22:36:06.931-08:00things that make me feel like a grown-up...<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">...not getting married or having two children or living in a house...</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGe4FYDYmI/AAAAAAAAAb4/9PyYY-eO_9I/s400/DSC_0109.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544387302622716514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGTuID50RI/AAAAAAAAAbI/o2uda0buFeE/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG"></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGTm147I9I/AAAAAAAAAbA/mYdpTtmpOzk/s1600/DSC_0083.JPG"></a></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGTcRxgqTI/AAAAAAAAAa4/f4AlqNbQius/s1600/DSC_0205.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGTcRxgqTI/AAAAAAAAAa4/f4AlqNbQius/s400/DSC_0205.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544374730286475570" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">...but finally organizing Christmas cards to be sent out for the first time in my life!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGTIexQsaI/AAAAAAAAAaw/t3rsPJFXlJE/s1600/DSC_0145.JPG"></a></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSomHSOcI/AAAAAAAAAao/IspbHRIgB1Q/s1600/DSC_0134.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSomHSOcI/AAAAAAAAAao/IspbHRIgB1Q/s400/DSC_0134.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544373842393315778" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(That, and serving Thanksgiving and Christmas meals on nice platters and matching dishes rather than the pots and pans they were cooked in.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSn4YGvNI/AAAAAAAAAaY/VPrjN5aRMy4/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSn4YGvNI/AAAAAAAAAaY/VPrjN5aRMy4/s400/DSC_0060.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544373830115835090" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I actually mustered up the time and energy to buy Christmas (penguin!) pajamas for the kids and took some photographs so I could make cards on Snapfish. Out of the hundred and thirty photos I took, there were probably only five good ones where both of their eyes were open, one of them wasn't crying, or being choked by the other, or had jelly on their face...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSnYWqjDI/AAAAAAAAAaI/x5TzljTXpFk/s1600/DSC_0077.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TPGSnYWqjDI/AAAAAAAAAaI/x5TzljTXpFk/s400/DSC_0077.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544373821519858738" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">pretty freakin' cute, huh?</span></div></div></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-45606465992197328972010-11-24T08:27:00.000-08:002011-05-16T22:46:55.884-07:00flowers from my father<div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I 'm conflicted about telling this story (you'll see why) but I think it's necessary since it's been on my mind since May 27th. The day Zach and I were married.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO2qYpWDVgI/AAAAAAAAAaA/MUzXocyz_7E/s1600/77250029.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO2qYpWDVgI/AAAAAAAAAaA/MUzXocyz_7E/s400/77250029.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543274056754877954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">photo credit: John Olmsted </span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We decided to get married one week before the 27th. The extent of my planning included: calling San Francisco City Hall registrar, booking a small public ceremony, buying my dress at Anthropologie and nice clothes for Zach at Banana Republic, and informing my family that they were to meet us at 12:30 on Thursday. I purposely kept it as low-key and stress-free as possible.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Still, I felt nervous the day of the ceremony and regretted that I hadn't thought it through more carefully. My legs weren't shaved. Both of us needed haircuts. The shoes I bought didn't really match my dress. I didn't even order a bouquet. A bit of bridezilla began to creep in as I called local florists to see if they could whip up something within the hour, only to be told that they couldn't. Panicked, I threw a bunch of scrap ribbon, fabric, and scissors into the car at the last minute, thinking we could at least stop by Trader Joe's and pick up some tulips or lilies. No roses...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We left the house too late to pick up any flowers at the store, and then hit traffic on I-280. I could feel my anxiety level rising. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We're going to be late for our registration appointment and they'll cancel the ceremony,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">and I don't even have any damn flowers on my wedding day. And I look really fat in my dress </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(well, I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">was</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> six month pregnant at the time. dummy.)</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. </span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i></i>What actually happened: we pulled up at the steps of City Hall with five minutes to spare and scored a great parking spot right out front. My father and step-mother were visiting from Washington, and they parked their car in front of ours. We were back on track.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I hurried over to my father's car to give the two further instructions, when a man standing a few feet away from me on the sidewalk suddenly spoke.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Flowers, miss?" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He was not from America. Possibly East Indian, but I wasn't sure. He held a large bundle of red roses and he looked cold and desperate. I automatically said no thank you and didn't give him a second thought, turning back to talk to my father through the passenger window. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Flowers, miss?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"No THANK you." I rolled my eyes at no one in particular.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I continued to ignore his requests to please buy a flower as we pulled our clothes out of the trunk, filled the parking meters, and started walking up the steps. I turned around when I noticed that my dad wasn't with us. He was still standing on the sidewalk, having a conversation with the man. My father had a serious, sympathetic look on his face, and his hand rested on the man's shoulder. It looked like the man with the flowers was crying. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Seriously?" I said in a loud, exasperated voice. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was annoyed because this was typical behavior for my father. Always trying to meet strangers on the street, listen to their stories. And it usually meant that we were late to wherever we happened to be going. What followed is the part of the story I feel most ashamed of. I was so concerned about myself and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">my special day</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> that I felt nothing but resentment toward the man and my father for taking attention off the task at hand...me, me, me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"He's probably faking it so he'll buy a stupid flower," I muttered to my sister, her boyfriend, and Zach.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Minus my father and step-mother, the group of us walked into the building and went through security. They joined us five minutes later, my father holding four roses in his hand. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"WHY did you buy those? He was probably just crying so you'd feel sorry for him!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The look on my father's face revealed a mixture of emotion: concern, sadness, compassion, and ultimately, a little disappointment at my self-centered and jaded reaction. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"No...he was really crying, Ariel,"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He went on to explain the plight of the poor man. How he came to the States to meet family. How a series of unfortunate events had left him homeless with no money to return to his country. How he didn't even have enough money for his next meal. So my father gave him twenty dollars in exchange for the roses. He hugged the man with the flowers and wished him luck for a better today and tomorrow. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"And now you have flowers for your wedding," he added.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>Oh. </i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was smacked with guilt...and still, anger. I felt very selfish, privately wishing all of this didn't have to happen right before we were getting married. Why did he have to stop and talk the man? Why couldn't he be more like me and the rest of the world and ignore those men and women on the street? Look the other way and go about his life?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The answers are always the same.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Because my father is good man. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(I shouldn't have expected differently. I remember when he worked as a barista in a Seattle coffee shop years ago and befriended a homeless man. He would let the man wash up in the restroom and gave him money for a couple tools (a shovel?) that the man offered to sell him. It was clear that the man suffered from mental illness, especially when he returned to the shop one day demanding that my father return the tools to him (my dad refused), but I clearly recall loving my dad for being the way he was at that time and has always has been...kind and respectful to everyone.)</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I ended up with flowers on our wedding day. My step-mother took the roses, scrap lace and ribbon, a paper towel from the public bathroom, and artfully transformed them into a sweet little bouquet for me. It wasn't professionally made and I wouldn't have picked roses myself, but it was perfect. Because regardless of whether or not I wanted that man to briefly enter our lives, whether he was lying or telling the truth, whether I acted like a brat and then learned an important lesson in humility, I am grateful for the way everything happened. For the important lesson I held in both hands as I married the man I loved. For my father's act of kindness to grace us that special day.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i>*****</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i>Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Let's all be grateful for the blessings in our lives...</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i>xo, Ariel</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-87114305594813317512010-11-24T07:57:00.000-08:002010-11-25T17:15:59.078-08:00a morning in Portland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO03WD3VE1I/AAAAAAAAAZw/riRuDbDzJQg/s1600/IMG_2478.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO03WD3VE1I/AAAAAAAAAZw/riRuDbDzJQg/s400/IMG_2478.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543147568496972626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO03VdKOK2I/AAAAAAAAAZo/jBAPKrftJVQ/s1600/IMG_2480.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO03VdKOK2I/AAAAAAAAAZo/jBAPKrftJVQ/s400/IMG_2480.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543147558107229026" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02oRN640I/AAAAAAAAAZg/NrYukbfr3LM/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG"></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02oRN640I/AAAAAAAAAZg/NrYukbfr3LM/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02nXfiX_I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/_EQkWvUsJqc/s400/IMG_2479.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543146766312038386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02oRN640I/AAAAAAAAAZg/NrYukbfr3LM/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG"></a></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02ng5ZmRI/AAAAAAAAAZY/WhK6Y73bf8s/s1600/IMG_2482.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02ng5ZmRI/AAAAAAAAAZY/WhK6Y73bf8s/s400/IMG_2482.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543146768836434194" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02mmQNiTI/AAAAAAAAAZA/2h2qOw52NYQ/s1600/IMG_2437.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TO02mmQNiTI/AAAAAAAAAZA/2h2qOw52NYQ/s400/IMG_2437.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543146753094420786" /></a><br /></div></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-87888306056286115182010-11-23T14:31:00.001-08:002010-11-29T22:47:28.768-08:00let's pretend we're friends!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxW0S-L9iI/AAAAAAAAAY4/GwDuiFy92-s/s1600/5202370819_7994365b69_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxW0S-L9iI/AAAAAAAAAY4/GwDuiFy92-s/s400/5202370819_7994365b69_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542900697832093218" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br />It's been a rough couple days adjusting from the itinerant lifestyle that ended last Friday night (I have NEVER been so happy to see the City of Campbell sign). We ended up going to San Francisco the very next day (45 minutes? Psh. That's nuthin'.) so Zach and Addie could attend the Yo Gabba Gabba concert while my mom, Louie, and I gorged ourselves on sushi in Japan Center. We made the mistake of staying in the city too long thinking we could enjoy Union Square and some holiday shopping, which ended up with us getting caught in a downpour, me having to nurse Louie in a shoe store, and all of us waiting thirty minutes just to get our car out of the valet parking garage. I started to experience Road-Trip-PTSD when the kids began to cry and whine while we were trapped downtown in what was essentially a parking lot filled with angry SUV's and pushy pedestrians. We made it home though, and vowed not to get in the car unless absolutely necessary for the next few weeks. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">*****</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So of course I break that pact today and pack the kids up to visit the Children's Discovery Museum. I was determined to get out the apathetic funk I've been feeling, and we hadn't been there in awhile. I scored a close parking spot and made sure to feed the meter so we had plenty of time to play. Yes! Pro-active and responsible! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I always feel so awkward in public spaces for children. Parks and museums especially, since all the adults are forced to be in close proximity with one another but do our darndest to pretend the other doesn't exist. Of course not everyone is stand-offish. There are many different types of parents out there...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The most enthusiastic and hands-on parents, usually fathers armed with expensive cameras, are the ones who normally work full-time jobs and took the day off to spend time with their kid. They have boundless energy that's channeled into chasing their child around, crawling with them through the tunnels, proudly exclaiming over their amazing ball-throwing abilities, and hovering over every activity with a huge grin on their face. It's really very sweet. I think Grandma's and babysitters come next in the pyramid of happy, active participants.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Next are the moms who have obviously been to the museum 4,382 times, because this is one of the few enclosed spaces to play in when it's cold outside and you don't want to drag screaming children out of mall stores. They usually have an older kid running around while a baby sits in their lap or hangs in a Baby Bjorn. They look really tired. I think I fall into this category now.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Then there are those who look bored shitless and super resentful of the fact that they are sitting here watching their kid finger-paint rather then leading a team-meeting in a boardroom. They check their phones a lot and offer a wan smile when their child shows them their masterpiece.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWzmCQ9WI/AAAAAAAAAYg/-l6-FiuytXQ/s1600/5202960666_930d79ac9a_o.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWzmCQ9WI/AAAAAAAAAYg/-l6-FiuytXQ/s400/5202960666_930d79ac9a_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542900685769602402" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">genius!</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">However, it really depends on the individual when it comes to adult conversation. I think most parents prefer to avoid interaction with each other. We prefer our children's play-time to be like one-night stands: no names, no future plans, no meaningful personal information exchanged. The most that's usually offered is a query into the age of your child, and then a nod and smile, like, "okay, that's all I'm going to ask you now." I can't really blame anyone though. We're all tired, and it can be mind-numbing saying the same thing over and over every time your toddler slobbers on another kid's toy. Plus, having children doesn't change one's personality and suddenly transforn you into an extrovert.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Yet everywhere I go, I get bored enough to try and work up a conversation with another adult. This is usually a mistake. I end up sounding incredibly awkward and dorky, and after several failed attempts at starting friendly banter, I tend to give up and join the little people at the miniature kitchen table to nom on plastic fruit. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWz15_nAI/AAAAAAAAAYo/G8UT9HzTvd0/s1600/5202379065_18a2f68eb8_o.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWz15_nAI/AAAAAAAAAYo/G8UT9HzTvd0/s400/5202379065_18a2f68eb8_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542900690029878274" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Here are some gems I offered up today:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">To a friendly-looking mother in the bubble-making exhibit:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I guess this means I don't have to give my kid a bath now, right?" (She turns toward me and gives a half-hearted smile while revealing that she is on her cell-phone. She ushers her son away.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">****</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">To a man who must have been at least six and a half feet tall with hair all the way down his back, wearing a scary trench coat: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Wow, I thought</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">had hard time chasing my daugher around the tunnels and crawl-spaces...hahaha...you must barely fit through them! hahaha." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"No, I fit through them okay." (obviously perturbed at my joke about his height which I'm sure has been commented on his entire life.) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxW0P3XVMI/AAAAAAAAAYw/mEa78wnyOlI/s400/5202373945_c3bd2b7d3d_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542900696998171842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He was very tall.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">****</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">To a harried-looking father who is trying to keep his daughter from getting paint all over herself in the art-studio as I point to the butterfly habitat:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Looks like one of em' didn't make it, huh? Like, it's dead! hahaha!" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">To which he glances at the habitat and then back to me, and shrugs, "Yeah, I guess so."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWzd6ebFI/AAAAAAAAAYY/TVO6hXVPR6o/s1600/5202963312_ae2748850e_o.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOxWzd6ebFI/AAAAAAAAAYY/TVO6hXVPR6o/s400/5202963312_ae2748850e_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542900683589446738" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was very dead.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And so it goes...</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">****</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I still felt pretty triumphant about our outing, regardless of my social skills, until we were on the freeway halfway home and I noticed the traffic ticket flapping against the windshield. GAAARRRRRRRHULKSMASH. I couldn't believe it. There was still fifteen minutes left on the meter when we left the parking space. It must have been a mistake! When we got home, I opened the envelope and read that I was parked on a red curb. Um, no, I wasn't. Unless a red curb constitutes six inches of scraped off red paint at the very edge of the parking spot. Which had a working meter. In between two other parked cars. Whatever, California, I thought you were more laid back than that asshole, Washington, but that's obviously not the case. I've now racked up $600 in traffic tickets within a week. Let's see what happens tomorrow...maybe I'll be in a car accident! Maybe I'll get my 84th hospital bill from a private company saying I owe $300 for pain medication administered to me after Louie's birth! Just kidding on the car accident...that's not very funny. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's a good thing I have zen-master friends I can talk to when shit like this happens. After I kicked the car tire as hard as I could (not smart), I called a woman who very calmly talked me away from the edge of a cliff. I now have a homework assignment: find a baby-sitter to give Zach and I a break every so often, and call two friends. I think I can handle that. Breathe in, breathe out. Moving on with my day. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I hope no more traffic violations (of both the car/parent variety) are involved. </span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-1329958163961173792010-11-16T10:10:00.000-08:002010-11-25T17:13:53.047-08:00on the ragged edge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJcIZr6pI/AAAAAAAAAYM/yYhs1hDLyYE/s1600/5181717203_caf3f2d65d_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJcIZr6pI/AAAAAAAAAYM/yYhs1hDLyYE/s400/5181717203_caf3f2d65d_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540211976747870866" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Right before she plunged in</span></i></span></div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I’m sitting in the guest room of my Granny’s house in Cheney, Washington. This is the house I’ve visited every year since I was two years old—where I built my first snowman, where I learned to play racquetball, where I fished for rainbow trout and bass at Chapman Lake, where I first went to college and first dropped out of college. Where I ate Granny’s goulash and gingerbread and pecan pie. It’s basically like my little comfort womb. Which is a good thing considering how I feel right now (see post title).</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">First, let’s focus on the positive:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-The three and a half hour drive from Portland to Seattle was uneventful; the kids slept and kept quiet the entire time.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJa6cuxlI/AAAAAAAAAX0/pp3fbjEwsms/s400/5176541685_8e1a3eb6b5_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540211955822675538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Addie, Pep, and Zoe</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-We got to see new and old family in Seattle who helped us celebrate Louie’s birth, our recent nuptials (“nuptials”…hehehe), and Zach’s birthday.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJbG7PeuI/AAAAAAAAAX8/ruoXhJNuPko/s400/5179404174_64e875511f_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540211959171873506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Goofing around with Aunt L</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-Zach’s mom and boyfriend baby-sat Addie while we stayed at a hotel in the U-district to get a little break. Delicious sushi was had. Life was easy again for 3.7 seconds.</span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJbxyk50I/AAAAAAAAAYE/9uigNoYkiJI/s400/5182292134_c40702a2d3_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540211970678253378" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Seattle foliage</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-Once again, the kids were great on the five-hour drive from Seattle to Spokane. The Road-Trip Gods must have taken pity on us after the first leg up to Portland. However, they saw it fit to punish us a different way…</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The negative:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-I, the California driver who forgot she was in Washington, land of slow and excessively polite drivers, was issued a FIVE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLAR ticket. (*head slam to steering wheel. repeat ad infinitum.)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">It wasn’t even for speeding. I was cited for “aggressive driving in the second degree”. That sh*t sounds mean! I mean, I wasn’t driving like I was in Grand Theft Auto or anything. The state trooper said that I drove up behind a car too quickly before he switched to the slower lane, and then I “sped past him”. WHAT?! That’s just standard driving in Silicon Valley, buddy! (I know…we’re not in California anymore, Toto) Apparently, there's a new focus in this area we were driving to give out more of these “aggressive driving” tickets. I still have a feeling that I was doubly screwed because the officer noted that I was from California and knew that I wouldn’t contest the ticket since I would have to show up to the Ritzville County Court (aka: Bumblef*ck County Court).</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Either way, I know I was speeding and, ok, maaaaaaybe I was a little aggressive. So I fully accept my consequences, but not without a little WAAAAAH, THIS SUCKS. Ok, I’m done now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">-I feel like I’m turning into that mom who is constantly making excuses for her toddler’s recent maniacal behavior, like, “oh, she’s tired…she must be hungry…she had a bad nap…she…she…she…I swear my child isn’t Satan’s spawn!” I don’t know. I guess I feel self-conscious and put pressure on myself for our family to behave perfectly in front of everyone. Family will love you unconditionally, but they can also judge unconditionally (as my mother jokes, “<i>Who </i></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">else</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><i> </i>will tell you when you’re overweight/slow/have big ears/etc… if not your family?”).</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">My fretting over whether Addie is a persnickety child is probably compounded by the fact that my parents insist I was the most angelic child to ever grace the Earth. Comments like, “you were never this loud”, “you were potty-trained by Addie’s age”, and “you always did as you were told”, make me feel I’m doing something wrong. I guess all I’m meaning to say with this ramble is, parenting: it’s hard.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TOLJaTQJ1kI/AAAAAAAAAXs/h4o-afLSpDw/s400/5177132388_63a8c03a0b_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540211945300940354" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">don't do this, don't do that.</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">That’s really it for the negative.** Louie has been a piece of cake (he’s asleep sprawled out on the bed next to me as I write this). I’m very tired all the time, but that’s to be expected. At least we’re on the last stop of our trip which means we’ll be back to our old routine very soon. We just have one last hurdle: in two days we’ll be making the seventeen-hour drive (not counting any stops) back home.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I’m not even going to think about that right now though. I’m just going to snuggle in bed with mah bebeh and wait for the rest of my family to wake up so we can have a fun </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">today</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">**Edited to add: How could I forget this one? When we were in Seattle, Zach looks at the car’s gas meter and realizes it’s below Empty. We check the “Remaining Gas” digital reader and it says “0 miles left”…basically, “you guys are screeeeeeeeewed.” We take the next exit and just as we’re ONE block away from the gas station, our car dies in the middle of a busy street. Awesome. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-54291282202296961822010-11-13T19:00:00.000-08:002010-11-27T22:38:28.465-08:00Portland: Land of food-pods and folks with SADD<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Well, we've concluded our first stop on our epic Pereyo Road Trip of </span></span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">what the hell were we thinking!?</span></span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Family Reunions.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I love Portland. I really do. The city is filled with charming neighborhoods. Streets lined with old houses, smoke floating out the chimneys, yellow leaves blanketing wet lawns. There are so many businesses housed in unconventional places--everything from gourmet restaurants serving pho and burgers out of huts and school buses, to this dress shop operating from a double-decker bus.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN9q_N3kZLI/AAAAAAAAAXE/w5auJU8DBHA/s400/5169694113_8eb9376aa3_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539263700976034994" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The food? Incredible. And cheap! Portlanders are Pod-People. Everywhere you go you run into herds of independent food-carts, or entire blocks of huts smashed side-by-side. We ate Vietnamese, Chinese, Southern, Thai, and Italian. Deep-fried okra. Authentic muffaletta sandwiches. Tender bulgogi with homemade kimchi and Miso beef-heart hash. Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm. Mouth drooling...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN9rAYF_LyI/AAAAAAAAAXk/JOMjJCtpqDk/s400/5171271964_891680a265_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539263720900734754" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If you are ever in the area, I highly recommend visiting Tasty N Sons for breakfast--their home-made biscuits with honey-butter, Moroccan chicken hash, chocolate potato donuts, and roasted fall-vegetable frittata were all a-mazing. Their menu is like a tapas-bar where you can pick small plates or slightly larger dishes (like the frittata and hash). Mother's Bistro in the downtown area was also very good (and very accommodating for families), but super crowded on the weekends. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm pretty sure I would move here in a heartbeat if it weren't for one thing: the weather. I'm forever ruined by the good weather in California and I'm not sure I could handle living in a city where it's overcast and rainy at least sixty percent of the year. Even if it's not raining, it just feels DAMP all the time. I guess that's why everyone has beards and dresses like homeless people. Sometimes it felt like I stepped into a parallel universe where I was the only person not dressed like a hipster/crunchy granola/tree-logger person. And so serious! It was hard to coax a smile out of anyone on the street, but maybe I'm expecting too much (after all, I used to live in the "Last Hometown of America", where everyone smiles). Considering the weather, I can't really blame them for their grim expressions.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The downtown hotel we stayed at, The Nines, was waaaay too nice for us, yet the people working there were so gracious and never sneered at us, even as Addie ran barefoot through the lobby cackling like a little heathen. I'll post pics of our room soon. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We visited Zach's brother and his girlfriend the first night (they, who introduced us to the food-pod religion), and then we reunited with one of my favorite people in the world. We finally got to meet her beautiful daughter (six months younger than Addie) and the girls played together at the hotel and by the riverfront. Little girls running through the rain toward flocks of geese...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN9q_WPfQyI/AAAAAAAAAXM/98qFbqOxE9c/s400/5172038925_1a0e8288d8_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539263703223845666" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN9q_7r9oMI/AAAAAAAAAXc/0UAqvNPMx_c/s400/5173987086_09907cd7a9_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539263713275388098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Bye, Portland. Thank you for your hospitality and giving me the opportunity to wear my new rain boots! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN9q_gdeH0I/AAAAAAAAAXU/JJx3X-BBIF4/s400/5173933078_b4ea01537f_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539263705966845762" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Next stop: Seattle! </span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-20470289153999206772010-11-12T07:00:00.000-08:002011-05-16T22:57:30.119-07:00FIRST RULE OF ROAD TRIPS WITH KIDS: DON'T GO ON ROAD TRIPS WITH KIDS<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN1ddU9PC_I/AAAAAAAAAWs/WrBR099BIAw/s1600/5165423754_45c7675299_o.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN1ddU9PC_I/AAAAAAAAAWs/WrBR099BIAw/s400/5165423754_45c7675299_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538685875158715378" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Second rule of road trips with kids: There are no rules on road trips with kids.*</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">That means access to all forms of junk food, fast food included, unlimited hours of watching Dora and Olivia in the car, and random nap/bedtimes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCD14IrOcIs"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Cue "Where is My Mind" by Pixies....</span></span></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Less than 48 hours later and we are miraculously alive.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Let's just give a breakdown of what's happened so far.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">November 10-11:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1:00pm: We are supposed to be leaving the house to avoid Bay Area traffic.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">3:15pm: We leave the house.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">4:30pm: We hit Bay Area traffic. A round of meltdowns for everyone, please! First stop of the trip.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">7:30pm: Addie throws up the entire contents of her stomach all over herself. We stop at a Denny's to get cleaned up and eat the most mediocre iceberg salad ever to exist on this planet. We begin the doubt the value of this trip.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">8:30pm-1am: Children blissfully sleep. Too tired to continue driving, we stop at a Motel 6 three hours south of Portland. Zoe somehow slips past Zach and escapes the hotel room, prompting Zach to sprint down the hallways in his boxer shorts until he finds her on the clerk's lap in the hotel lobby.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1am-7am: With the pent-up energy of a 10-hour drive and 4-hour nap, Addie cries, kicks, and screams to go the park for six straight hours in the hotel room. The adults do not get a single minute of sleep. Louie, because he has magical powers, sleeps through the entire demonic episode. We </span></span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">begin to</span></span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> doubt the value of having children.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">8am: We embark for Portland. Children thankfully sleep most of the drive, but not without a couple stops for poop-up-the-back situations. My eye starts to twitch. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN1ddjEG-uI/AAAAAAAAAW0/yLQiAEUYQQw/s400/5164817763_ff18384f43_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538685878945643234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Noon: We arrive in Portland. I feel like the Pilgrims did upon seeing Plymouth Rock.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TN1den_wb8I/AAAAAAAAAW8/ejD7hRupa1A/s400/5168195436_cd03c36242_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538685897449435074" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Life resumes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">To be continued!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">*Of course, that's only if you ignore the first rule.</span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-27582734586726268562010-11-09T13:54:00.000-08:002010-11-27T23:24:39.256-08:00over the mountains and into the woods...<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Do doo do doooooo!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Behold, our son! Three months old today! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNnGITSzHLI/AAAAAAAAAWM/XUwrT0Tokk4/s400/DSC_0087.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537675062749109426" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">King Louie</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Ok, now that that's out of the the way (kidding! I have a Louie-post on the back burner, including his birth story, but hello, I'm kinda exhausted from writing Addie's epic tale last week so we'll wait a bit), I can talk about what's going on with our family. This may all come out as stream of consciousness verbal diarrhea but I don't have it in me to sound eloquent and I'm riding a cupcake high...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We leave for our road trip tomorrow. All of us. That's: one over-worked husband, one sleep-deprived mother, one hyperactive toddler, and one very chill newborn. Oh, and a stinky dog in a peartree. Who I'm sure will vomit everywhere as soon as we back out of the driveway. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNnGbcD0TLI/AAAAAAAAAWU/4xqCKf_yCrU/s400/DSC_0239.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537675391519706290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">doling out books for the trip</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I couldn't sleep last night because I was so anxious about what could go wrong during the drive. I don't know why but I keep envisioning that we will get into a car accident and now I almost don't even want to go...which...CRAZY LADY... everything will be fine. I just need to take a Valium and shut up. Or eat a mondo-cupcake, six inches high and filled with chocolate mousse and whipped cream from Whole Foods. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNnJPLcBuTI/AAAAAAAAAWk/KRKbXy522X4/s400/IMG_2364.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537678479434299698" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">my version of Valium</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNnJOw24N9I/AAAAAAAAAWc/sw83-5PXwTw/s400/IMG_2365.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537678472299165650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">thank you, Louie</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I'm usually an OCD-level vacation planner, with Microsoft Word packing lists that include items for every possible contingency, but I've lost my steam for this one. Maybe because it already feels futile going into it--I mean, sixteen hours in the car with a tiny, drunk sociopath and a creature that needs to feed every three hours (but remember, never after midnight!)? I think all we can do at this point is have a good sense of humor and pray that we make it Portland alive. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We're planning on leaving the house in the afternoon so the kids nap for a couple hours, then stop for dinner and run-around time, bedtime routine, then finish the rest of the trip through the night. I'm curious how long Zach will last before he's so tired he has to relinquish the driver's seat to me...something he HATES to do. He insists that he won't be able to sleep if I'm driving so it's pointless to let me, but I doubt he's going to make it the whole way to Portland. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We will be visiting Zach's brother and girlfriend in Portland, as well as a dear friend who's daughter is close in age to Addie. I think we're going to try hitting up the Portland Zoo while we're there, and since it's Zach's birthday, he will most likely go out with his brother, the Beer Czar of Portland, to various pubs/gardens/whatever they're called. I also booked a hotel on Friday night through Hotwire, which ended up being </span></span><a href="http://www.thenines.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">THIS PLACE</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">...which I'm a little worried about because it basically looks like the hotel equivalent of Tiffany's, and what will the Portland hipster-ati think of our rag-tag family as we drag ourselves into the lobby? But that's Hotwire's fault since they refuse to tell you what hotel you're actually booking until they have your money. The kids are going to have very high standards after this place which is too bad because it's probably going to be Motel 6's from here on out. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Then our journey continues on to Seattle for a few nights where we will be staying with Zach's mother and boyfriend. Zach's family from the Wenatchee area will also be driving over to meet the blessed children. The most exciting part of this stop for me is that Zach and I will get to ditch everyone and see HARRY POTTER ZOMG I"M SO EXCITED. (sidenote: I just heard on NPR that Middlebury College in Vermont developed real-life Quidditch, where people wear capes, run around with brooms in their crotches, and hurl balls threw hula hoops taped on garbage cans while shouting at each other in British accents. I know what we'll be doing this year for Thanksgiving, kids!) Oh yes, and my mother-in-law will be teaching me how to use a sewing machine she bought me for Christmas! I wish her the best of luck and a boat-load of patience because I've already taken a sewing-machine class here in Santa Clara, and I screwed up a PILLOWCASE. That's two sheets of equal-size fabric that I had to sew on three sides. And it did not resemble a pillowcase. Sigh. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Our trip culminates in Spokane, my childhood stompin' grounds, where we'll be visiting my father's side of the family, as well as Zach's dad. I can't wait to take Addie to the classic carousel in Riverfront Park and Manito Park. It will also be the first meeting between Sir Louie and his great-GREAT grandmother, Doris, AKA Granny. She turned one hundred in September. That feels weird to write, let alone say. a HUNDRED YEARS OLD. She's so funny--the last time we were there, we were watching Ellen, and Beyonce was performing when she said, "Who's making that TERRIBLE RACKET?" I love her. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The more I'm writing about this trip now, the more excited I'm getting about seeing my family. They are the whole reason we are going, and while it was tempting to put the time and money into a trip to Hawaii by ourselves, I think this is more important right now. I really want Granny to see the kids, and I know it's hard for the other grandparents as well who only get to see us once or twice a year. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I will attempt to write during the whole trip and use the blog as a journal, so when it's all done and over with, I can look back and laugh. Hopefully there will be laughter during the trip as well. I'm sure there will be. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Wish us luck!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">xo Ariel</span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-30236364520313755332010-11-07T14:28:00.000-08:002010-11-27T22:27:19.264-08:00like, I can't help it, you know?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Zach said something to me the other day to which I replied, "I'm jelly."</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There was a pause, and then, "What? What does that mean? Like you're soft?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"No, like I'm jealous."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Longer pause....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"WOW." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He shook his head with an incredulous expression on his face and turned away from me, muttering something about how I've taken it to new heights.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>It</i>, being the latest word I've incorporated into my everyday speech...but </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">only </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">with Zach. Trust me, I KNOW it sounds ridiculous when words like "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=craycray"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">craycray</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">", "jelly", or "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=bidness"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bidness</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">" come out of my mouth, so I try not to subject the latest trends in colloquial speech onto my friends. I even feel weird calling my friends "girlfriend" or "chica", only using them every so often in texts and emails and then feeling pretty dorky about it afterwards. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's just really fun to get a reaction out of Zach. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He's an even bigger nerd than I, so I have the pleasure of exposing the latest pop culture trends to him, including what the cool kids are saying these days. Two days ago, he asked me what it meant when you describe someone as a "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hot+mess"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hot mess</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">". I love how he raises an eyebrow when I pointedly say that Louie is acting "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=emo"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">emo</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">" or Addie is getting all "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=aggro"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">aggro</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">" on me. I'm not even that up to date on these things (who knows, maybe all the words I'm mentioning here are </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">so </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2009?), and I actually pick them up from my friends, not TV or the interwebz. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Which leads me to last week when Zach agreed with something I was talking about and I replied, "RIGHT?" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I guess it came out more like a ditzy Valley Girl when I said it. Like, "riiiiiiight?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So that was on purpose, right? Riiiiiight? Um, sort of.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I admit some California-speak is rubbing off on me. Especially when I'm around certain people. What I realized is that my speech/tone adjusts to whatever circumstances I'm in--depending on whether I'm around Zach, my close girlfriends, mere acquaintances, or strangers at a party. I can turn on Dorky Ariel or Serious (Quasi)Articulate Ariel. Some conversations call for words like "vitriol" and "obsequious", whereas others need "</span></span><a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Whomp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">whomp</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> whomp" and "bitch, please!" I don't really believe there's a lexicon hierarchy, they're all necessary in different contexts. And language is fun, kids!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Oh, and here's a hilarious SNL skit that illustrates what I mean...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><object width="512" height="288"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/urKNY_Z5HvVV4AV-9NWOIg"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/urKNY_Z5HvVV4AV-9NWOIg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="288" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Happy Sunday! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:15.9722px;"><br /></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-48687666053852359972010-11-02T22:09:00.000-07:002010-11-13T22:55:39.727-08:00The Tale of Adeline, Part V<div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If you have just stumbled across my blog and don't know what the heck I'm writing about: I started to tell my daughter Adeline's birth story and it ended up that I had waaaaay more to write than I had previously thought. I decided to present it as several consecutive posts which you can find here: </span></span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Part I</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, </span></span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/twenty-two-and-part-ii.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Part II</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, </span></span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline-part-iii-blackout.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Part III</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, and </span></span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline-part-iv.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Part IV</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. Thank you to anyone who took the time to read my story. I'm so happy I finally got around to telling it. xo, Ariel</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So...the home-birth with Addie didn’t work out the way I thought it would. The complete OPPOSITE way in fact. I struggled with that for a long time—probably the first five or six months of her life. By then there was so much more time I'd experienced the <i>real </i>Addie--not some abstract baby I could barely picture during my nine months of pregnancy, nor the comparatively short thirty-five hours I was in labor with her. The insane, no-sleep newborn months were behind us; and Addie was now laughing, sitting up, eating solid food and sleeping through the night. I think it was by that point that I realized I was no longer depressed.</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It bothered me a little when I would share my birth story and (</span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">totally</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> well-meaning) people would say, “Well, all that mattered was that you and the baby came out healthy.”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Yeah, that is all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. Six months down the line with a little perspective in my pocket, I would whole-heartedly agree with that statement. I was very grateful that she was healthy, but sometimes it felt like my sadness was disqualified or inappropriate. I know in hindsight that I had post-partum depression which no doubt amplified my feelings toward the traumatic labor and birth. I didn’t talk about my depression with my midwife or a therapist (which I regret), but the daily heaviness I felt bearing down on me gradually faded away. So many women experience PPD though, and now I always encourage anyone to see a doctor immediately rather than waiting for it to go away like I did. </span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDwqJ0PNVI/AAAAAAAAAWE/4ekEtfSuy3k/s400/DSC00326.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535188549018531154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6 months old</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">********</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Addie’s birth gave me two incredible gifts: herself </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">(<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">certainly!</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, and for the first time in my life, acutely instilled in me the fact that I cannot control certain circumstances in my life. </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Shit happens, even when we don't want it to.</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I could have told you this before she was born, but I didn’t really accept it myself. In the case of my pregnancy and labor, I did EVERYTHING in my power to make sure it went a certain way </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">(</span></span><a href="http://www.webmd.com/baby/external-cephalic-version-version-for-breech-position"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">even turning my baby around </span></span></a><i><a href="http://www.webmd.com/baby/external-cephalic-version-version-for-breech-position"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">by force</span></span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">when she was so obviously comfortable in breech position</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> and then it went the polar opposite direction anyways. I used to beat myself up for the way things turned out--crying, agonizing over what I could have done differently, apologizing in long letters I wrote to Addie.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br />Then for whatever unknown reason <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(enough time?)</span>, it became clear to me: </span></span><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">it wasn’t my fault. </span></span></b></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><b></b></span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If I could not control it, I certainly could not have caused it.</span></span></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br />I hear this statement All. The. Time. in meetings but I never really applied it to myself. I had always believed that if I worked hard and exerted my will strongly enough, I would get my desired results. That it took me twenty-four years to learn this was simply not the case was...well...I guess I'm a slow learner.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDvJ6XzXUI/AAAAAAAAAV0/sTG5Gk1Ad5U/s400/DSC00090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535186895605292354" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span>The two most important lessons I've learned directly from Adeline's birth that have helped me to live a happier life:<br /><br />-the only part of life I can control are my own actions and reactions<br /><br />-accept life on life's terms</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDvJUDO-lI/AAAAAAAAAVk/okkI729fxX0/s400/DSC_0096.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535186885318474322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">her first birthday</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span>I know this post may read as super-cheesy but what can I say? Becoming a first-time mother profoundly changed my outlook on life. I'm still learning new things about myself every day I spend with her, and for that, I'm so happy there is no ending to this tale. :) </span></span><!--EndFragment--></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:15.8333px;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDvKNuAMSI/AAAAAAAAAV8/VS70C5tMtxo/s400/DSC_0098.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535186900798681378" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px; " /></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-40275078646234130012010-11-02T21:18:00.000-07:002010-11-27T22:27:37.485-08:00what did YOU do today?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDjXQvAncI/AAAAAAAAAVc/4WqG9eqEIEc/s1600/IMG_2337.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDjXQvAncI/AAAAAAAAAVc/4WqG9eqEIEc/s400/IMG_2337.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535173930806975938" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Who, me? </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDjXB83-BI/AAAAAAAAAVU/555dI5c65W0/s1600/IMG_2332.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TNDjXB83-BI/AAAAAAAAAVU/555dI5c65W0/s400/IMG_2332.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535173926838597650" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">We participated in our country's democratic process. Goooooo civic duty! </div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-45643406973919526052010-10-31T14:23:00.000-07:002011-05-16T23:06:35.532-07:00The Tale of Adeline, Part IV<div style="text-align: left;"><i>(For Part I, <a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline.html">click here</a>. For Part II, <a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/twenty-two-and-part-ii.html">click here</a>. For Part III, <a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline-part-iii-blackout.html">click here</a>.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I came to in the recovery room and it felt like I had been hit by a car.** Every part of my body ached. My midwife's face appeared and she began to slip slivers of ice into my mouth. I wasn't thinking about my new baby, I was thinking about how this was the worst pain I had ever been in. I would pass out, wake up, eat some ice, pass out, wake up, eat more ice. I woke up and my bed was being moved to the room I would stay in for the next three nights. The fog began to clear in my head and the need to see and hold Addie became overwhelmingly sharp.</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TM5Wb44aQVI/AAAAAAAAAVM/FzTCfkHTx6Y/s400/DSC_0326.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534456029210362194" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px; " /></span><div><br /></div><div>As we entered my room, I saw Zach standing there holding a large bundle of blankets. He was beaming. Once they transferred me to my new bed, my midwife unraveled the blankets and placed her onto my chest. I remember everyone watching my reaction, witnessing our first proper meeting, and wishing that Addie and I could be alone. I pored over her, taking in her littleness. Pink hands. Bright heather eyes. A slight shock of soft black hair. She wanted to nurse immediately so I obliged, feeling weird that I was sitting there half-naked with people all around me. It was an out-of-body experience for the next hour while family, nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants cycled in and out of the room. Zach left for supplies at the nearest grocery store. My mother and sister said good-bye. One minute there were ten satellites orbiting around our bed, and then in the next, we were alone in the Universe.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TM5WbUeBVUI/AAAAAAAAAU8/1x9x9oc_lcw/s400/DSC_0383.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534456019436000578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>"Hi. I'm your mom," I whispered to her.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was then, as we lay there body against body, skin to skin, that I began to experience the first inkling of motherly love. It was still hard to believe she was mine, that she was what I carried around as a part of me for nine months. She was too beautiful and perfect for what seemed like such a turbulent way to enter this world. I softly cried as she nursed, apologizing over and over for letting this happen. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>I thought I could protect you. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>*******</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The next three nights we spent at the hospital were rocky. Besides recovering from the surgery, I felt a perpetual undercurrent of anxiety running through me...a combination of post-partum hormones, pain medication, and sleep deprivation. We were completely unprepared for a hospital stay. I didn't have any of the creature comforts I had for Louie's birth--no computer, no personal pillow or pajamas, not even my toothbrush. I was such a nervous wreck that I stayed in the same hospital gown for three days straight without showering or even brushing my teeth. When the doctor signed an early discharge form after I asked the nurses whether I could leave for the 6,784th time, we didn't have a "coming home outfit" for Addie--just an old, oversized boys onesie and sleeper. I wore the same stinky sweatpants and mens t-shirt I arrived in during my labor. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's safe to say we were a <s><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">hot</span></i></s><i></i> mess when we walked out of the hospital on that wintery gray morning, December 31st. We rang in the New Year that night lying in bed with Adeline in our arms. And somewhere deep within me, I knew that everything would be okay. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>**Edited 11/2--I forgot to mention why I blacked out at the end of the last post. I was put under general anesthesia for emergency because I was bleeding excessively and saying that I could feel pain which was NOT good. I didn't know they were going to put me under. I woke up incredibly groggy and feeling sick from both the surgery and the meds. The doctor told me that my muscles were almost "watery" from being in labor and working for so long, so when they tried to stitch up my uterus the thread was coming out of the muscle. Yikes. Anyways, yeah, that's it. </i></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-18138344213023860952010-10-30T21:00:00.000-07:002010-10-31T23:35:01.108-07:00Boo! Happy Halloween!<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx481y9xI/AAAAAAAAAUU/DUsvTa-m3Do/s400/DSC_0017.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534064002838230802" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Incognito Cow"</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx5f0qkKI/AAAAAAAAAUc/y1j12FOStzQ/s400/DSC_0034.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534064012228726946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(I didn't do it)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx6lQl2PI/AAAAAAAAAU0/c1PXGcadZMY/s1600/DSC_0390.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx6lQl2PI/AAAAAAAAAU0/c1PXGcadZMY/s400/DSC_0390.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534064030867904754" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>runaway ballerina</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx59l_q6I/AAAAAAAAAUs/nYy3Cikv7b8/s1600/DSC_0319.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx59l_q6I/AAAAAAAAAUs/nYy3Cikv7b8/s400/DSC_0319.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534064020220259234" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i> buddy system!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx5llxMxI/AAAAAAAAAUk/DZ7hGeS6rsE/s1600/DSC_0365.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMzx5llxMxI/AAAAAAAAAUk/DZ7hGeS6rsE/s400/DSC_0365.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534064013776859922" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>d'awwww</i></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-91155867560868167102010-10-29T14:12:00.000-07:002010-11-13T22:53:50.142-08:00The Tale of Adeline, Part III: Blackout<div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Warning: There are some graphic photos in this post. I want to to tell my story with honesty and not feel the need to hide or edit what happened, because I believe that Addie's birth was as beautiful and important as any other. I also want to share my experience with women who may share similar birth stories. For Part I, </span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">click here</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. For Part II, </span><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/twenty-two-and-part-ii.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">click here.</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">**********</span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I think we're going to the hospital, dear," my midwife told me. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was four o'clock in the morning. I had been in active labor for more than 24 hours. I agreed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This was where my months of meticulous planning had ended. I had not researched hospitals, not even CONSIDERED where we might go if things went wrong. Because I'd believed that if I'd planned for it, then it would happen. In hindsight, this was foolish. The hospital we ended up going to was the closest one to our apartment, and my midwife had worked there as an RN years ago so she had pull with all the doctors and nurses. It was also known as the "ghetto hospital" by many, since it was primarily for low-income, Medi-Cal families. I actually </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">had </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Medi-Cal by some miraculous circumstance of applying right when I found out I was pregnant, and it ended up covering the entire cost of my stay. So I don't have any right to complain or criticize this place because they took care of me and the doctors were amazing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The drive to the hospital was awful. I thing my body was in shock, or maybe I was going through "transition" (where you feel sick right before you're about to push the baby out), because I was hot and cold, and gasping through my contractions, back pain, and the urge to push. Luckily, the roads were clear and the Labor and Delivery part of hospital seemed quiet and empty. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The nurses immediately hooked me up to an IV while the midwife discussed my situation with the doctor. My levels of amniotic fluid were still surprisingly high and I was plenty hydrated from all the labor-ade I was forced to drink. It was decided that all I would need was a little pitocin to restart the contractions and then I could have my baby. No problem! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Except pitocin is paaaaainful. Pitocin makes your contractions come on like a freight train, ramming into you over and over with little break in between. I felt like hell resisted as long as could, but after a few more contractions, I begged for the epidural. I felt like a failure in the eyes of my midwife, who has extolled the evils of medicated births the previous nine months, drilling into my head that narcotics and epidurals robbed women of the natural high they received after pushing the baby out. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Oh well,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I thought, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I'm at the hospital now anyways. </span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My midwife and Zach were completely supportive of my decision for the epidural and 45 minutes later, the anesthesiologist walked in with a golden halo hovering over this head. After he was finished, my legs suddenly went numb and felt like massive tree trunks. The pain of the contractions faded away but my body was so tense from the labor and adrenaline that my back was seizing up and H. had to continuously massage me to help me relax and sleep a little. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Hours passed as I drifted in and out of consciousness. By 12:30 pm, my contractions had been showing strong and steady on the monitor for long enough. 10 centimeters, here I come! The nurse checked my cervix and looked up at me with a sad, worried expression on her face. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"4 or 5 centimeters," she said, "I think the baby is in a posterior position, and the head is tilted the wrong way so it's bashing up against your cervix and you're very swollen now." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">After all the pain, all that time, all the preparation and visualizing of my perfect birth, it came down to this: an emergency c-section. I was too tired to fight this nightmare. I nodded my consent as tears started to fall down my face. A part of me was relieved that it would just be over soon, the other part of me wept for whatever dream I had that was now gone. My mother and sister walked into the room, trying to smile through their worried expressions. We took this photo right before I was wheeled into the Operating Room: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMtK_6unpdI/AAAAAAAAATs/wrpOT8mu1Bk/s400/DSC_0166.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533599029111793106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was a little after one o'clock in the afternoon and a new anesthesiologist pumped me full of pain medication, testing my reflexes to make sure I was thoroughly numb from the waist down. I kept feeling his fingers and this scared me. I really didn't want to feel myself being sliced open. Surgeons and nurses flurried around the room, my midwife madly clicked away on the camera, and Zach sat next to me stroking my face and whispering sweet things into my ear. He wore an operating room hat and mask so all I could see were his eyes. I remember how they were full of concern, but also of strength and love. I don't think I've ever loved anyone so much as him at that exact moment. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMtLAH4l98I/AAAAAAAAAT0/Mmu93oRRTrc/s400/DSC_0170.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533599032643286978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The doctors began the surgery. There was a large blue vertical curtain placed below my chest so I couldn't see anything. I heard murmuring and the beeping of machines. Anytime they referred to the baby, they would say, "he", and, "his", which felt so anti-climactic after we waited nine months to find out the sex. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I guess we have a Jack," I whispered to Zach. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It sounded like they were having some difficulty pulling our son out. A doctor angrily yelled at my midwife to get back behind the curtain since she had our camera right over their shoulders during the surgery. I felt a tugging that was getting stronger and stronger, and then a surprising shock of pain starting to spread throughout my body. I felt nauseous from all the drugs and began to shake violently.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMtLAWwrlAI/AAAAAAAAAT8/Yd4Xo15R43k/s400/DSC_0212.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533599036636632066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Oh my God, it's a girl!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Cheers burst out through the room and suddenly there she was, covered in bloody goo, face to face with me. I kissed her forehead. I felt a deep sadness that the first time I met her I was feeling so sick and weak. I didn't want my first memories of her to be associated with numbness, pain, and confusion. It was hard to feel any tenderness or love because I felt like I was spinning, falling down a deep spiral, and then all too abruptly...blackout. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMtLIzxiMoI/AAAAAAAAAUE/aJl6tDSKOaI/s400/DSC_0239.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533599181863793282" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMtLJD2jfbI/AAAAAAAAAUM/hpszUSlHb68/s400/DSC_0275.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533599186179816882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">to be continued...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline-part-iv.html">Go to Part IV</a></span></i></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-16950663054779098502010-10-28T20:00:00.000-07:002011-05-16T23:10:08.727-07:00Twenty-Two, and Part II<div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today my little girl, my first-born, a person who has changed my life for the infinitely better, turns 22 months old. That number may seem weird to celebrate since she’s two months shy of her second birthday, but it feels momentous to me. Month 21 passed in the blink of an eye. Her language skills have suddenly developed up so much so that she ran into our bedroom this morning with her toy pot and ladle and exclaimed, “Mama, I make soup!” She’s like a little tornado of EMOTION, which she expresses to maximum effect. When she’s joyful, you can’t help but laugh and twirl and march alongside her. When she’s angry, a dark cloud looms over all of us. What a curious, wonder-filled adventure it’s been thus far with our little imp:</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMo6CkxGJdI/AAAAAAAAATk/6mPCsJPF2f4/s400/DSC_0012.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533298908081825234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Happy 22 months, Addie...</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And now, for the next installment of:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The Tale of Adeline, Part II: Nature’s Revenge</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline.html">(for Part I, click here)</a></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I was e<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ight </span>days late. No, not my period this time. My due-date. Not that due-dates are ever accurate. I think it’s something like a 10% chance of actually having your kid be born on the due date your doctor gives you, but still. By the last month of your pregnancy, you are HONED in on that day. That glorious day when you will be released from the shackles of an alien life-form that’s hijacked your body (I actually loved everything about being pregnant until a week before she was born and then it was like OUT, VILE CREATURE, OUT!)</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">By the time the whole breech baby-it’s-the-end-of-Ariel’s-world-as-she-knows-it fiasco was over, it was already December, and my due date was the 20</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Well, the 20</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> came and went. I think I went about my day tip-toeing around, hugging Zoe a lot, expecting my waters to break and drown us all at any moment. And then it was the night before Christmas, and I was praying that this poor kid wouldn’t have to share a birthday with Jesus Christ.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And then Christmas came and went and we played a lot of Nintendo Wii, ate homemade fried chicken and spaghetti puttanesca, and walked around the neighborhood loop thirty million times to kick-start my labor. I even took some Labor Tincture my midwife gave me but it only gave me a few mild contractions that faded away through nighttime. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The next evening (the 26th) I began to feel contractions again, but figured they would go away like before so I knocked back a little more Labor Tincture and proceeded to kick everyone's ass at Super Mario Cart. They kept coming though, and by 10:00pm, I was on the phone with my midwife. 10 minutes apart, for 30-60 seconds long. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Labor, schmabor!, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I thought. Hoo-boy, what an idiot I was. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My sister and Zach went to bed, leaving me to suffer in my own private hell. It's not like they could tell how I felt. I would be fine one minute, and then the next, face down in the carpet, butt up in the air, breathing </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">hoo, hoo, HOOOOO. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">By 2:00am, I'd had enough alone time and started harassing my midwife again on the phone. She could tell I needed support by that time and sent her assistant, H., to our apartment. H. was a GODSEND. Patient, amazing, calming angel of a woman. By the time she arrived at 5:00am, it became clear that the baby was in a posterior position (head facing the wrong way) by the intense lower back pain I felt each time I had a contraction. She and Zach would literally put all of their weight into their clenched fists against my lower back for relief--I had bruises to prove it. </span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMo6BO0awNI/AAAAAAAAATE/UW0rmZ_ZOyI/s400/DSC_0058.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533298885010309330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Zach and H. are having some random discussion while I look like I'm praying at the altar of Michael Pollan. Did I seriously think I was going to be in the mood to read about grass-fed cattle in between contractions? </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Apparently, yes. </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I don't think I have ever consumed as much liquid as I did while laboring at home. They tell you not to drink or eat anything at the hospital; well, these people shoveled homemade "labor-ade", bananas, and peanut-butter toast down my throat at every given chance. I never want to taste the combination of lemon juice, water, honey, salt, and ground-up calcium magnesium tablets again. GAG. They did, however, do a great job of keeping my energy up because my labor kept going. and going. and going. In the late morning (around 10:00 am), H. checked my progress and said I was at 4 cm. Whoo-hoo! </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">By this time, I was in my own deep, animalistic private-world. All modesty and sense of decorum was thrown out the window. I didn't care that my sister was taking photos of me half-naked, in full squat-position, moo-ing as loudly as possible from the very deepest pit of my stomach. I look at those photos now and blush HARD. But nobody said child-birthin' was purdy! </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">As the young folks say, shit was getting real. My water broke at 12:37 (thanks, note-takers), and there on the bathroom floor, was a bright red, heart-shaped puddle (the bloody show!). Really! I have a photo, but I don't think you want to see my mucus plug, even if it looked pretty in that i-make-art-with-my-bodily-fluids kind of way. This was past the twelve-hour mark and I was hit with a second-wind, encouraged by my water breaking and progressing another centimeter. I cried, completely overwhelmed with the level of support and love I felt toward and from the people around me. </span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMo6CIc5biI/AAAAAAAAATU/2uFa1_7X6F8/s400/DSC_0121.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533298900480912930" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Here I am right after my water broke, smiling. Because I thought it would be over soon.</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Time ceased to exist. Hours flew by without my notice since all I could focus on was getting through each mind-numbingly painful contraction and then relaxing during the few-minute reprieve. I spent most of the time in our bathroom, jumping in and out of the shower, rolling against an exercise ball, and sitting on a medieval-looking </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/edeva/466050874/in/set-72157600098084179/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"birthing stool"</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> that was invented by a Danish midwife so you could have your baby without straining your thigh muscles while you squatted. Now there is a pretty picture for you to go along with the words! Oh, and I was bellowing like a p.o.'d moose at the same time. I'm sure our neighbors were equally too embarrassed and terrified to do anything like call the police. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMo6CYC9R7I/AAAAAAAAATc/ebAJjLuBpb8/s400/DSC_0135.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533298904667080626" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sitting on the "birthing stool"...maybe I'm imagining my spirit anim</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">al? </span></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was night again, and everyone besides myself ate dinner. By 10:00pm , a full night and day later, my spirits began to flag. I was beyond exhausted. I was falling asleep while still standing with my head resting on the bathroom counter.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMo6Bp0sMuI/AAAAAAAAATM/NgEYG2EJAA0/s400/DSC_0106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533298892259209954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">zzzzzzzzzzz...wake me up when the baby is here</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I told my midwife I didn't think I could do it anymore. She checked me again and said I was eight, almost nine, centimeters. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Well, it's time to shit or get off the pot," she said. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"What!?", I thought, and became very pissed off at her all of a sudden. What the hell had I been doing the past 24 hours? </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The next five or six hours were a blur. I tried to focus every molecule of my being into dilating that last centimeter. I meditated. Zach and I took a bath together. I begged to whatever higher power existed in the Universe to please help out a tiny bit and get me through this. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Suddenly, I felt my insides bearing down very hard and it felt different than the usual contraction. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Am I pushing this baby out?, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I thought, as amniotic fluid gushed out. It was like my body had a mind of it's own and it got sick of waiting around--it was time to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">push. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My midwife checked me again and said that I was still at 9 cm but she hoped these stronger contractions would help bring the baby's head down and push me to 10.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The odd pushing contractions kept coming, I kept losing amniotic fluid, and I felt like death may be a more viable option than continuing as I was. I was feeling so disheartened every time the midwife checked me and I was still stuck at 9.5 cm. My normal contractions were petering out, getting weaker and weaker, and in a total panic over failing, I ran up and down the apartment stairs outside in the freezing weather at three o'clock in the morning to make them stronger. I was a maniac. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">By 4:00 am, talk of hospital transfer began...</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">to be continued... </span></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/tale-of-adeline-part-iii-blackout.html">Go to Part III</a></span></i></span></span></div> <!--EndFragment-->B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-77516328280413582882010-10-27T22:26:00.001-07:002011-10-31T09:28:23.414-07:00The Tale of Adeline<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:15;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With Addie turning 22 months old tomorrow and her second birthday rapidly approaching, I'm feeling inspired and (most of all) ready to talk about my pregnancy and birth story with her. Since I am completely unable to summarize the entire story in one post, I'll tell it in a several parts...praying that I actually finish the story with where she is now. Brevity is not my forte, folks.</span></i></span></div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Also, I officially give warning to the squeamish. There will be talk of vaginas. And midwives sticking hands up said vaginas. And many hours of excruciating stabby-knife contractions. And mucus plugs which are sometimes called BLOODY SHOW. And moo-ing and swearing and some crazy-ass primal shit. So if you can't handle aaaallll of this (::waving hands::), then stop. reading. right. now. </span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ok. Take a deep breath. And on with the (bloody) show!</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>Part I: 23 And Pregnant</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I've always been terrible about taking the Pill. After some time, I finally switched to the Nuva Ring to accommodate my laziness/forgetfulness and called it good. Except I forgot to pick up some more from Planned Parenthood when I ran out. Because birth control still works when you're </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">thinking </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">of getting some more, right? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was in the middle of a Bikram yoga class when during an inverse position where your legs are sticking straight up into the air, the teacher calls out, "Those of you who are pregnant or menstruating, do NOT attempt this position." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And I thought, "Hmm. Wouldn't that be funny if I was pregnant or menstruating and I'm doing it anyways? Wait a minute, should I be menstruating? When was my last period? What if I was pregnant, hahah!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The class ended and a very sweaty me ran into Nob Hill on the way home to pick up some pregnancy tests. As soon as I picked out a box from the aisle, I swore that EVERYBODY was looking at me (paranoid much?). And then I started to get a little nervous. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Of course, it was positive. As soon as I saw the two pink lines, the world seemed different. I, the dysfunctional, newly sober, child-wary young woman, was with child! Oh, and I hated when people used that phrase. But I wasn't upset. I wasn't worried. I felt a swell of excitement, like tiny fizzy bubbles were running through my nervous system. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Zach came home that night, and I stood against the wall with the test behind my back. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Guess what?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"You're pregnant."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Hey, how did you know?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Because whenever anyone says, 'Guess what', they're pregnant."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Oh, ok. Well, I'm pregn</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ant!" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He was happy, of course. And then, I subsequently lost my mind. I delved head-first at high-speed into the perilous world of first-time pregnant woman. These people will spend ten hours straight researching any and more of the following subjects: co-sleeping, epidurals, SIDS, car seat safety, infant stimulation exercises, amniocentesis, birth stories, swaddling, bassinet vs co-sleeper vs pack n' plays vs cribs vs oh-my-God-what happened to the brain that used to read Kafka and discuss Fauvism?!!!!! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The next nine months were like this. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A week after we found out I was knocked up, we watched the documentary, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Business of Being Born</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. It can basically be summarized as: HOSPITALS ARE PURE EVIL. Your body will be hijacked by menacing doctors who will pump you full of narcotics and epidurals and then it will snowball into a terrifying series of INTERVENTIONS which will inevitably lead to the dreaded C-word. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Cesarean. </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another week later, we signed a contract agreement with a well-respected, home-birth midwife. No law-suits if I die, blah, blah, blah. And then I delved even deeper into the underground culture of...home-birth women. This sub-culture followed many ideas that were new to me: exclusively breast-feeding, attachment parenting, co-sleeping, baby-wearing (in slings), cloth-diapering, raw-milk-feeding, home-schooling, nature-lovin' DIRTY HIPPIES! Sorry, I had to go there. I kid. It was actually very fun to learn all about this new religion through my mid-wife and like-minded folk. But I was so very blissfully ignorant.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I skated through the pregnancy with no morning sickness, zero annoying pregnancy symptoms, and a perfectly engineered plan of how Addie's birth would play out. I maintained my yoga and hiking regimen. I kept my weight down for the first two trimesters until my body simply demanded that I eat a carton of Ben & Jerry's every single night for the last three months. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When you're pregnant, the fetus is the only subject people are interested in discussing with you. How's the baby? How are you feeling? Are you finding out the sex? How far along are you? What vegetable is Baby Center comparing it to now? A rutabaga, you say? Your stomach becomes public property and people become emboldened to criticize the items in your grocery basket. Baristas proffer advice on how you should not be consuming caffeine because her sister didn't drink it when she was pregnant and it's bad for you, you know? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:15;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhn5e-k8I/AAAAAAAAAS0/MM6TdltvyhE/s1600/DSC_0346.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532990586530730946" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhn5e-k8I/AAAAAAAAAS0/MM6TdltvyhE/s400/DSC_0346.JPG" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">24 weeks</span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I openly shared with anyone who asked that I was planning a natural (drug-free) home-birth. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Yes, we live in a one-bedroom apartment." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Why yes, it IS on the third floor of the apartment building." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"No, I'm not afraid things will go wrong because I'm actualizing my perfect birth, you see. I meditate and send positive thoughts out to the Universe. IT CAN'T GO WRONG." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As the due date drew near, we began to prepare. We bought a waterproof mattress pad and home-birth supplies. I borrowed baby-items and hand-me-down clothes from the only friend I knew that had a baby. I read books by the revered natural-hippie-home-birth-advocate, Ina May Gaskin. I meditated and put headphones to my stomach, blasting everything from Pink Martini to Daft Punk to Beethoven. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:15;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhngbmdNI/AAAAAAAAASs/etKfu96Qao8/s1600/DSC_0189.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 268px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532990579805680850" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhngbmdNI/AAAAAAAAASs/etKfu96Qao8/s400/DSC_0189.JPG" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Zach, preparing for the baby and looking </span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">utterly confounded by the baby carrier</span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My midwife held a "birth-preparation" class, which I imagine was quite different from the normal Labor and Birth classes given at hospitals. It pretty much consisted of watching video after video of indigenous women from various South American countries breathing serenely and then popping out a baby on their front porch. Another video showed a woman who was having her second home-birth WITH TWINS, laboring on the toilet while her three-year old suckled at her teat (yes, Zach and I felt a leetle uncomfortable at that point). Her midwife was apparently stuck in traffic so she delivered them by herself, the second one being in a breech position (head up=kinda dangerous), and she literally reaches into her vag, grabs the baby's foot, and pulls it out of her like it's no big thang. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Grab a shoelace so I can tie off the cord, honey!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>Oh, I can SO do this</i>, I thought. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:15;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhoOdHcYI/AAAAAAAAAS8/Prvm12lnHnA/s1600/DSC_0152.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532990592160067970" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMkhoOdHcYI/AAAAAAAAAS8/Prvm12lnHnA/s400/DSC_0152.JPG" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At my baby shower, about 6 weeks before I was due</span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At my 37-week appointment, my midwife was smooshing my stomach around to feel for the baby's position and she frowned. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I think this little bugger may be breech. Go see my friend at the ultrasound office and check." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sure enough, the "little bugger" was head up, butt down, with her feet up against her face. Like a pike position <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breech_birth">(called a frank breech)</a>. This meant that: a) I could try to find an old-school doctor who was open to trying a breech delivery in a hospital, b) Sign ANOTHER super-strict agreement with my midwife that if we attempted a breech birth at home and things went wrong, we couldn't sue her blah, blah, blah, and c) I could do everything in my power to make the baby turn to the proper position before I went into labor. I chose c). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I did everything, I mean EVERYTHING, to get Addie to turn around. Not only did I do the acupuncture, Chinese moxa stick, chiropractor, handstands in the pool, laying on an ironing board with my feet up on the couch, yoga positions, and squatting, but I meditated, talked, begged, pleaded to my baby, "Please, baby, please. Please turn around. You are messing with MY PLAN. Here, follow this flashlight I'm annoying you with." Nothing worked. And I was 38 weeks along. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We finally tried one last resort: the external version. This is when a highly skilled doctor handles the baby from the outside and physically turns it around. It's normally done from weeks 32-34, when there is still plenty of amniotic fluid and space in the womb. Not at week 38. I know, I know. In hindsight, I was a little insane. But I would not give up the idea of having a home-birth. My child DESERVED to be born in a calm, loving home where she wouldn't be suctioned and poked and prodded right away. It was my duty to protect her, I thought. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The version worked. And it hurt like a motherfucker. It feels like someone is jabbing and twisting you in your vital organs as hard as they possibly can. I think it was almost worse than labor contractions. I have a high pain threshold and I was listening to meditations on my ipod and there were tears streaming down my face. It took 25 minutes, and just as the doctor was going to throw in the towel, she turned around. God, she was stubborn from the very beginning. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We were back on track, and I was incredibly happy and relieved. Now, she just had to STAY in that position and the rest would be easy-peasy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Or so I thought...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">...to be continued...</span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="http://babeandthebeast.blogspot.com/2010/10/twenty-two-and-part-ii.html">Go to Part II</a></span></i></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-60697778727088854362010-10-26T19:16:00.000-07:002010-11-13T22:56:44.230-08:00Halloween Preview<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Photos courtesy of a talented friend who takes amazing photos. I'm sure he gets tired of of everyone always shouting, "Noah, take a shot of the kids! Look! They're being extra-super cute now!" He graciously complies though. :) </span></div><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzJLtgeVI/AAAAAAAAASY/A-wnAI-0Jyo/s1600/1062648998_2010-10-23+at+12-16-47.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzJLtgeVI/AAAAAAAAASY/A-wnAI-0Jyo/s400/1062648998_2010-10-23+at+12-16-47.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532024687638378834" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">drumming to her own </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bee</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">at</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzIDWWqxI/AAAAAAAAASQ/pt9VepzfRAQ/s1600/1062613737_2010-10-23+at+12-01-17.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzIDWWqxI/AAAAAAAAASQ/pt9VepzfRAQ/s400/1062613737_2010-10-23+at+12-01-17.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532024668213914386" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">you really need a haircut, woman.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzHK_kKuI/AAAAAAAAASI/shKsE7qns1A/s1600/1062681764_2010-10-23+at+12-47-18.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzHK_kKuI/AAAAAAAAASI/shKsE7qns1A/s400/1062681764_2010-10-23+at+12-47-18.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532024653085944546" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">first Halloween (party) for these two!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzGcBLkvI/AAAAAAAAASA/f5cbh_L48NA/s1600/1062661386_2010-10-23+at+12-26-33.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzGcBLkvI/AAAAAAAAASA/f5cbh_L48NA/s400/1062661386_2010-10-23+at+12-26-33.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532024640476254962" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">BALL-AH</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzFQLWBVI/AAAAAAAAAR4/r92p0Yja-mM/s1600/1062662930_2010-10-23+at+12-26-48.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMWzFQLWBVI/AAAAAAAAAR4/r92p0Yja-mM/s400/1062662930_2010-10-23+at+12-26-48.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532024620117787986" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bee happy!</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">*Besides needing a haircut, I also needed to make my costume more obvious. I was supposed to be the Flower Garden to Addie's Bumble bee (there are little bees glued all over the flowers on my dress), but instead I was told that I looked "very Bacchanalian". Oh well.</span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-67568034030808061632010-10-25T14:03:00.000-07:002010-11-13T22:49:59.914-08:00Room to Grow<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm going to read a book titled </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Whole Child/Whole Parent</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> by Polly Berends as soon as it gets here from San Francisco Salvation Army (15 cents=win!). Yesterday I read this quote from the book:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Never miss an opportunity to allow a child to do something she can and wants to on her own. Sometimes we're in too much of a rush—and she might spill something, or do it wrong. But whenever possible she needs to learn, error by error, lesson by lesson, to do better. And the more she is able to learn by herself the more she gets the message that she's a </span></span><a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/quotations/famous.asp?people=Polly%20Berrien%20Berends#" class="kLink" target="undefined" id="KonaLink1" style="text-decoration: underline !important; border-bottom-style: none !important; cursor: pointer; border-top-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-top-style: none !important; border-right-style: none !important; border-left-style: none !important; border-top-color: transparent !important; border-right-color: transparent !important; border-bottom-color: transparent !important; border-left-color: transparent !important; background-image: none !important; background-attachment: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; text-transform: none !important; display: inline !important; font-variant: normal; top: 0px; right: 0px; bottom: 0px; left: 0px; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; position: static; "><span style="font-weight: bold; position: static; "><span class="kLink" style="border-top-width: 0px !important; border-top-style: none !important; border-top-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-left-style: none !important; border-left-color: initial !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-right-style: none !important; border-right-color: initial !important; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-color: blue; padding-top: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background- width: auto !important; float: none !important; display: inline !important; font-weight: bold; position: static; color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">kid</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span id="preLoadWrap1" class="preLoadWrap" style="position: relative; "></span></span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> who can."</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This morning, I gave Addie a cup of kefir. Not in a sippy cup, and not while sitting in her high chair. Free to roam the house with an open container. I knew the possible ramifications of this but thought I would try anyways.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sure enough ten minutes later as she's playing with her toys on the coffee table, she knocked the half-filled cup over and kefir splattered everywhere. I held my breath for a second and felt a flash of annoyance toward both of us. Why did I even chance it when I knew this would happen? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I watched her reaction, a slightly panicked look spreading across her face as she scurried away from the mess and turned around to see what I would do. It broke my heart that she immediately assumed she was in trouble for accidentally spilling a drink. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm already messing it all up. I'm crushing her spirit. I suck at this. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Old thoughts of negativity and defeat started to creep in.</span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I slowly breathed out. I remembered what I had read the night before. I knew that I, too, could learn from my past experiences. That I would do better this time. I gave Addie a smile, retrieved paper towels from the kitchen, and started to clean up the puddles. </span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">"Help?" S</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">he reached out a hand. </span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I gave her a square and she began swiping the floor back and forth. </span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Five minutes later, she tripped while holding her cup and spilled a little more kefir in the hallway. She came and got me this time, and we cleaned it up together. </span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">********</span></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Too often I've reacted impatiently to Addie's accidents or challenges. Whether it's because she wants to put on her shoes by herself (making us twenty minutes late), or she insists on holding the shopping basket for me at Target (which is so big she can barely walk with it, making us twenty minutes late), it's a daily struggle for me to relinquish control to this little individual and let her learn things on her own terms, at her own pace. But I am aware of what is happening now--how my reactions are affecting her, and in turn, how her reactions are affecting me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So every day is becoming an act of letting go. Letting go of old behaviors and habits that keep me from growing. Letting go of controlling the uncontrollable, of fearing that I'm making all the wrong decisions, of expecting things to happen overnight. I think that even as adults we're in too much of a rush with ourselves, getting angry at our own mistakes, failing to see the value in the lesson and focusing only on the failure. If only we treated ourselves with the same compassion and patience we try to give our children, or others we love.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zSSJuCPTxHg/TMX3SOkvNwI/AAAAAAAAASg/gxt9bwTtHjw/s400/IMG_1104.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532099609816413954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">She is leading me through new paths, this one. </span></span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2093208059646295656.post-64204487402049410812010-10-24T22:23:00.000-07:002010-11-13T22:51:59.357-08:00Weekend Update, October 24<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm tired. It was a non-st0p go, go, go- kind of weekend. Birthday parties, cleaning, helping to organize and throw a yard sale, meetings, visiting friends with brand-spankin'-new babies (yay!). I'm happy though. I feel like my life is slowly moving in a positive, forward trajectory. Or maybe not forward, but I'm right where I need to be at this moment. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm reading books again (Ian McEwan. Love.) I'm writing. I'm re-discovering old music I loved from my high school and college days, as well as finding new bands to fall in love with for the first time. As my friend said in a meeting on Friday night, "Follow your bliss, man." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That same friend also mentioned something else she heard in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">another</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> meeting (it's like telephone!) that I really loved: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Act as if everything you do matters, because it does." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hmmm...it doesn't sound as profound when I'm writing it down now, but it touched a nerve in me that night and I'm still thinking about it two days later. Maybe it means so much to me because I know that when you are actively addicted to drugs or alcohol, nothing else really matters to you. The pain you cause others, the pain you cause yourself. You numb yourself against facing the consequences and wreckage your actions have wrought. And you have to believe that none of it matters, because than the pain of what you are doing becomes unbearable...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I turned 18 months old on Friday. It could have, should have, would have been 3 years had I not experienced a slight hiccup (cough, relapse, cough) 18 months ago, but that is completely irrelevant at this point. I am beyond grateful for every 24 hours that passes where I do not have to take something to change the way I feel. I am grateful that I am </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">present</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> for my life, and I can experience the things I did this weekend with people who I love. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Service was big part of my weekend. Giving without expecting anything in return. How much of our lives do we spend doing that? Me, not nearly enough. I think most of my early life was spent thinking about what I got out of everything...even if it sometimes appeared as though I helped someone or did anything estimable. I desired acknowledgement and ego-feeding validation for it. "Look guys, I volunteered at a homeless shelter today! Aren't I a modern-day Mother Theresa?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Self-centered to the extreme. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But today isn't about beating myself up for the past. I know I gave my time and energy to good causes this weekend, genuinely expecting nothing in return. I'm trying to make living amends to myself and others every day. And surprise surprise, I still got something in return anyways. I got to be outside of my head for just a few hours--not thinking about what </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> wanted or needed--I was able to just exist in the world and be one of many. Service rocks. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This post probably isn't making any sense at this point. I just wanted to get certain things off my chest and I guess that's what a personal blog is for. I'll post some funny pics of Louie in his Halloween costume soon--we went to a costume birthday party on Saturday and it was a mighty struggle getting Addie to wear either her bumble-bee or ballerina outfit so I haven't snapped many of her yet. And I'm also thinking about both Addie's and Louie's birth stories, since I visited a close friend who had her second son last night/early morning. Something about walking into her hospital room this afternoon flooded me with some unexpected emotions and memories, so I think it's time I finally write about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But for now, I sleep. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">xo </span></div>B&Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01771028636800869440noreply@blogger.com0