Movies and Moving

Monday night I sent Brian out to see a movie. I told him to leave the phone on vibrate in case I needed him, but to enjoy it because it may be the last movie he'll see for a while. Of course, he went to see Batman: The Dark Knight.

So, with Brian gone and Helen asleep, I went to bed early. I spent the night trying not to toss and turn too much - which is actually really difficult to do at this stage. I can't lie on my back for more than about a minute without getting lightheaded, so I switch sides to lie on. Waking up after a few hours of lying on one side, my ear hurts, my hip hurts, and sometimes I'm having a little contraction to boot. I gather up the energy to move to the other side, which is a pretty big endeavor. It takes a lot of preparation to haul that much weight on your belly over to the other side without causing giant painful cramps around the hips (those poor ligaments are already stretched to the max), so I slowly make my way over to the other hip and ear, crushing those for a few more hours. Sometimes I mix it up and throw in a bathroom break.

A few times in the past month I have slept in the guest room since the heavy manuvering tends to wake up Brian. I shove a bunch of pillows all around me and it seems to be comfortable. I wake up about the same number of times, but I don't feel as bad about how much I'm moving around. I really like sleeping in my own bed better, but there's not as much room for a bunch of pillows, Brian, me *and* my belly. So it's a tradeoff.

The whole thing is getting a little tiring, and I wake up more and more sore each day. I'm actually looking forward to taking a snooze in that adjustable hospital bed, propped up on about 4 pillows, sleeping ON MY BACK.

(For the worried, I went to see Batman last night, enduring nearly 3 hours in a movie theater seat without a bathroom break - and it was totally worth it.)

Second Verse, Same as the First

This weekend Brian & I watched an episode of Scrubs where the main character describes the act of childbirth as performing all of your personal bodily functions while a group of strangers are all staring intently at you, DOWN THERE. And while a first-time pregnant person may think about what that means, nothing prepares you for the actual experience. Absolutely nothing. I've had annual doctor visits DOWN THERE and even minor surgical procedures DOWN THERE, and I was not prepared for it.

Neither was Brian, for that matter. He's still trying to champion the return of fathers to the waiting room.

There is an overwhelming loss of privacy that comes with motherhood. No one tells you about it except to perhaps mention that you'll never go to the bathroom again by yourself, and while you may think about what that means, none of that makes an impression on you until it actually happens to you.

But I've learned it's not just the delivery room, or even in the bathroom where these intrusions happen. During pregnancy, random strangers ask me when I'm due, what I'm having, how many kids I already have, if Helen's excited about the baby, what kind of foods I'm craving, which doctor I'm using, what hospital I'm going to, and so on. They tell me that I must be having a boy because I'm carrying high. Or that I'm having a girl because I'm pregnant "all over." (yeah, that was a new one for me, too.) AND THEY TOUCH MY BELLY. You know, I never thought of my body as a conversation piece, but okay. It's happened. I can deal with it.

Then the baby comes, and you end up sharing even more of your private moments with the world. Breastfeeding and diaper changing in public are just the beginning. Everyone wants to know how they sleep, how they eat, how much they weigh, if they cry a lot, or if they're happy. Sometimes they want to know how you're doing.  Sometimes your child chooses the exact wrong moment to pass a little gas, or spit up on you, or god forbid, turn 3 and have a gigantic meltdown. If you're at the grocery store, or church, or a family reunion, you're dealing with all of these issues on a stage, where you're keenly aware of others watching your every move. You're hopeful that they sympathize, but deep down, as you try every trick in the book to avoid possible disaster, you can hear them all saying to themselves, "I would have done it differently." Add in the sleep deprivation and nagging self-doubt as you encounter everything about your baby for the first time, and you can see why first-time parents are nervous.

I'm a little less nervous this time around, but it's still a challenge to think about doing all of this again, because I'm well aware that every baby is different. I have told Brian from the beginning that based on my wealth of babysitting experience, Helen was very easy. Despite her early arrival, nothing held her back in terms of development. Her pediatrician was horrified to see us on her Day 2 checkup, after hearing that she was 5 weeks early. She couldn't believe her partner released Helen from the hospital, and then she examined her and realized we had a winner. During that first 2 months, we had mainly 3 issues: the breastfeeding was miserable; she was a tummy sleeper (and still is); and she really wanted to spend the first month being held. Once we fixed those issues, we made out like bandits. She was an awesome baby, even though we were chained to that pacifier, and I don't think any of the issues we had with her in her first year were unusual. In other words, without any personal parenting experience, we handled it all pretty well.

So I can't help but worry that we might be pushing our luck with this next one. Number Two has been hosting a karate class in my womb since the moment we figured out she was in there, and it's a little disturbing to think of what that might mean once she's out. Will this one have colic? More allergies? Will breastfeeding work for us this time? How will she sleep? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't figure out what she needs?

Maybe that's why random strangers ask so many questions. They could be looking for some validation that they made the right choices with their own kids. And I understand that, really I do. I like to think that Helen was easy to take care of because I knew what I was doing. The second baby may just blow that little theory out of the water.

Forward Progress

So here's the update: at the OB's office this morning, we learned I'm dilated to 3cm, and I'm 70% effaced. For those who don't know what that means, I'll just say that my cervix did spend the past week getting thinner.

That's the first thing that's gotten thinner on me in a long, long time.

The doctor and I were both pretty excited about this progress. She said she would not be surprised to hear that I'm ready to go in the next few days. Woo hoo!

Hopefully baby & I can hold out until the weekend, when I have a little bit of time to clean my house AGAIN. And do laundry AGAIN. And go shopping AGAIN.

After spending last weekend doing the same thing, it's exhausting to consider, but I'm so thrilled to hear that the pain & discomfort was moving everything along, that I don't really mind a bit.

The Vows Never Mentioned THAT

Brian & I were on the phone today, discussing a friend whose mother-in-law fell down the stairs and broke both arms. Her husband has to do everything for her, including dressing her, feeding her - even wiping her after she uses the bathroom.

Jennie: I'm gonna go ahead and tell you up front that if you broke both of your arms, I would not be able to wipe you, because there's nothing about you in a bathroom that I want to go near.

Brian: (imitates Helen, who these days is unable or unwilling to wipe herself, and instead calls to me from the potty as needed) I need help wiping!

Jennie: Yeah, that's not gonna happen. We'll have to hire someone.

Brian: Can she be young and hot?

Jennie: No, but *he* will be.

Brian: Nice.

3, 2, 1 ...

I've had a problem with my contact lens that just won't go away. For those who wear them, it's a giant protein blob that no amount of cleansing and soaking will get rid of. Normally, it's not a problem - just throw away the contact and replace it with a fresh one - but this is my last contact for this eye. 

I can't go get more contacts because my prescription ran out during the pregnancy, and getting a new prescription now guarantees that I won't see straight after the baby's born. In fact, my eye doctor won't even let me set an appointment. Blame hormones, blame blood sugar, blame fate, but something funny goes on with the vision of a pregnant woman. Mine has gotten progressively worse over the past 3 months, and I still have to wait about 2-3 months after the birth for things to go back to normal.

By the way, I HATE my glasses.

So, I'm in the grocery store searching for the nuclear options in contact lens solutions, and Helen asked me what we were looking for. Absently, I replied, "something for my contacts." Right after I said that, I realized Helen has no idea what contacts are. I sleep in mine (yes, I know darn well that would explain the protein blob), so she hasn't seen me take them out & clean them before. So I told her I had something in my eyes to help me see better, and they were a little dirty so I was looking for something to clean them.

Miracle of all miracles, she didn't ask any more questions after that.

Cut to the next day when I picked up Helen from daycare, and I told her we are headed to the grocery store to get some food for dinner. Helen asked, "Mommy, is it your tongue kiss?" Umm .... WHAT?

I couldn't figure out for the life of me what she was talking about. It took about another half-mile of her chattering and asking about shopping for "tongue kiss" before it clicked. She was trying to say "contacts" but it was coming out "toncass." Which sounded like "tongue kiss." Which I think we can all agree is a pretty disturbing thing for a 3-year old to say. I've worked with her on correct pronunciation, but she still says "toncass."

The doctor told us at her 3-year old checkup that she talks so clearly, and was very impressed with her vocabulary. Thank GOD the word "contacts" wasn't part of the testing.

I Scream, You Scream - no, wait, my turn again.

So, I spent this weekend having Braxton-Hicks contractions, or as they're known around these parts, "getting your hopes up, only to taunt you and run away laughing at your misery." Basically anywhere from every two to five minutes, my stomach would tighten, or start cramping, and sometimes a tiny bit of pain would radiate down into my legs.

(Someone asked me - how do you know it's not the real thing? With my eyes closed, I could tell you that question came from someone who has not had children. Basically, if you can sleep through the contractions when they're two minutes apart, instead of tearing your sleeping spouse's arms off, it's not the real thing.)

All of this ramped up on Friday night after I got home from work. So I spent the evening making my mental checklist of things that had to get done before I spent 48 hours in a hospital. I kept trying to do laundry, thinking that clean underwear would be Brian's priority in the event of an early delivery. I prepacked the hospital bag with a few things. I also called our Amazing Babysitter to make sure she wasn't out of town - she is our backup plan for taking care of Helen when we rush to the hospital. There isn't anything about Mommy in a delivery room that a 3-year old needs to see.

So, basically, I worked my way through this entire weekend. Altogether I did 6 loads of laundry, cooked, cleaned, mopped, vacuumed, dusted, and polished. I even did some grocery shopping and stocked up on diapers. The contractions never stopped, but my water didn't break and nothing got more serious than that.

So there's still no baby. Now my house is clean, I'm exhausted, and still having these stupid fake contractions. I did some research online and it turns out this might be Mother Nature's way of thinning the cervix in preparation for the real thing. Since I skipped all of this fun the first time around, it looks like this child has chosen the slow-pokey way out.

Late Sunday night, I surrendered. Realizing that a full day at work on Monday was in my immediate future, I went out & bought the biggest cup of ice cream that Marble Slab sells, and ate the entire thing. It made me feel a little better. Then I got to work today and someone said, "Hey, I thought you'd have the baby by now" and I burst into tears. For two hours, I couldn't stop crying. Freakin' pregnancy hormones have kicked into full gear after leaving me alone for most of the pregnancy.

Clearly, the situation calls for more ice cream - STAT.

Counting Down

37 weeks today, and I had an ultrasound to make sure all looked good.  Placenta's fine, plenty of amniotic fluid, nice heart rate, good cord blood flow, and the baby is gorgeous.  

In fact, it all looks so good, they're estimating the baby weighs 7.5 pounds.

I still have 3 weeks to go.   I remember what it was like to give birth to Helen, who weighed a pound less.   Now I'm trying to picture giving birth to a baby that could weigh anywhere from 2-4 pounds more than Helen, and the prospect is a bit terrifying.

And no change - I'm still barely 1cm dilated.  I think I'm in for a long wait on this one.

Timing

This week I was 36 weeks pregnant.  As a bit of perspective, Helen arrived 5 weeks early.   (For the math-challenged, full-term is 40 weeks.)

So this baby?  CAN'T. GET. HERE. SOON. ENOUGH.  My ribs hurt, my pelvis aches, and I have heartburn about 20 hours a day.  To top it off, I cannot possibly eat enough ice cream. 

At 30 weeks I had an ultrasound of my heart that I talked about here.  Since the tech was 16 weeks pregnant, she indulged me in quick peek at the baby, where I was surprised to learn the baby was already in the head-down position.  Remembering when Helen turned down at 34 weeks during an agonizing sleepless night, I thought this one might be preparing to come early, too.

But no.  My weekly appointments this month have proved that I'm barely dilated to 1 cm.   About once a day, I have a tiny contraction - nothing terribly painful, but a quick reminder that I haven't forgotten what they feel like.

Then this morning, while I tried to get some more shut-eye on the couch at 5:30 a.m., I looked down to see my stomach all lopsided on the right.  Something has been jammed up in my ribcage all afternoon, and I look much wider now, rather than up & down pregnant.

I think this little girl got a front row seat at the week we just had with her big sister, changed her mind, and headed back up.   

I don't blame her one bit.

Toddler Mayhem

This week has been a little crazy.  Helen had some incredible tantrums and power struggles with me and Brian, most of which ended with her in timeout.  Then I learned that the teachers were having a tough time with her, too.  Turns out she wasn't listening, or if they asked her to do something, she'd just smirk at them instead.    

This sounds like *no one* I already know.

So, it been a rough week where we haven't really been getting along and playing well with others.  So Brian and I would talk with her and fuss at her and after way too much crying and screaming and yelling, she'd promise to be good the next day.  And then we'd pick her up at daycare, and learn that she'd been in timeout again for not listening to her teachers.  It was getting really frustrating, and given the normal behavior of a 3-year old, I'm not sure things will be fixed any time soon.

Now that you have our week set firmly in your head, I'll back up a bit.  Right after Helen was born, I signed her up for a children's group that sends a new book to her each month. One of Helen's favorite books she's received is Llama Llama Red Pajama.  It's the story of a little llama who goes to bed and whines for his mama, who's downstairs doing dishes.  The llama's patience wears thin waiting on her, and he ends up screaming the house down to get her attention.  Mama Llama gets upstairs to remind him that "Mama Llama's always near, even if she's not right here," and she gives her baby llama kisses and says goodnight.  All ends well.

Fast forward to yesterday, when Brian arrived home to discover the sequel in our mailbox.

A Sampling

Things I have heard multiple times in the past two weeks:

"Girl, you have blown up."

"How much farther do you have to go?"  (I'm 35 weeks.)  "Hmmm.  Yeah ... you might not make it."

"Wow, your belly is like, OUT THERE."

My usual response is, "Come over here a little closer so I can SMACK YOU."

Today I wore a black top and pants to work, with some silver sandals and silver jewelry.  This evening Brian said, "That outfit is very slimming."  I almost cried.  It's the best thing anyone has said about my enormous baby bulge in months.

And then he tried to eat my ice cream.  What nerve!

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.