Fireworks

We're headed back to the farm this weekend (yes, the one with all the cows) for a family reunion.  This evening, I wondered aloud at the spectacle Brian and his brother might create with fireworks.

Brian:  It's nothing compared to my uncle.  One year he had driven home long-distance for a 4th of July party, stopping at every fireworks stand along the way.  He picked the biggest and best at every shop.  By the end of the trip, he had a huge garbage bag of fireworks.

Jennie:  What happened?

Brian:  Everything was great until the second one took a bad hop and landed in the garbage bag.

Jennie:  (laughs)

Brian:  He set the lawn on fire.

Jennie:  (still laughing)  Oh god, please stop.  I've peed my pants!  (the 3rd trimester sucks, y'all.)

My own family has a very long tradition of setting various patches of grass on fire on the 4th of July.  Some collateral damage includes hearing loss, heart palpitations, burned fingers, and a large orange glow in the far woods of a nearby house, where the garden hose couldn't possibly reach.  But I'll never forget the year we let a 5-year old boy hold a 5-ball Roman Candle, and after the first one we all made the obligatory "ooooh" noises, whereupon the 5-year old turned to us, proud of his handiwork, with a giant grin on his face and the Roman Candle aimed at us.  

You've never seen a bunch of ladies hit the deck that fast.  

This year we've been told that fireworks on the farm are allowed, within very reasonable limits on after-show cleanup.  That basically leaves giant cannon shots that can be seen for miles.  

This should be a very interesting holiday.

But with all the commotion, the cows will probably stay far away, and I won't get to take lots of pictures of them.  And that, Dear Reader, will be a win-win for you.

Heart Warming

When I was 4 months pregnant with Helen, Brian & I began the house-hunting in earnest.  There was a tight market in our area, and we learned quickly after some trial and error offers that we had to leap on a house as soon as it was available and cross our fingers.

At the time, we were living in an apartment on the 3rd floor.  Day by day, I was getting more and more winded going up the stairs to our place.  Sometimes I would be carrying groceries, and I'd get to the top landing with my heart racing a mile a minute.  Other times I wouldn't be carrying anything, and I'd still have to rest for a minute when I got inside.  

Now I know I'm not in shape, but it felt a little ridiculous to be unable to handle that little walk upstairs.  And I could just picture how it would go carting a baby, too.  Which suddenly was a very good reason to move out of that apartment.

My lease wasn't up until a few months after my due date.  I had a chat with the manager, and they would be able to let me out of my lease early with a note from the doctor.  So at my next visit to the OB, I explained my heart issues and 3rd floor issues and wondered aloud if she could possibly write me a letter to expedite the whole lease-breaking thing.

Instead, she sent me to a cardiologist.

Apparently I'd focused a little too much on the heart problem and not enough on the "I need a letter" problem.  But I was far enough along in my pregnancy to realize things might not be normal.   Or, at the very least, it was worth mentioning to a doctor.  Typically in the 2nd trimester, you notice a faster heart rate because your blood volume increases by 30%.  The heart has to work that much harder, and so it's not uncommon to feel exhausted by a little bit of effort.   But just to make sure, she recommended the appointment with the specialist.

So I went.  And walking into the waiting room, I thought it might be a huge exercise in futility to spend my hard-earned co-payment in that place.  I was half the age of everyone in that waiting room, and noticeably pregnant.  I got more than a few long glances in my direction, and I'm sure even the nurses were wondering why a young pregnant person was going to see a heart doctor.

The doctor was extremely thorough.  I got an EKG and an echocardiogram, and both of them came back normal.  He also listened to my heart but didn't detect anything unusual.  He got a complete history and explained everything to me about what they would do next.

I went home that day with a monitor that I had to wear for a month, and whenever I felt that unusually high pulse racing, I had to push a button to record it.  Any strange or fluttering episodes were duly noted as well.  My chief complaint at this point was, dang, I have another month to wait to get a letter.  At this point, I was feeling pretty stupid for having pursued this route.

At the end of the month, I was back at the doctor's office and they reported on the findings of all my careful monitoring - nothing unusual.  In fact, I believe they used the words "stone-cold normal."  Um.  Crap.  So they did an ultrasound of my heart, and that's when the doctor finally hit paydirt.

It turns out I have a leaky valve in my left ventricle, a condition called mitral valve prolapse.  Normally as the heart pumps blood through the 4 chambers, the valves close off behind the blood, keeping everything where it should be.  But one of mine doesn't shut all the way, leaving some blood to flow back into the chamber it came from, and this can cause a variety of problems.  Depending on how bad the leaking is, I have heart racing, chest pain, shortness of breath and a risk of a few other things.  The doctor told me that the pregnancy wouldn't pose a problem, in spite of the increased blood flow, but during the delivery I would need IV antibiotics to make sure I didn't get an infection in my heart.

I asked him if this would be a problem for walking up & down 3 flights of stairs, as I continued in the pregnancy.  He said I could look for another place to live, but that I should be fine and able to lead a very normal life.  Decades from now, I might need medicine or surgery, but for now I was fine.

Not the answer I was looking for, obviously.

Back at the OB's office, I learned that the two doctors had chatted, and my OB was willing to write the letter based on his findings.  A month later, we had our house and a move-in date, and everything seemed to be smooth sailing until Helen showed up 10 days before the closing.  The rest is history.

That is, until pregnancy #2, when I was instructed by my OB to make sure everything was in order with the cardiologist.  At that appointment, I learned that the leaking has gotten worse, to the point that once I'm through with breast-feeding, I will need to start medication.  I've also got an enlarged left ventricle from the pressure build-up of the blood flowing back into that chamber.  For now it's just above the normal limits, and it's possibly due to the pregnancy.  But my doctor can hear the abnormal heart rhythm on his stethoscope now.  

This last visit to the cardiologist, I learned that heart disease is the #1 cause of death for women.  That's startling.  Both my grandmother and great-grandmother died of sudden heart attacks.  There is a strong family history of mitral valve prolapse as well.  I didn't know about that until I was diagnosed and shared the news with my mother.   So there's a small cause to be concerned and watch for developments and do whatever I can to fix this.

Honestly, I wouldn't even know about this condition if I didn't have an OB looking out for her malpractice insurance and a cardiologist who methodical tested me every single way possible.  All I wanted was to get out of my apartment!  

It makes me feel a little less ridiculous.  And I'd encourage you all to pay attention to your own little heart racing, chest pain, shortness of breath issues that could mean the difference between ridiculous and medication.  

To read more about mitral valve prolapse, click here.  

Computer Issues, Part Duh

This weekend the laptop died a spectacular death. We got a black screen that many Apple users will never see in a lifetime. I took the poor dear to a specialist who sadly informed us that all communications with the hard drive were lost, and did we have good backups?

Sigh ...

Fortunately we have a new hard drive to install, and fingers crossed, that may be all that's wrong with it. In the meantime, the search will go on to find the data on the old one, which will involve specialists and money - necessary evils when a year's worth of digital photos are involved.

By the way, a very special thanks to the 4 people who emailed me yesterday to say, "HOLY COW, GUESS WHO POSTED A COMMENT ON YOUR RENOIR ENTRY!!!!!" Trust me - I passed right out.

Master Artist

Yesterday Helen and I spent the morning at the art museum in the presence of a famous artist.

It didn't hurt that the artist's great-grandfather was slightly more famous than him.



In the picture above, in case you couldn't tell, it's the tall guy with the beret that's the artist. He is the great-grandson of Renoir.  Alexandre has been studied art and painted since a very young age, and he brought a giant collection of his own work to display in the museum, in addition to some lithographs of his great-grandfather's. One of his which, he later pointed out to us, was a drawing of his grandpa.

I cannot imagine growing up in the giant shadow of Renoir, but this guy is about the most friendly and down-to-earth person you'd ever hope to meet. We were at the museum for a children's art workshop, where he was "teaching" kids to paint in the impressionist style. Open to all ages - so of course, I dragged Helen straight away for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Did I mention it was free? Yeah, at no cost whatsoever.

Now, anyone who has read this blog for a few days realizes Helen couldn't possibly be shy.  She's loud, proud and ready to go to the head of the class at every opportunity.  Even when we go somewhere new, she gets into the zone after a few minutes.  So when I told her on Friday night that we were going somewhere special to paint the next day, she was standing at my bedside at 5:45 the next morning.  "Mommy," she whispered, "are we going to paint today?"

I made it a special time for us.  We stopped to get a donut for breakfast, and then we rode the bus downtown.  There's a big music festival in town this weekend, and I didn't want to deal with the hassle of parking downtown.  The bus dropped us off right in front of the museum, so it couldn't have been easier. 

They gave every kid a paint can lid.  Alexandre had sketched a flower, and signed his name on the back. The kids were instructed to paint the flowers with the acrylic paint at the tables, and they could do anything they wanted. Alexandre's plan was to walk around and visit with everyone, offer any tips they might need, and just comment in general.


We happened to be standing at the end of a long table, near the front of the room. So once the workshop started, Helen was the first kid he came over to talk to. This guy is extremely tall, and wearing a hat she'd never seen before, and even though I tried to tell her on the bus what to expect, as soon as he came over to our table and talked to her, she buried her head in my thigh. At the one moment I would have loved to have my chatty, friendly toddler in the room, Helen was completely shy.  I couldn't get her to even look at the man, let alone speak to him.  He picked up her paint can lid and asked what color she wanted to use, but it was a no-go from the get-go. Eventually he took some green paint and put a few strokes on the stems. She didn't budge. I couldn't grab my camera to get the moment, either.



But as soon as he moved on to another child, she went to town on the lid. Painting various colors everywhere, she was ready to be the impressionist artist. Heck, she could have been Jackson Pollock if I let her. And later, when she piled a frosting-thick coating of pink paint onto a plain white sheet of paper, I realized she really loved this stuff.



At the end of the workshop, many of the parents were getting pictures of Alexandre with their children and the lids. I decided to try it as well. Maybe after 30 minutes of painting, she'd loosen up, righ? As soon as I approached him, he was friendly and smiling. He complimented Helen on her painting, while Helen proceeded to bury her face in my neck. Then he shared with me that seeing Helen made him miss his own young son. He pulled out his cell phone to show me a little blonde boy with startling blue eyes. I told him that those eyes were gorgeous, and he said as soon as he saw Helen, those eyes reminded him of his son.

A museum photographer came up to get a picture of the 3 of us. I gave him my camera as well and we got another shot. This is the closest we could get to having Helen look up in his presence.

On the way home, I thought of a million questions to ask him. Of course, it was too late by then! But I was so thrilled to have had the chance to be there, and to see some beautiful art. Clearly he's inherited some talent, and his love for the children was evident in that workshop. I don't know how many artists of his great-grandfather's era would have been tempted to do the same thing, but it was truly a great experience for all those kids.

You know, I am Wonder Woman

Some of you may know that I started working at a new company last summer.  Among the many perks of working here is an annual theme party held each Halloween.  They encourage everyone to dress in costume for an afternoon parade, and there's a panel of judges, and prizes for the winners.

Essentially I've died and woken up with a job in heaven. 

After we got the memo with all the details about the parade, I spent about 30 seconds trying to figure out what I could be for Halloween.  It hit me like a bolt of lightning - I could finally dress up as the one character that I have wanted to be since I was 4 years old and severely addicted to Lynda Carter's lousy acting skills on what passed for action shows on television in the 1970's.  I could finally spin around in a circle 5 or 6 times, and I could BE Wonder Woman.

The thought was just too delicious.

There's a great costume shop in town that I stopped by to ask about a rental, but they said they don't have any for rent.  Something about licensing?  They did have one for sale by Marvel, and it was not the best thing I'd seen.  So I spent the next week searching the internet for a suitable costume to buy.  There are people on eBay who will make one for you for several hundred dollars.  Some of them are even pretty good.  There are a few knock-offs costumes that I immediately dismissed.  I also could have cobbled some things together with a few key props, and it might have passed for decent.

As I searched, I could feel myself settling for the easy way out, but the lure of the fame and the prize money was just too strong.   So I kept searching.  And that's when I found The Wonder Woman Museum.

There is a man somewhere who loves Wonder Woman too, possibly a bit more than me, and you can make whatever you want of that.  But this man spent a couple of years creating an exact replica of Lynda Carter's costume from Season 1, and meticulously pictured each step along the way.  All of his research, all of the fabric and stitching and stars and gold leather - it's all there in stunning detail.

As I scrolled down the page in awe of this man and what kind of life he must have to spend it on such a fun project, I saw a picture of a pattern he had made for the cape.  It was all sectioned out in red, white and blue, and taken from a few angles to show the pattern and the finished project.   And that's when it hit me.

I could totally make this costume myself.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't have any skills in the sewing arena.  I've never made anything more complicated than a hem in my whole life.  And when I have hemmed something, you can really tell I did it.  Know what I'm sayin'?

But with that pattern, and all those close-up pictures of the outfit - well, I knew exactly who could help me.  And within about 3 minutes, I was dialing her to spill out the whole crazy thing.

I was 35 years old.  And I was calling my mom to help me make my Halloween costume.  

To her credit, she didn't even hesitate to say yes.  I sent her the link to the website I was pouring over obsessively, and we exchanged a few suggestions about how to make this happen.  Then, the first sewing weekend trip was set.

Okay, so if you're thinking to yourself, "Self, there's no way that Jennie is going to show up at work in that Lynda Carter bathing suit," - well, you're right.  I found several pictures during my research of a few episodes with her in a skirt version of her outfit, and I also decided some kind of tank top would be an appropriate substitute for the bustier she normally wore.  

Brian had a client who did embroidery - bowling team shirts, monogrammed girls' dresses, you name it.  He & I talked about how to make that top, and he talked to his client about how to make that top, and to sum up, there was far too much discussion about how to make that top.  And one evening, I came home from work, and lo, my husband had been to the fabric store.  

He spent hours looking for pictures of the eagle (it changed over the course of the show, so he was looking for a good one to copy) and finally made an eagle pattern out of this gold lame' fabric, and laying it out across a red tank top, I could see it all coming together.  

He had also bought some fake white leather on sale, and figured out a way to wrap that gold fabric around it to make the bracelets and tiara and belt.

You can make of that whatever you want, but at that moment, I could not have possibly loved my husband any more.

He claimed it was not a particularly rough job, looking at hundreds of pictures of Lynda Carter on the internet.  I'll have to take him at his word.

I was over the moon with excitement as I headed home for a sewing weekend.  Mom & I dragged the sewing machine out from its hidey hole in the upstairs closet, and tallied up a short list of the things we'd need.  Mom, god love her, had already found the stars to put on the cape.  We went to Wal-Mart and spent about 45 minutes trying the patience of 2 toddlers while deciding on fabric and notions.   Red, white and blue costume satin, gold trim and rope, thread, and some other stuff.  I think I spent about $40.

In getting the sewing machine, I dug out an old pattern for a short wraparound skirt that Mom had made for us about 10 different times as kids.  It was billed as one of those "make it in a hour" patterns that convinced me to try it.  So as the kids went down for naps, Mom & I put together the first piece of the costume.

The skirt didn't take long, and soon I could see the whole thing coming together.

We found some paper and put together our pattern for the cape.  Essentially it was a half circle sectioned off into one large half of blue, and the other half alternating red and white.  We didn't have a protractor, so we spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out how to make even sections for the red & white.  Considering how proud we were of ourselves for getting it right, I'll tell you now:  neither of us majored in math.  But we did it.

We measured the long edge with a ruler, and it was 54 inches.  We divided by 6.  With a string tied to a pencil, and holding the pencil up near the neck, we drew a straight line down the string every 9 inches.  We wrote the color name on each section, and cut the pattern to begin laying it out on the fabric.  

Piecing it together later on, we realized we probably should have added a seam allowance.  After putting together a few more sections, we realized we also cut out the fabric on the pattern with the wrong side up.  Essentially, every section we added kept getting shorter and shorter.  What started out looking like the one in the WW Museum came out more like a short one to match the length of the skirt.  I didn't mind a bit, actually.  It was pretty impressive for the first try.  Mom added a red satin trim to tie the cape around my neck, and it matched perfectly.

Mom & my sister helped with sewing stars on the cape and skirt.  We tried ironing them on, but the sticky side wasn't working too well on costume satin.

We used some stitch witchery to adhere the gold lame' to the fake leather to make the bracelets and tiara and belt.  Mom stitched gold trim on the edges and after adding red stars, we were set.

At home, I added velcro for the leather pieces, and fitted them.  I had bought a black wig for a Snow White costume ($6) to serve as the gorgeous tresses of Lynda Carter.  I found some boots on a website called Trashy.com ($38, and no, I didn't buy anything else there), and with some nude pantyhose and bright red lipstick, the outfit was complete.

Parading around at work as Wonder Woman, I got plenty of smiles and laughs.  It was well worth it, especially when I got to tell people that I didn't buy that costume - we made just about every single bit of it.  People were stunned.  Mom & I were pretty proud of each other for how great it turned out, and Brian & I were wondering how to make some extra bucks at Halloween, possibly by selling the accessories kit.  

Over Mothers Day weekend, I got to show Mom the results of her hard work.  The company films the parade every year, and I borrowed the DVD to show her my short moment in the sun.  Letting her hear the laughter and applause of other folks as I hammed it up for the crowd - I can only hope that felt like some kind of payment for the project.

Mom, you went above and beyond for what has to be the umpteenth time in my life, and all for a little of your daughter's own personal glory.  You unselfishly spent two weekends on a sewing machine and working over a hot iron to make my little crazy fantasy come true.   I can't say thank you enough, and I just hope the great big grin on my face was worth it.  

Confidential to my mother

Shortly after we arrived home from visiting you for Mother's Day, your precious granddaughter severed our connection to this laptop in a most unforgivable manner.  You remember that power cord for the G4 that I'm always complaining about?  And the one that everyone else complains about, too?  Well, it shorted out and sparked its final time during an intense viewing of "The Incredibles" on DVD.  You can't imagine what it took to order a new one on eBay at the wonderful steal of $25 and wait for an excruciating 2 weeks for it to arrive.  Not having a backup meant we had no laptop at all during that time.  Turns out that the shipment had to clear Customs first.  I guess they don't sell Apple power supplies to overseas customers that easily.  Brian's looking at stocking up for the next time it breaks (an inevitable proposition since this will be our 3rd cord in about as many years), but in the meantime our newest cord has about 8 feet of electrical tape wrapped around the portion that always breaks.  

So, to sum up - I have my entry almost polished, but I was waiting to get the pictures from the laptop, which of course required power.  Now that we're back in business, I'll get the entry finished up & posted soon.

You just wish you could be me

So, last night at 10:15, I was standing in our garage, watching my husband hold a small butane lighter in one hand, and repeatedly push the pilot light button on our brand-new water heater with the other hand. My hands were trembling as I held the instruction booklet. "Oh please God," I prayed, "let it be the tiniest of explosions."
_____

Monday night Brian came home to discover a giant pool of water in the garage. Turns out our water heater finally remembered that its warranty had expired. Our main concern was how quickly we could get the new one installed. Brian was leaving Wednesday for a 2-day work meeting out of town, so waiting until the weekend wasn't an option. Especially after that first cold shower on Tuesday morning. A headache-inducing cold, I might add.

Homeownership has been grand, (3 years next month!) but unlike apartment living, it's a steady debate of "how much does this bother me? a lot? okay, let's spend the money to fix it." Or, "well, daycare will be over in a few years, we can get it then." And the idle conversation about how we might spend our PowerBall winnings - um, I mean daycare budget - turns to new appliances and new flooring and we're off to the races. But in all honesty, we haven't actually done anything significant to the house since we moved in, except to paint it. Well, I take that back. There was the Toilet Repair Day of 2005 right after we increased the water pressure, but for the most part, this house works just fine. So, to find a broken hot water heater Monday night - I thought, you know, we've been pushing our luck for 3 years. Time to pay up.

On the Top 10 list of reasons why I married Brian, somewhere around #5 is "truly handy with tools." I just assumed he'd look at the old unit and try to fix this himself. But we needed a new hot water heater instead. And in our initial discussions on Monday night, I learned that Brian knows enough about plumbing to be dangerous, but was understandably nervous about working on something attached to a natural gas line. So I had a conversation with a guy at Home Depot before work the next day, and Brian checked out the scene at Lowe's. We compared prices & models & warranties & the all-important online reviews. The choice was made, and payment exchanged hands.

Note to taxpayers: Next week is tax rebate deposit week. We are spending our economic stimulus package early. You can thank us next month when you hear about the rebound in the manufacturing sector.

During the shopping, Brian saw the stiff numbers associated with an installation, and he was truly inspired to try it on his own. (I should have known.) He borrowed a truck from a friend, shut off the gas & the water, got the old unit out and hauled it to the dump. Then he hauled the new unit home from the store. By this time, Helen & I were home from work. I sort of helped manuver it through the gauntlet of car projects while Helen danced around like a ninny. I quickly decided the two of us would be no use in the garage and planned to put her to bed early with the idea that I would try to help later.  Instead, a short time later, she & I were at Home Depot getting 90 degree copper pipe bends. Plus, a propane torch and solder and flux.

Yeah, a blowtorch near a natural gas line. Sign me up for this job!

When I got home, I put Helen to bed and then watched Brian work. First he soldered a new cold water pipe out of the wall and attached a flex bend pipe to it and the new water heater. Then he did the same thing for the hot water pipe coming out of the tank. Next trick was to get the air out of the line, and pray nothing would leak. It's hard work to solder copper pipes together from an angle above your shoulders.  Even with a ladder. It's even harder to attach that flex bend pipe with two wrenches at that angle. But he kept cranking away and finally achieved no leaking.

He then had a tricky time figuring out if the gas was on or off. He turned it back on to the house, but the knob on the pipe was a mysterious little thing that didn't indicate either way. I think he must have pushed that pilot light button a zillion times and kept readjusting the knob with a wrench to see what might work. Finally he grabbed the butane lighter. I clutched the instruction manual like it was our Last Rites, which clearly stated with all kinds of giant warning signs - DO NOT TAKE OFF THE INNER DOOR TO LIGHT THE PILOT. DO NOT LIGHT THE PILOT WITH A LIGHTER. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200. Oh dear lord, the praying began. But to my credit, I never said a word out loud.

He didn't have to use the lighter, thankfully. After some more adjusting, which also included me moving clear to the other side of the garage for an easy escape, I heard him say "Aha!" and I realized something important must be happening. Or something bad was about to happen. I inched even closer to my escape hatch. And then there was light - a pilot light. Lo & behold, it all worked like a charm! Oh, what a relief.

That night I slumbered peacefully, with the new water heater humming along a mere 6 feet away on the other side of our bedroom wall. This morning, our house was still standing. The bonus? We had plenty of hot water this morning for Helen's oatmeal and both of our showers. Hallelujah.

Brian, deep down, I never doubted you for a second. But I'm peeking into the garage when I get home to see if I need my swim fins, or a nice hot bath.

Put those dreams on hold

If you didn't know, this weekend was the NFL Draft.  Brian watched diligently for several hours on Saturday and Sunday, commenting occasionally on the prospects of our local team.  Sunday evening he got a call from our Navy friend W.

Brian:  Once again, nobody called me up for the draft.  

W:  And you waited by the phone all weekend.

Brian:  I'm firing my agent.

Get on the bus

Okay, so the conversations at work these days tend to revolve around just how high the price of gas could go by summer.  It was a little obscene to put about $30 worth in the tank earlier this month, and it only came up half full.  And I drive a Honda.

My car doesn't get used at work - it just sits in a parking garage all day.  One of my co-workers mentioned riding an express bus that gets to work on time in the morning and arrives back in plenty of time to pick up Helen at daycare.  I did a little investigating on all the different schedules, and I learned that I've got a lot of options.  There are a couple of express bus schedules for the regular commute, which gets me to a spot downtown only a block away from my office door.  In case I need to run home during the day (i.e., Helen's sick at daycare), there's a local bus that takes a little longer but leaves every half hour.  I've also got a great option for those  monthly doctor appointments that take me right past my doctors office.  I decided this was worth a try, even for just a month, and if I hated it I could go back to driving.

After two days I was hooked.  Public transportation gives me a lot more flexibility than I had imagined, and while I'm without a car during the day, I DIDN'T NEED IT ANYWAY.  Lunch is usually within walking distance, or I can ride with co-workers if we're heading somewhere together.  Errands after work?  I never really had time since I was picking up Helen from daycare and had to race back in crazy traffic.  I can plan ahead a little better, and combine trips on the weekend or evenings. 

This first month, I saved a lot of dough on gasoline.  Half a tank of gas lasted me through 2 weeks, instead of a full tank per week.   Parking costs downtown dropped significantly, too.  I expect in all to save about $150 this month, and as the cost of gas goes up, it will be even more.

Anyone else out there figuring out a way to save on gas?  Feel free to share in the comments.  

More Cows

We traveled to Uncle J and Aunt L's farm this weekend.  Helen has been jonesing for about 2 weeks now, begging us to take her to see the cows.  Once we arrived, I discovered why.  Turns out the cows got busy last summer, and there were 7 baby calves running around the field.  

You could say they were a little hungry at this point.  As soon as we came into the yard, they gathered at the fence.  They get to eat all the grass they want right now, but I think they wanted a little bit of feed.  Instead, they got a little bit of Helen.

Here is a picture of some calves.  They are a little wild and won't let people pet them.  This is as close as we got.

This cow seemed fine with posing for a picture.  I don't know why.

Farm living is the life for me, especially when the weather's nice and the people are friendly.  Aunt L did a great job of hauling out all the stops to entertain a very tired little toddler.  I wish I could explain how much that meant to me, since we had arrived without any resources of our own.  I guess I was expecting the cows to take over the show.

I promise I won't take so many cow pictures the next time I'm there.  I am probably the only person who finds these animals fascinating in photography.  I didn't get good shots of them this time because the moms were hanging back with the babies.  I learned that one of the moms had lost her cow (she tried to deliver by herself in the middle of the night) and I felt a little pang of sympathy for her.  It must be the most horrible feeling to stand in a field full of those calves, and not have your baby by your side like all the other moms did.

I gave Helen a little extra squeeze that night when I put her to bed.

Songs I Have Learned

Helen & I were reading a book that happened to have a few lambs on one of the pages.  Helen started singing, "Baa baa black sheep have you any wool, yessir yessir, bag full."

I've heard her sing more of the song before, so I encouraged her. 

Jennie:  "... One for my ..."

Helen:  "... maksa ..."

Jennie:  "... one for my ..."

Helen:  "... Jane ..."

Jennie:  "... and one for the ..."

Helen:  "... little boy ..."

Jennie:  "... who lives in ..."

Helen:  " ... the drain."

New to me

Recently I traveled home to collect a few giant bags of maternity clothing from my sister.  I quickly discovered that the wardrobe she and I have cobbled together over our first pregnancies ballooned during her second one.  She was the recipient of many clothes from her co-workers, which has all been passed along to me.  Sweet!

Okay, so after sorting through all the bags, dumping the motherload of clothing I can't wear for the next 6 months, and replacing it with tummy-friendly options, I just have one question for my sister:  which one of those losers bought the skinny jeans from the maternity store?  Seriously, it's a skin-tight jean, in a gorgeous dark denim, with a large elastic tummy band around the waist.  No one, and I repeat, NO ONE who is giving birth the near future (i.e., 20 weeks or less) should be allowed to purchase something like a skinny jean.  Seriously.  (One exception:  if you have a personal trainer who visits your house each day, because you appear regularly on a large movie screen in several hundred cities.  Other than that, no skinny jean for you.)

Yeah, they're still on the hanger in my closet.  I'm trying to decide who I want to scare with them.  My husband?  My sister?  Someone needs to see my calves & thighs shoved into this laughable idea of a clothing item, with the basketball tummy topping off the whole picture.  Then they'll know EXACTLY why I'm freaking out.  I tried them on before I knew what I was getting into, and I had to peel them off.  Reminded me of my single days, when I still fit into that awesome pair of jeans I was wearing when I first met Brian.  Six months after we started dating, I couldn't go anywhere near them without hearing some giggling from the hanger. Today, they're still hiding in the back of my closet.  They, like me, eagerly await the day that the breastfeeding metabolism kicks into high gear, and I lose like 50 pounds in 2 weeks.

What?  It could happen.  and every woman out there knows  exactly what I'm talking about.  We're all guilty of saving that one outfit that made us look like a rock star (or at least, we thought we did), and hoping against any kind of rational hope that one day, we'll rock it again just like OLD SKOOL, YO.

But if you are a mother who talked to me at any point during the first two months of Helen's life, you might be aware that the breastfeeding thing will be a bit of a challenge for me.  So, cross your fingers that things go much better this time around, because Mama needs a new pair of jeans. 

Overheard

The day of our ultrasound, Brian & I were trying to figure out how to tell Helen about the coming baby. Or her impending doom. We thought we knew how she'd take it, but we couldn't be sure.

Brian: Helen, we've got some very important news for you that's going to change the rest of your life.

Helen: I've got Fruit Rollup tongue!


Not sure if the folks in my generation and/or their parents have seen Fruit Rollups lately, but these things have morphed into my mother's worst nightmare. They look and taste nothing like fruit anymore. Remember how they vaguely resembled flattened strawberries, complete with the seeds? Now they're dried up sheets of Kool-Aid. Plus, they have these edible bluish-greenish patterns printed on them that can create a tongue tattoo. Of course, at the tender age of almost 3, she doesn't have the patience to figure out how to make a tattoo stick to such a rapidly moving object. She just shoves a Fruit Rollup in her mouth in about 2 bites flat. So, now she's eaten a 6-inch square of flat red sugar, and her tongue and lips are slightly blue. I can't tell if she's unable to breathe, or if she's seconds away from bouncing off the walls - neither of which is a great prospect.

Anyway, I started all of that to mention that Helen is so excited about this baby.  She tells me all the time, "Mom, I love your baby."  She wants to name it after one of her daycare teachers, and she tells anyone who asks that her mommy has a baby in her tummy.  She's thrilled to be a big sister, and she insists that she will share her toys with the baby.  We've learned a little lesson in how to hold a baby with her new Cousin M., and after seeing her pregnant aunt at Christmas, then visiting in the hospital and hearing that the baby came out of her tummy and now we can hold the baby - EASY, BE EASY, VERY SOFT, THAT'S IT - she really, really gets it.

So, a special thanks to my sister for going through all of this ahead of me, and for being a perfect object lesson for Helen.  You knew you did this for a reason, right?  I'm sure you're thrilled you could help us out.  

One of Helen's classmates at daycare will have a little sister next month, so they've been comparing notes in class, I think.  The other girl wants to name her little sister "Tutti-Frutti."  Wow.  Not so bright at this age, are they?

Helen lifts up my shirt at the slightest whim and tries to "see" the baby through the belly button.  I've put her hand on my belly to see if she can feel the baby kick, but of course the baby doesn't even try to kick once Helen's noise level approaches my torso.  I should use her as a calming effect more often.  I've noticed this baby kicks FAR more than Helen did.  The ultrasound was a hoot - at one point it looked like the baby was riding a bicycle, she was kicking her legs so much.

Speaking of which, Helen was an unexpected guest at our second ultrasound. She was sick that day, banned from daycare for a fever, and I had no one who could stay with her.  Nor did I have enough notice to change the appointment.  I promise, I am not in the habit of bringing my toddler to a doctor's office that doesn't have a pediatrician in it.  She was threatened within an inch of her life to be good that day, but I shouldn't have worried.  She was fantastic, even if she didn't quite get what the ultrasound looked like.  And I don't blame her - those things are notoriously hard to see for the uninitiated.  The pictures ended up in her room, where she can look at them as much as she wants, and as I was putting her to bed tonight, I found them under the covers.

That girl is excited to have a sister on the way.  I just hope she remembers to maintain this level of excitement later on.

The Long Walk, Part Duh

So, it's time once again to show you all pictures from Brian's latest foray into the western United States and the Desert of Insanity - also known as Bataan Memorial Death March.  In case you don't remember or weren't reading around this time last year, I'll link the blog entry here.

Twenty six point two miles of marching, with a 35-pound pack on his back, not to mention loads of life insurance riding on every single step.  This year the participant numbers jumped from 4K to 5K.  This thing is really getting to be huge.  Some people were apparently a little confused about which uniform to wear, and possibly which war we were currently fighting:

I enjoy the pictures that Brian takes of the course, including all the folks up ahead and their footsteps left behind in the sand.  The majority of the course is rough terrain like this, which many athletes will understand makes the event that much harder on the body.  I won't even discuss the waiver they got everyone to sign about not suing in case they step on unexploded land mines.  So, what's left?  I think it's important to note that the sun was rising as everyone headed out.  Yes, they got this many people up for this event while it was STILL DARK OUTSIDE.

They ran into the same bagpiper this year, and chatted him up.  It turns out this guy is from Canada, and does a couple of these events every year.  He has a fantastic mustache, and he pipes his way through every single march.  He said it's a great way to meet people.  I would also bet it's a great way to get folks in front of you to march a heck of a lot faster. 

Here's a nice picture of the relief station along the route.  I would imagine this water would be a much more welcome sight than even the gorgeous American flag against the beautiful clear blue sky.  

I have to say that despite all the joking that Brian & I do prior to this event, mainly about the life insurance proceeds and how very much that income would mean to me, I couldn't be prouder of him.  He came home with a record finish of 20 minutes faster than last year, and a much quicker recovery time.  I know being around all of these military folks for a weekend must be so inspiring and a big boost to the patriotism (even though most of the conversation center appears to fixate on how to fit a trip to Hooters in the schedule).   The fact that the race is increasing in participants so much shows what a quality event this must be.  I may sound like I'm joking when I say I could think of a million ways to enjoy a weekend that involve less than 26.2 steps around my house, but I am thrilled he could enjoy something called a Death March this much.   

So, lots of love and big hugs to my husband - I'm so glad you're back.  I've just got to head out and return this little vacation home I picked up.  Be back soon.

General Update

Old news from January:  I have a new nephew to cuddle with, strangely enough, also named Cousin M.  I'll have to figure out something to call him, like M the Younger.  Or M the Louder.  We'll see how that goes.  He's a real cutie pie, as Helen says, and he already loves his Aunt Jennie.  Keep an eye out for his baby pictures, because I'll have about a billion.  A few of them may even be of someone other than me cuddling with him.

The same weekend he was born, there was a small snowstorm in town, and Helen got her first chance to toss a snowball at her mom.  And her Nana.  And her Grandpa.  Oh, it was a lot of fun for everyone to watch, and thank god My Precioussss was quick enough to get this shot:

I'll give you extra points if you noticed the purple mittens lying on the ground nearby, and thought to yourself, "Oh dear, Jennie - the gloves are off now."  Yeah, I know.  It's truly a metaphorical picture, AND a literal picture, at the same time.  There's got to be a word for that situation, but the only one that occurs to me is "irony."  Also, "doom."  Because for strange some reason, I can't get the Darth Vader theme out of my head.