Monkey Brain

We stayed at a Bed & Breakfast in Sonoma county last night, and they had a chicken coop near our room. It reminded Josh and me of our honeymoon in Kauai (less the toddler giving us the stink eye because we didn't want to get out of bed).

In Kauai, a hurricane in the early 90s destroyed some chicken coups, so now Kauai has free-roaming chickens and roosters like stray cats. The funny thing is that they are temporally challenged, so the roosters cock-a-doodle-doo at all hours. Like 2 am, or 10 am.

Anyhoo.

So this morning I took Jacob over to the chicken coop to say high before breakfast. I'm not sure how he learned this, but Jacob walked up to the fence, held out his palm, and said, "I come in peace." Once I stopped laughing, I grabbed his little fingers before the chicken, who clearly did not speak Jacob, could nip off some toddler fingertips.

I can't really blame the chicken. Jacob is delicious; I've nibbled on his fingers myself from time to time.

The Big O

When I was in elementary school, I got hooked on General Hospital; this is what happens when you have a sister who is 9 years older than you. Most days, I would make it a point to be at home by 3 pm to watch the dramas of the doctors and residents of Port Charles.

In the spring and summer of 1986, ABC started running promos for a new show. A woman sat in a large wing-back chair, wearing a satin blouse that tied at the neck and told potential viewers about her upcoming show. My memory is fuzzy on the specifics, but her message went something like this, "Hi! My name is Oprah Winfrey, and starting this fall, I'll be hosting a daytime talk show. I sure hope you'll tune in."

Oh my Oprah, did we tune in. I've watched sporadically over the years(although recently I'll admit to a near daily habit), read the books and read O Magazine (thanks Mom!). I've learned about how to live in the moment, and more than I ever wanted to know about poop (thanks Dr Oz). I laughed, I cried (it was better than Cats!) and wept some more on Friday when the queen of talk herself got teary as she told us that she would be finishing her show in 2011. It's the end of an era.

I know, I know, she'll still be here, doing other things. But internet, do you know what this means? I only have 18 months to get to Chicago!

Pregnancy Tired

You know it's bad when I can't even muster the energy for a post-dinner Special Treat.

Spam

Dear Phisherman,

Unless there is something that I've been in complete denial about for 34 years, I'm pretty certain that I don't have a "trouser serpent" that needs to be "empowered." And I'm pretty sure that whatever "male vigor" that I have needs no "boost". Thanks all the same, though.

Sincerely,

Monkey Brain

Little Napoleon

For the most part, Jacob is a dream, happy and sweet. Lately however, he's had some moments when he puts the terrible in two.

Let's take tonight. Jacob's actually sitting in a chair, eating some dinner (whohoo!) and when I get up for a moment, Josh sits in my chair. Somehow this small act turns happy eating Jacob into Mr. Hyde.

"No Josh, no! Go ober dere! Go in the chicken! Go in the chicken and cry!"

Go in the kitchen and cry? Where does he come up with this stuff?

Monkey Brain

So I've been reading about how Martha Stewart is dissing Rachael Ray, and with all due respect to her empire (love Body & Soul, btw), Martha needs to get her stick out of her butt. She dismisses RR as an entertainer who doesn't teach, can't bake and repeats her recipes.

I have a special place in my heart for RR, who got me through some dark nights in late 2007. While my newborn slept, well, like a baby, I'd be up in the middle of the night, in pain and unable to sleep. As a result, I ended up with TWO sets of The Magic Bullet and a Food Network addiction.

RR taught me how to be a better cook. I learned how to salt the pasta cooking water, what the hell a roux and mirepoix are, and many basic cooking skills. I like that she tells me the same information over and over again because sometimes it takes a few tries for something to sink into this Monkey Brain of mine. I like that she tweaks recipes, which gives me license to be creative. She has a million recipes for Buffalo Chicken Insert Dish Here, and that's okay with me. If you like something, why not play around with it and find a new dish you like?

RR makes me feel like a good cook, and sometimes Martha sounds like a school marm and I feel a bit inadequate. Guess what Martha? Some people don't have time to garden and make marshmallows from scratch! But I still love you too, and I'm happy that such an arrogant asshole woman is successful; that's what I call feminist progress.

Craving

Everything I'm not supposed to have: seared tuna, Brie cheese, turkey that has not been heated to steaming. That's our little daredevil Keiki, wanting to risk listeria at every turn.

28 Weeks: This belly isn’t the only thing that’s growing around here

So this week, Keiki is the size of a Chinese cabbage. But don’t you think that Keiki should be a Napa cabbage? I mean, we like to keep our produce local in the Henig household. Just last Sunday, I rejected blueberries from Argentina, even though they are Jacob’s favorite. . .

Focus, Monkey Brain, focus!

So. Here we are, the third trimester. The hoooome stretch. The final act. The downhill slope. Should I keep going here, or have I made my point?

In 12 weeks or so, there’s going to be a person here. Did you HEAR ME INTERNET?? A real, live, crying, eating, burping, spewing, pooping person. Holy Bela Karolyi!! While this working through Jacob’s birth means that I am feeling a lot more, I’d like a smidge of denial back.

It’s funny because I started writing the above portion of this post on Monday, but after my OB appointment, I don’t feel as freaked out. Oh, I’m sure it will come back. My freshman year of college, I would have a moment every few months when I’d think, Holy Shit! I’m at HARVARD, completely freak out, and then it would pass. This is kind of like that. I know intellectually that caring for a newborn is a lot of work, but it’s not rocket science. Yes, there are potential sleep issues, reflux, breast-feeding, but I feel pretty confident about my basic baby care skills. The whole parenting two kids thing is a whole different animal, but I feel like I will be able to tend to Keiki and Jakey’s basic needs, even in a zombie state.

What makes me feel so good right now is that I feel surer that I will not repeat the same experience that I had with Jacob’s birth. That is not to say that there won’t be possible complications or even a similar outcome in terms of the facts of the birth. I may have another child in distress; I may have other complications or physical trauma. But the pain of Jacob’s birth is not just what happened, but my own reaction to it, my shutting down and letting everything happen to me because I was too scared to do anything else.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve felt a lot of emotional pain, I’ve cried a lot, and talked and written a lot about my experience with Jacob’s birth. And the weird thing is that it’s been amazing. It is scary to relive some of those moments from a couple of years ago, to bring myself to experience memories that I’d rather put in a box, tie up with string and label “I’m fine.” But those little boxes add up, weighing me down like a pair of cement shoes.

As I visit the memories of Jacob’s birth and aftermath, feelings come rushing in like the undertow of the Atlantic that I swam in as a kid. What I learned physically so long ago is what I’m trying to learn emotionally now: for the most part, if I can lean into the undertow, if I do not fight it, it will wash over me and bring me safely to shore.

And so I’m letting a lot wash through me, and it’s painful, but it hurts so good. It is the soreness after a good workout, the tired relaxation that follows any act of expression. It is growth.

Spam

Dear "Viagra&Cialis",

I do not want to "enter" ANYTHING "rock hard." Guess what? I'm a pregnant WOMAN you JACKNUTS!!!

Sincerely,

Monkey Brain

Indie Rock Snob - NOT!

When we watch SNL--Tivo of course, who stays up after 9 pm these days? Oh? Everyone but me? Well carry on then. . .--I always blip-blip through the musical guests. I love music, but something about watching it on TV makes me feel all antsy and Monkey Brain, so I just skip it.

Tonight, I sat through both sets of Taylor Swift.

My name is Caitlin, and I love Taylor Swift.

I'm sure that if there's a Hell for Indie Rock Snobs, it would be sitting with me watching Taylor Swift perform on infinite repeat.

Homework

On Monday, I had my 28 week check up. I’ll go every two weeks until 36 weeks, at which point I’ll go weekly for a “measure and listen,” which is usually a 5 min check to hear Keiki’s heartbeat and measure my belly, check weight and blood pressure. These appointments have been quick since everything is on track, but this week I had some homework to do as I try to make a decision about Keiki’s delivery.

On my last visit, I told my OB that I had been feeling down lately, and today, I started crying as I tried to express ambivalence over choosing VBAC or scheduled C-section. And here's why I like my OB and am glad that she will be delivering Keiki as well. She handed me a box of tissues and guided me through my written questions without a glance at her watch or telling me what I should do.

There are lots of pros and cons, and I'll be writing about them in the coming months, but basically, it’s still wait and see. To have a VBAC, a certain number of stars need to align, but the main ones are there, like the fact that both my hospital and OB perform VBACs.

Then come the "Ifs." If I have a smaller baby that’s low and I’m dilating well. If I don’t go past my due date. If I don't develop high blood pressure. These are a lot of ifs, but I find it all somewhat calming. It’s like I can create a matrix (oh how my chaotic Monkey Brain loves her a good matrix!) for all this, a structure to help me make the best decision, both for right now, and when Keiki’s ready to come out. It’s empowering.

I think back at the Me who was in labor with Jacob, and I can see now how much anxiety was there, and I just shut down in some ways. Sometimes I wish that I could pick her up, like when Jacob is having a meltdown, and rock her and make her feel safe. This level of awareness makes me feel closer to accepting the choices that I made, closer to letting go of wanting the past to be any different.

Sometimes I question all this focus on the labor/delivery choice. Presumably, I’m only going to have one more child, so why all the fuss, all this work? But I know that Jacob’s birth brought up aspects of me with which I struggle, that will continue to show up in other ways and other parts of my life until I am willing to deal with them. Why now? Why not?

Baby Boom!

When I was pregnant with Jacob, many of my friends were still riding the “Getting Married” wave, and not quite ready to start popping out babies. My imagination spun to the future, to a world in which 18-year-old Jacob was introducing all my college friends’ tweeners to cursing, cigarettes and booze. This is what my Monkey Brain likes to do.

When we started thinking about Number Two this spring, I hoped that some of my friends would join the party. And then I found out my friend S was pregnant (due in December). And then I got pregnant (February). And then, the dominoes started to fall. My friends A, M, Rufus and Dr. L are due in April and May, and I hope the trend continues!

While we don’t live in the same city, and in some cases not even the same state, I feel glad to be going through this with some of my favorite ladies. So friends, I raise a glass of sparkling apple juice in your honor, and wish you healthy ultrasounds and a poop-free delivery!

XO Monkey Brain

Monkey Brain

Dear Rachael Ray,

I've been taking your advice and salting the water before putting in the pasta, since it's "the only chance to season the pasta," but I keep getting salt under my fingernails and it feels like I'm dragging my hands through sand. It's seriously hampering my cooking pleasure. You always seem so happy; do you have someone who comes during the commercial break to dig the salt out of your fingernails?

Sincerely,

Monkey Cook

The Recap

I think that in another life, Josh would be a sports announcer or reality competition host, because that man loves a recap like nobody's business. When we were dating, one of his favorite things to do was to provide a recap of our dates. Sometimes he couldn't even wait until the end of the night, so I'd get an in-progress recap.

And while the Shaws own most of Jacob's physical real estate, when it comes to personality, he's all Henig. When Josh returned with our take-out dinner this evening, Jacob ran up to him, hugged his legs, and burst out, "Take a bath! Wash hands!," making sure that Daddy got the full scoop on what he missed. Oh those Henig boys; two peas in a pod.

Take a seat!

So Jacob and I are hanging out tonight after work playing the ottoman game. Basically, he would climb over my legs (draped on said ottoman) and shimmy over the side of the ottoman until he fell into a heap on a floor. Toddlers are such cheap dates!

Anywhoo, at one point he wanted me to move my legs so he could have better ottoman access. Instead of saying "Move, Mama!", he says, "Stop it. Try this. Take a seat!", his voice rising each time knowing that it wasn't the right phrase. It was like watching C3PO having a meltdown.

Monkey Brain

Why am I such a sucker for tv/movies filmed in San Francisco? I watch Trauma every week, and it's just not very good (this coming from someone who lists Weekend at Bernie's as one of her favorite movies).

While part of me is saying, I'm never going to get back these 40 minutes, another part is saying, Oh look! Potrero Hill!

Monkey Brain

I'm watching tivo'd Rachael Ray Show with Suzanne Somers, and is it me, or does she kind of look like Janice from The Muppet Show? A quick Google image search tells me that I'm not the only one.

27 Weeks: The debate goes on

As I begin the last week of my second trimester (Keiki the Cauliflower!), I'm thinking more and more about the whole scheduled C-section vs. Vaginal Birth After Cesaerean (VBAC) debate that rages on in my mind.

At this time, there is no medical or logistical reason why I can't have a VBAC. This may change if I have another big head baby at 8 months, my Obstetrician (OB) may dictate a C-section, but for now, it's my decision. This is hard for me, because I kind of want someone else to tell me what to do.

Whatever I decide, I have some work to do in accepting the circumstances of Jacob's birth. While it might have been helpful for me to deal with this BEFORE GETTING PREGNANT AGAIN, I tend to work well under a deadline, and so this is just the way it's going to be.

I remember the feeling of relief when Jacob came out safely. When my OB said, "Oh yeah, there was no way that he was coming out any other way," I felt like we made the right decision to go forward with the C-Section instead of waiting a few more hours, putting him in more potential danger in an effort to keep to the birth plan (no c-sections unless it's an emergency).

I also remember feeling scared and alone, flat on my back, body still open, nauseated from the anesthesia. I couldn't stop shaking, and while I wanted to pull my arms in close, I wasn't allowed to remove them from the crucifix position that I was in. The fever began almost immediately, and I passed in and out of consciousness in the recovery room while the nurses tried to lower my temperature. I felt woozy and out of it, from no sleep, from 25 hours of labor, from 12 hours of medical interventions.

In the days and weeks that followed, I Monday Morning Quarterbacked myself to death, questioning every choice that I had made throughout my labor, and feeling like the C-section was my fault and representative of some sort of personal defect. And then I stopped thinking about it and life painted over the trauma of those couple of months. As the weeks roll by, I'm determined to chip away that paint and let out whatever feelings may come so that I can let go of the fears and anxiety that I have about childbirth, and truly move forward.

At the end of the day, I don't really have a strong preference to do VBAC or C-section. Right now, the only Birth Plan that's been written for Keiki is to get that little cauliflower out in the safest way possible (for both of us). I think that the next item on the list is to figure out what is going to help me make a decision that feels good for me. Part of that is making peace with September (failed induction)- November (removal of retained placenta) 2007.

But it's not all empty tissue boxes and sadness. When I dress Jacob, it is a constant wrestling match between Jacob's head and any top that doesn't have snaps at the neck. Many times, I curse the toddler t-shirt makers who make cute clothes that squeeze my little pumpkin head going on, and pull his face back like he's had a freaky face-lift when coming off. Today, I thought to myself, How could I have ever expected that head to make it through my hoo hoo? Let the healing begin.

Surf's Up!

Whooo boy, are we in trouble.

On Monday morning before they left for the day, Josh was getting ready and Jacob was banging away on the laptop.

Our computer was up and downloading the season finale of Mad Men (have you seen it? A.Maz.Ing.) and Josh hears Jacob call out, "Dosh, Surf's Up!" Although the way Jacob says it comes out like, "Suhhff's Up. " Turns out I gave birth to Tony Soprano.

Annnywhoo.

So Jacob figured out how to get Surf's Up to start playing on the computer. Did he do it on purpose? Was it a fluke? Was it live, or Memorex?

Jacob needs to slow down on this whole learning how to do things stuff; we are so not prepared. Is there an equivalent of a plastic outlet cover for computers?

New Windows

Today we replaced our old, ugly and drafty aluminum windows with new, energy efficient ones that will lower our heating bills and increase our curb appeal. This is the type of thing that makes me feel like a real “grown-up.”

While marriage and parenting make me feel pretty grown-up, home ownership is just a different animal. There was a time in my life that I couldn’t really do the basic functions of the over 18 set. When my peers were doing things like paying their credit card bills, attending classes, finding summer jobs, I was tanking my credit and hiding under the covers of anxiety and depression. Over the last 10 years or so, I’ve slowly taken on the various tasks of growing up, and each new milestone kind of makes me feel like Jacob when he first figured out a Melissa & Doug puzzle, hands raised in the air with a big grin: “I did it!”

For some, things like home improvement may seem like a simple thing. For a Monkey Brain it can be somewhat excruciating to corral the millions of different directions that a MB wants to go. The non-MB may look at it like this:

1. Research contractors
2. Obtain bids
3. Review and select bid
4. Schedule installation
5. Have windows installed
6. Pay contractor
7. Claim tax credit

Here’s the typical Monkey Brain version:
1. Research contractors
(Go to Yelp.com and proceed to get distracted by shiny objects such as restaurant reviews, other home improvement projects, oh, let me check out Ikea’s curtain selection. . .)
2. Obtain Bids
(Receive bid, add to mail “pile” for review, ignore mail pile until it starts to fall over like a tower of Jenga, review and sort mail pile, return bid to mail pile. Repeat until husband says something to the effect of “Don’t we need that tax credit in 2009?”)
3. Review and select bid
4. Schedule Installation
5. Pay Contractor
6. Claim tax credit

Items 3-5 are pretty much driven by the contractor, and item 6 is the responsibility of my financial advisor/husband, so once 1&2 were done, it was easy peasy.

And while in my professional life I can project manage the shit out of anything, much of that energy is saved for work so my Monkey Brain freak flag can fly when I’m at home. But when you add other people (husband, kids) and stuff (mortgage, car payments, home maintenance) to the mix, there’s not much room for Monkey Brain.

It’s a simple thing, but a task that I never thought I’d be able to complete, what with all the follow through and methodical planning involved. But I did it. It took longer than the average Josephine, but I did it all the same.

Caitlin: 1, Monkey Brain: 0.

26 Weeks: English Cucumber who plays for Manchester United

Dear Keiki, my little English Cucumber,

Please stop kicking my cervix. Your big brother waited until the last few weeks before doing this, so I think you are taking the whole second child thing of trying to catch up a little too seriously.

I mean it, kid. It makes me feel like any second your little foot, fully booted up in a soccer cleat, is going to poke through, and that would be a VERY bad scene and grounds for a red card and some serious time outs.

Love,

Mama

25 Months

Dear Jacob,

I can't believe that you are 25 months! Your development is pretty amazing to watch, and I'm glad that I'm starting to document this now so my Monkey Brain doesn't forget.

On Saturday, Daddy & I took you Trick or Treating with your closest thing to a bff, Tyler from across the street. I didn't think a 2 year old would be into the whole thing, but you picked it up quickly and were happily babbling "Trick or treating, trick or treating" while we made the rounds of a few houses. You were nice and polite with your "Thank yous" and fascinated by candy.

Speaking of tricks and candy, you are now starting to articulate your opinions pretty well. When on Sunday I was eating your Jujubes, you asked for some candy.

I said, "Oh, you won't like it, it's chewy," you responded, "I yike chewy!" And just last week, you were sitting on the couch reading your dinosaur book, and I tried to get you to come with me on some errands, you refused:
"No want to, wan read dinosaur book."
"You can read the dinosaur book in the car."
"Wanna read on the couch."

This is very troubling, young man. I was pretty sure that I could trick you into doing things that are good for you for a few more years, and you are already speaking your own mind. I am both excited and proud of your independence and confidence, and scared because this means that I have to get better at parenting you, not tricking you. Sigh.

Love,

Mama

Parenting is a contact sport

Today, I've been head butted, kicked in the face, belly, and shins, and had my nose picked without my consent. And that was just during pre-night night cuddle time. I kept thinking about what a friend once said in reference to a mom of boys, "She had three boys, and always kind of looked like she had been hit in the head with a frying pan."

This is the first time in this pregnancy that I've had a twinge of regret about not knowing the sex. I mean, if I knew we were having another boy, I would have time to order some custom-made body armor.

Spam

Dear Phisherman,

Birth Control?! Are you kidding me? Wouldn’t my visiting sites like Babycenter.com and Fitpregnancy.com be a slight clue? Erm, let me get this kid out before I think about birth control, okay?

Sincerely,

Monkey Brain

The Church of the Holy Endorphins, Northern CA Parish

When I was growing up, our Sunday ritual revolved around the morning Eucharist at St. John’s Episcopal Church, two blocks from our house. I wore my red leather Mary Janes on special occasions, and counted the big hats on Easter Sunday, but most of my time was spent sitting at my parents’ feet, drawing on the weekly program with one of the many pens that my father always carried in his suit, perhaps for this specific purpose. After church there was coffee hour in the Parish Hall, which was only memorable to me in that when I was three, I walked into a stray cigarette that was about toddler cheek height. I actually don’t remember the event, just the cigarette shaped slight crater in my cheek today that always reminds me of church.

Aaaannnyyyywhoo.

We had a core social group of a few other couples and their kids: The Cordes’, the Stewarts, and the Bradleys. We spent many holidays together over the years; in addition to the religious connection, we found a social network for our family.

I think about church a lot now that I’m a parent, as well as ritual, especially now that the holiday season is beginning. While Josh is Jewish, from what I gather he did not have similar formal traditions and rituals to what I experienced growing up. That was one thing that was so appealing about him, that holidays were not so dependent on having a specific ritual. Sometimes rituals can be tiring, and for a while, I wanted a break.

Parenting has brought out some of the ritual in me. At this time, we’ve decided to forgo formal religious institutions, but we do have a weekend tradition. Every Saturday morning (barring illness, morning sickness, or pre-relative cleaning frenzies), we load up the car and drive to a local park, where we attend Stroller Strides, our “mom & baby” (and dads) fitness class.

We don’t wear the big hats and Mary Janes of my childhood, but I do make sure to have my trusty visor to shield against the sun, and a solid pair of running shoes.

We don’t have hymns, but we do sing songs to help us through the prayer of resistance bands: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

We don’t have the blood or body of Christ, but we do have sweat pouring down our bodies, and G2 and granola bars to re-fuel after class.

We don’t have the coffee hour in the parish hall, but we do have abs and stretching by the playground as our kids get their own workout after spending an hour in their strollers.

We don’t have the Christmas Pageant, or Palm Sunday, or an Easter Egg Hunt, but we do have holiday themed circuit training (tomorrow is the Halloween class, so we'll be doing pumpkin squats or something like that)

Stroller Strides, much like church, has gotten me through some big fears. Fear of exercising in front of people (SS is at a park that is usually filled with our future fellow parishioners, “Temple of the Saturday morning Soccer Match,”), fear of running, pushing through the nausea to find that exercise can help.

Last Saturday, we hosted a small pumpkin carving party, and as some of my fellow Stroller Striders and I chatted while our kids raced around our yard, covered in washable marker from decorating pumpkins and piling on top of one another into the hammock, I felt so happy and realized that for now, our quirky kind of church will do just fine.

Monkey Brain

So I'm watching Survivor and this woman is trash-talking Shambo the mullet lady by saying that she's drunk with power like a white trash woman who "married a rich guy and now drives a Jaguar." Only Miss Smartypants pronounced Jaguar "Jag-wire." Actually? It's Zsaaa-goo-waahhhhr.

One Shining Moment

Thursday, October 29, 2:30 pm:
I want to document this moment right now because it may not last. For the last couple of days of my pregnancy, the sun has risen in the West, because I feel soooo good, people. This morning I actually felt light on my feet. I felt a spring in my step, like my pregnant belly was an air-filled beach ball instead of a heavy mixture of baby, baby protection goo, and blood.

The main thing is that I don’t feel nauseated. AT ALL. I’ve found a way to eat enough, but if I eat a little too much, I’m okay. If I get a little hungry, I’m still okay. I can even tolerate a little reading on the BART, although I’m not pushing my luck. My head doesn’t hurt. I feel totally average right now, and that is the best feeling in the world!

I think this may be linked to the fact that I’ve taken a 30-40 min walk every day this week. My belly hurts about 20 min into it, but if I slow down, I feel okay and the pain goes away when the walk is done. I know that in the coming weeks as my belly grows, it will be harder to maneuver around, harder to do day to day things, and harder to exercise. But I want to post this so that I can remember this feeling right now.

Thursday, October 29, 6:30 pm:
After an hour long windy drive home from the BART station due to major traffic because the Bay Bridge is closed, I feel nauseated and woozy. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

Oh good gravy, and chocolate, and noodles, and did I mention the salt?

I’ve been trying to be mindful of my food groups for this pregnancy, using the USDA pyramid for moms to gauge and my nutritional needs. Overall, it’s been going pretty well, getting my DHA, veggies and whatnot. However, this last week has been all out of whack:

Thursday: The Great Salt Lick Fiasco of 2009
Friday: Veggie Madness, featuring roasted Brussels sprouts
Sunday: Sugarpalooza, sponsored by marshmallow crisp rice bars
Monday: No Carb Left Behind Tour 2009, with a salt lick chaser
Tuesday: Brought to you by the letters M. . .&M (peanut)

I read somewhere that when studied, toddlers get their overall food needs over the course of a few days, so if they miss out on a given food group in one day, they’ll make up for it later. This is what I tell myself when I have thoughts like, well, if the Dead Sea runs out, they can always drain my pregnant body, which is now carrying enough sodium to float an elephant in spring water.

25 Weeks: Lessons In Moderation

While I am abstaining from Ritalin and coffee for the sake of Keiki the rutabaga, I do have chocolate and 2nd trimester energy. One of the side effects of this "regimen" is daily lessons in the benefits of moderation.

Last Friday, I worked from home. Working from home is one of the best ways to deal with my Monkey Brain, as I can unleash the beast of my MB to serve good. I had to send an e-mail to about 4,000 people, and include my contact information, so you can imagine the response that I got. While on the phone, I could pace my house (MB loovvvves pacing, or any activity, really) while on the phone, picking up toys, making the bed, folding laundry, physically occupying myself so that my brain could focus on the conversation at hand.

When not on the phone, I was going back and forth from my computer to other household tasks: changing the laundry, roasting veggies for lunch, preparing dinner. While to a normal person with a normal brain, this may seem somewhat chaotic, the chaos actually focuses me and I get more done than I would in the typical office environment.

Usually after a day like this, I’m a little tired, but I forgot about PREGNANCY TIRED. After I picked up Jacob, took him to the park and returned home, I was hit by a tsunami of tiredness; I actually understood the phrase “bone tired,” since my bones were saying, “What did you do to me, today?” and the rest of my organs was saying, “Don’t we have enough to do, what with all the baby growing we’re doing in here?!”

And I keep doing it. I feel energetic and burn through it all so that by the end of the day it’s all I can do not to hang my sleepy head and drool through the BART ride home. But it feels so good to move, to get stuff done, to cook, that I forget that my body is kind of doing a second job as it is. I’m learning, though. For a jumpy Monkey Brain, I can be a bit slow sometimes.

Don't yike it, and other feelings

Jacob gets more communicative each day, and is getting pretty good at expressing himself. He points out happy and sad when we read books, and he’s even starting to talk about his own feelings.

On Sunday, we went to a small circus that was in town for a couple of weeks. While Jacob liked the pre-show hot dog, that was about it. The crush of the crowd waiting to get into the venue prompted full on Jacob red alert: wide eyes, left thumb squarely in his mouth, right hand anxiously fiddling his right ear.

“Wanna go home,” he said as we waited to get in. We appeased him with promises of fun, horseys and doggies galore.

We got into our seats, and the thumb-sucking/ear fiddling went into overdrive.

“Don’t yike it.”
“What sweetie?”
“Don’t yike circus.”

And there you have it folks. We probably should have gone home then, but we’d paid $34 for our tickets, and pushed onward in the hope that the live animals would make up for the masses of strangers. I held him tight and he seemed to enjoy the horse, the dogs, and the trapeze artist way up high. We made it to intermission, at which point it was useless to put our kid through the torture that is a small circus.

When Jacob was a baby, it was pretty easy. Crying meant there was a need: for food, changing, comfort. And while he’s been a talker for a while, this was the first time that he really verbalized a specific feeling about something. As a WASP who has spent much time, effort and money on therapy to learn what a feeling is and how to express it, I was so proud of my boy. But there is another part that’s like, what now?

Having a baby is tiring, but fairly straightforward. Raising a child is some scary shit. The more they verbalize, the better it is because you know what they need or want, but you also have to guide them and help them and not let yourself get in the way.

Do I pull Jacob out of every scenario that scares him? Do I tell him to suck it up because we paid good money for these seats and you are going to have a good time, dammit?! Yesterday, I wanted to leave as soon as the self-soothing body language kicked in. But he did enjoy some of it, and I want him to be able to feel fear as much as he can feel joy because unfortunately, you can’t decide to only feel the good feelings. Hopefully I’m doing the right thing. At least when he starts going to therapy for his fear of clowns, I’ll have a record of where it all began.

Monkey Cook: Brussels Sprouts

I was not a fan of veggies as a kid, and Brussels sprouts were the worst. Limp and bitter after their long trip from wherever to a box in our freezer and steaming or boiling, they were gross. Dis.Gus.Ting. My brothers and I devised several ways to get out of ingesting them, from slipping some to the dog (who soon wised up and refused to eat them), folding them into a napkin, or sneaking off to the powder room to flush them down the toilet.

I didn’t eat brussels sprouts once I was able to be vocal enough about my food choices and planned on never eating one for the rest of my life.

And then, I moved to California.

In 2004, my brother Ben came to visit and we went to Firefly restaurant in San Francisco. A typical SF venue, Firefly served yummy veggies off a seasonal menu, and since it was the fall, roasted BS was one of the choices. To my surprise, Ben suggested it and I was like, “Um, did you block out our childhood?”

“Trust me,” he said, “They’re actually good when fresh.” So I did, and OH MY GOD.

Crispy and caramelized, the bitterness tempered by a touch of oil and some nutty parmesan, I was experiencing a come-to-Jesus (if JC were a cruciferous vegetable) moment. Since then I’ve roasted them, sautéed them with nuts and maple syrup, even simply steamed them with some butter & parmesan.

I want to start a Church of the Roasted Vegetable and target market to well-intentioned mothers steaming the crap out of vegetables in the name of health and vitamins. And so I present to you:

Brussels sprouts, another way
Brussels sprouts
Olive oil, enough to coat the veggies
Maple syrup (1t or so)
Salt & pepper (I like By the Sea herb blend)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Mix all ingredients in a cast iron skillet. Place in the oven and roast for about 30 min, until the sprouts are blackened and yummy.

Note: There are two keys to this recipe (and in my opinion, all veggie recipes, especially for fickle little eaters)
1. Cast iron skillet. Add some oil, salt & pepper and the pan will do everything else.
2. Roast the crap out of them. You don’t need much oil and with the heat of the pan they get all yummy & caramelized. Dee-li-cious!

Spam

Dear Phisherman,
Seriously? Please tell me what it is about me Googling recipes for spaghetti squash, VBAC, and car seats screams out “Penis Enhancement”?! Oh wait, was it my research on Asparagus Pee?

Sincerely,

Monkey Brain

Monkey Brain

When I was a kid, my family was teased me about an alleged obsession with bathrooms. Whenever we’d go out to dinner, I’d inevitably spend some time in the ladies room, and apparently too much time, according to the fam.

No one asked me why I spent so much time in the bathroom, and I assure you that it wasn’t some obsessive-compulsiveritual of washing my hands 20 times before eating. I was the youngest of four, and a Monkey Brain to boot; sitting around a table with a bunch of older people was bo-ring. The main thing that got me through these dinners was the distraction of food, or going through my dad’s wallet. However, once I learned to read, and found some of my mom’s credit cards that were “accidently” in my Dad’s wallet, my snooping days were over and it was all about food.

So I checked out the bathrooms of every restaurant we visited. My favorite by far was the “ladies lounge” at our yacht club, which was a suite that included full doors on each stall and a separate room with big mirrors, and cute settees for ladies to re-apply their makeup or just take a break from being fascinating by sitting on one of the ornate settees. I also liked walking through the attached coat closet, feeling the softness of the furs in winter before I realized that fur is murder. By the time I returned to the table, my food would be waiting for me, and I’d be on the downhill slope of having to sit still and listening to the boring adult talk.

Yesterday, it took 10 minutes for my computer to start up, so I defragmented my very fragmented hard drive. After returning voicemail and reading through everything work related that I could, my Monkey Brain was about to explode at my computer, which said “24% complete” after an hour.

So, I took a page from my younger days and decided to head to the adult equivalent of my childhood ladies lounge trips: Walgreens. 30 minutes, 1 bottle of nail polish, the latest copy of Allure and several salty snacks later, I returned to a fully defragmented computer.

Works every time.

Monkey Brain

When I was thirteen, I had a bunny rabbit named Mopsy. We installed a salt lick for her, which basically looks like a white roll of stone toilet paper, made out of compressed salt. I remember thinking, what weirdo animal needs to lick salt?

Based on the amount of sodium that I consumed today, I'd say it's time to drop all pretense of "food" and just install a salt lick in my office. Seriously folks, no amount of cucumbers will offset the last twelve hours.

24 Weeks: A Big Milestone

Keiki the corncob is kicking merrily in my belly, reminding me every day of his/her presence and increasing viability. And with pregnancy, viability is everything.

My friend Dr. L is a neonatologist, which basically means that she helps the really sick babies. The general protocol at her hospital is that until a fetus is 24 weeks, they do not go to extreme measures to keep the fetus alive outside the womb. I won't go into the details of what "extreme measures" means, because I'm not here to start an ethical debate and it's not the point of this story.

Anywhoo, when Dr. L was 23 weeks and 6 days pregnant with her second baby, a baby was brought in who was also 23-6 gestation, airlifted in from another hospital. Dr. L worked on that baby for over an hour to revive it (b/g?), reminding her team that she was also 23-6, but the baby didn't survive. So she wrapped the baby in a blanket and rocked it for a while, holding it close to her belly with her own living baby inside, who kicked away, telling her, "It's ok, Mama, I'm still here."

My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage at 7.5 weeks, so for the next two, I paid attention to the little milestones, each of which means that I can hold my breath a little bit less, and get a little more excited. The first is hearing a heartbeat, about 8-10 weeks. Next is 13 weeks, or the end of the first trimester, after which the risk of miscarriage goes way down. Then there is 24 weeks, and finally 37 weeks, when you are full term, and it's pretty much okay for baby to come out of the hot tub.

I know it doesn't stop there, since once Keiki is out in the world, the real worry begins. But for now, I'm grateful to have reached another milestone.

Monkey Cook: Roasted Asparagus

Did you know that most of us get “Asparagus Pee,” but some of us don’t have the genes to smell it? Don't just take my word for it, though. Go ahead, grab a trusted friend with the right olfactory genes and check it out. Here’s a recipe to get you started:

Best Roasted Asparagus Ever

Some asparagus (enough to fill a big cast iron skillet)
Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper

Note: I like “By the Sea Salt,” which is a salt and herb mix from Martha’s Vineyard. While one may purchase it online, I make my sister get some on her annual summer vacation on MV. (Crap, as soon as my sister reads this I’m going to have to start buying it online.) This makes it seem much more precious and the food tastes better. Seriously, if you think that you have a one of a kind product, it tastes better. Kind of like artisanal items.

Turn your oven on to 375 degrees.
Cut off the ends of the asparagus, place in skillet (or roasting pan or baking sheet, but if you don’t use cast iron I can’t guarantee that this will be the best you’ve tasted) and cover with olive oil, salt & pepper. Stick it in the oven and don’t take it out until the spears are all shriveled up and slightly black, 30-45 min. While the asparagus is roasting, drink as much water as you can stand.

15 min after enjoying the BRAE, get thee to a commode and tell me how it goes.

Hungry

O.M.G.

I am so effing hungry right now. Internet, you do NOT know hunger until you experience pregnancy hunger. Pregnancy hunger is fast and ferocious, a lion that has just spent three hours running the African savannah. And if you even think of telling me that aren’t I overstating the case when I say that I might die of hunger right now, and my colleagues will find my slumped over my cubicle chair in front of this post? Well, I will take all of my renewed 2nd trimester energy and slap you upside the head, after which I may eat one of your limbs.

The problem with my pregnancy hunger is that while it feels like a lion, it’s really a bit of a lamb. If I eat how much I think may satisfy the beast within, I will have eaten too much and will spend the next few hours feeling like I’m going to throw up every organ in my body. The thing that helps is a very high maintenance solution: steady streams of food (protein is key), not too little, and not too much. My hunger is like Goldilocks, the fickle little scamp.

So why am I writing instead of foraging? Because when this ferocious hunger attacks (and seriously, it feels like going from full to empty in 20 seconds), my Monkey Brain goes crazy and starts chanting in a Cookie Monster voice, “Foodfoodfoodfoodfoodfoodfood” and that never ends well. So I am taking a moment to try and calm down MB before fetching a few items that I can eat in stages and hopefully I won’t collapse from over/under consumption.

Spam

Dear JCPenney.Com,

It's just not right to send pregnant women in the throes of nesting offers of free shipping and 25% off. Your Pottery Barn redux style is way too tempting.

You would think with all your phishing capabilities, you would know that I just spent a LOT of money on a shiny new car, and my monkey brain should not be tempted into new purchases (except for that Britax Roundabout that was on sale- for the second car, of course). For shame!

Sincerely,

Monkey Brain

Stonehenge Menagerie

Looks like we have a little Druid on our hands. . .

Monkey Brain

Here is a slice of my monkey brain from this morning:
Pull into parking spot. Lock car three times (just in case!) and memorize spot number so I can pay for parking at the machine inside the BART Station.
354,354,354,354,354,354-Is that cake batter I smell? Yes, definitely cake batter. Yummy. Who has cupcakes in the BART parking garage? This is much better than the usual stink. Oooh, someone just called the el elevator; whoohoo!
Enter elevator, go into morning fog mode. Exit elevator.
Uh-oh, there’s a train. Better run and catch it! Go, go, go! Settle into BART seat. “The doors are about to close. Please stand clear.”
Oh shit! I forgot to pay my parking!!

Mini-me nephew

When Josh's brother Dan was a toddler, he moonlighted as a food thief, wandering their Minnesota neighborhood, testing for open doors and raiding cabinets. My favorite family story is of little Danny being caught red-handed in a box of Pop Tarts. Having been raised in a trans-fat free household, I love that image because they would have been my contra-ban of choice as well.

Today, Jacob channeled Dan circa 1979-80 (Dan is 8 1/2 years younger than Josh). As Josh sat in the backyard grading, Jacob orbited him happily, coloring, checking out the garden hose, delivering our neighbor's rotting persimmons into our compost bin, shadowing Daddy like Dan once shadowed Josh.

Meanwhile, I was being a good little recessionista by trading foodstuffs with my neighbor: I shared tomato jam (with tomatoes from their garden) as well as spaghetti squash with roasted veggies & ricotta. In return, we received homemade spaghetti sauce, 2 cupcakes and two loaves of yummy banana-walnut cake. I left the loaves of banana-walnut cake on our butcher block to cool, well above little hands.

Or so I thought.

Later in the afternoon, it was quiet. Too quiet. I looked for Jacob and found him sitting on our snuggler, perched over a loaf of banana cake, digging a trench in the middle of the loaf, licking cake off his fingers and saying, "Ooooohh, nummy, nummy, nummy! Dee-li-cious!"

His "Unca Dan" would be so proud.

The Boob Tube

Glee should be your new favorite show, people. Some sample dialogue:
Sue: "I can't trust a man with curly hair. I can't help picturing small birds laying sulphurous eggs in there, and I find that disgusting."
Need I say more?

Halloween Fun

Spooky 6-foot hanging ghost: $19.99
Josh yelling "Jesus!" every five minutes when he passes by our front window: Priceless

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

Oh joy of joys, I cannot wait to see Where the Wild Things Are.

My friend Bird and I spent many an afternoon (when we weren't watching The Outsiders) rumpusing about our respective backyards and neighborhood parks creating imaginary worlds like Max, king of all wild things. We were siamese twins, connected at the arm with imaginary velcro, business women in the tree "office" outside my church, and castle-dwellers on the rocks of the park that overlooked Long Island Sound.

Jacob is another lover of all things Sendak, as well as anything imaginary. Lately, I wake up to his recitations from his crib:

"Milk in da batter, milk cake. . .Mickey!" (In the Night Kitchen)
"Chicken rice. . .whale. . . cocodile, chicken nile" (Chicken Soup with Rice from The Nutshell Library)
"Wumpus. . .tart!" (Where the Wild Things Are)

It is my favorite version of the human alarm clock to date.

We've been talking about this movie enough that Jacob says, "Wild Things? Moo-bie?" on a near daily basis. However, everything I read tells me that this is so not for the little ones. So do I potentially traumatize my child in favor of my own childish want? Or get a babysitter who may charge me $50 so I can see a movie on opening night? What say yee, internet?

This One's a Doozy

In case you haven't noticed, I am completely in love with my son. Head over heels in love with him. I love to cuddle and rock him, kiss his neck to make him laugh, receive sloppy kisses from him, I love it all.

I'll tell you a secret, though. For the first six weeks of his life, I was not in love. To be fair, my body was fighting a host of issues that made it hard to focus on loving my son, but that's another story.

When he first came out, I thought he looked weird. Again, to be fair, I was shaking uncontrollably from the anesthesia, my body was still open, and starting to create a post-surgical uterine infection, but still. I thought he looked slightly Asian, like he was from Mongolia, which I found confusing, since neither I nor Josh have any Asian blood that we know of. Emotionally, I felt nothing. I felt no rush of love that is shown in movies, or that I'm sure many new moms have. I felt numb, and kept feeling like I should be excited or something. I felt defective, like I missed out on the whole unconditional love thing.

I didn't fall in love with Jacob until he was about six weeks. After the uterine infection that gave me a fever so high that the on-duty nurse said it was the highest reading she'd had in 32 years of being a nurse. After the pulled groin, the bulging disc, the hemorraghing that resulted in a D&C and removal of retained placenta from my uterus. After my body started to heal and I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to die any time soon, my heart opened wide open and let Jacob in.

This is one of the things that THEY don't talk about, and I really wish that THEY would. THEY say things like, "you better get that baby on your chest as soon as it's born so you have that 1 hour of bonding," without stating that you can bond with your child in many ways, and if you are shaking and lying cut open on a table, you may not be able to put your child on your chest, and THAT IS OKAY.

Other things that I wish THEY would talk about:
1. When you get pregnant, it is more than likely that your first ultrasound will be through a vaginal probe (please see Knocked Up! STAT if this is a shock), which looks like a large, plastic penis (complete with a condom!) that may seem scary when you are expecting the cute little belly wand that they show on TV.
2. Yes, breast milk is best, but that doesn't mean that formula is harmful to your baby
3. If at first you do not bond, there are many ways to do so with your child. Jacob and I got a lot of "skin-to-skin" that first year by bathing together.
4. You will probably poop yourself when you give birth. This one is actually from my sister, who gave me a lot of enlightening information when my neice was born. Since I was 20 at the time, I pretty much blocked out all the information except for the poop.
5. Sometimes, inductions don't work.

I believe that all the advice that we received came from a place of love and wanting to help, but sometimes it feels like parenting advice (especially surrounding labor, delivery and the first year of care) is so concrete, so passionately given, that there is not much room for the other side of things. What if you want to breastfeed, but your body suppresses the hormone to create it, or you are in so much pain that you can barely hold your child on your chest? Why do I trip over the term "C-section," debating over whether or not I add a qualifier. Emergency? Unplanned? As if it's only okay to have a C-Section if you almost die?

These are some of the questions with which I still struggle. Anticipation of this next birth reminds me of the last one, and I'm realizing that I'm not over the last one yet. I know that there are plenty of women out there who don't struggle over their birth stories and I hope to join their ranks. Still, I don't think I'm alone out here. And so I'm going to share my stories and hope that my voice can be part of the THEY.

Citizen's Arrest: Semantics Police

Hey BabyCenter.com,

I just bought a spaghetti squash, and it happened to be next to the mangoes. And my friend, those mangoes were half the size of the spaghetti squash, if that. Now I don't know what kind of hormones your mangoes are smoking, but I'm going to have to go with my friend Trader Joe on this one.

Sincerely,

Keiki's Mama

23 Weeks: The Family Wagon

No bigger than a mango, Keiki is sure influencing some pre-tty big decisions in the Henig household.

Driving home on Monday, Josh uttered the words that never fail to scare me: “Can I tell you something?”
Me: “Um, sure. What?” I want a divorce. I think I may be a woman trapped in a man’s body. I’ve been schtupping this hot mom of one of my students.
It is not fair to begin conversations with that question when you are married to a pregnant Monkey Brain with a wild imagination.

“I’m so not punk rock.” He says this with some resignation, as if I married him because I thought he was a San Francisco indie rock snob hipster in skinny jeans, and how disappointed I must be. Because I’m the QUEEN of cool, right?

The reason for this conversation is that we are driving home to retrieve checkbook so that we can buy our new family car which will accommodate our growing family. It is a dark red 2010 Subaru Forester with tinted windows, power seats, big tires and a moon roof. It is awesome, but it also the nail in the coffin of any punk-rockiness that we ever might have had. Not that there was much to begin with; sorry Honey!

This is the first new car that I’ve ever owned. My first car was a 1993 Nissan Sentra that I bought in 2003 from a co-worker for less than $1,000. Nicknamed “The Mule” by its former owner, it lasted until I was about five months pregnant with Jacob and decided that my baby deserved a 4-door that didn’t get a mildew smell in the rain.

We got our 2001 Jetta from a graduating Stanford student in 2007 and it will remain as the station car, it just doesn’t serve our growing needs.

So here we are, a two car family. I drove the Forester home and felt so free. No longer do we have to coordinate our commutes, no longer do I need to stand impatiently at the train station because Josh is running late. When Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis” came on, I screamed out “Tell me are you a Christian Child/Ma’am I am tonight!” as if I were Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. I know, I know. Queen. Of. Cool.

And yet, I didn’t drive the car Tuesday because I was afraid that I’d break it. Sooo not punk rock.

Having a brand-new, shiny grown-up car is kind of like having a newborn. You anticipate the birth, can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait. Then you have the baby, and while you are excited, the Holy Shits come:
HS, I’m responsible for keeping him alive!
HS, how do I know if they’ve had enough to eat?
HS, there are a LOT of sexual predators out there!
HS, why won’t she sleep?

So you kind of hibernate at home with your baby, a bit afraid to take him out in public, until your brain explodes from exhausting all possible ways that you can kill your child, you pass out so deeply that you don’t hear your baby’s cries, he falls back to sleep and Viola! Baby has "slept through the night". At least that’s how it was for me.

So after driving the car home on Monday night, I didn’t want to drive it in the BIGGEST RAIN THAT THE BAY AREA HAS EVER SEEN on Tuesday morning. But secretly, I was happy about that typhoon making its way here from Japan because the Holy Shits had started:
HS, What if I total the car before I even have license plates?
HS, What if someone keys my car?
HS, what if it gets stolen from the BART parking lot?

Finally this morning we missed the latest train and I had to drive. And, just like being with baby, when the Holy Shits tuckered themselves out, it was awesome. Bring on the newborn!

T minus 2 days!!!

Good Morning Internet,

Are you as excited as I am for Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are? If not, why the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks not?!

Monkey Brain

So I'm watching Desperate Housewives and a guest actress looks like WASPy, would-be Jackie O "Trudy Campbell" from Mad Men. I look up the actress on IMDB and one of her more recent credits is Hot Sluts. Whoa, talk about range! Trudy, you dirty birdie. . .

PS If you don't know what the heck I'm talking about, please put Mad Men at the top of your Netflix queue.

The Best Part of My Day

I've never been a morning person. It usually takes at least 30 minutes for me to wake up, even after I've done all the things that help people wake up (shower, brush teeth, dress, pack lunch, etc) before leaving the house. This is what a commute is for, to slowly get me ready for the day.

For the first few months of our relationship, Josh would drive me into work. Now Josh is Mr. Sunshine and Energy in the morning, full of pep and wanting to interact. I am against all interactions until I have had time to wake up (with or without chemical stimulation). So he would engage, I would snap, he'd get hurt, I'd apologize, ad infinitum. Finally, I explained to him that Morning Caitlin was supremely Monkey Brained, and I wanted silence and to stop having to apologize every day. Since then, most mornings have been just peachy.

Here's the thing: parenthood doesn't give a crap about what time is good for you. Toddlers don't understand that evening may be a better time to be with Mama. Toddlers don't understand Monkey Brain.

Working parenthood for our household means that evenings are chaotic. By the time we get home, it's time for Jacob's dinner, bath time, pajamas and stories. Lately, he's been a real two year old fusspot and is sometimes cranky and overtired, so the above routine gets sped up.

The morning, though? Ahh, the morning. If we get up closer to 5:30 then 6 (in which case there is the showering, diaper-changing, dressing, lunch-making madness to get to the 6:51 train), the morning is loverly. Sometimes we'll read Night Chicken (In the Night Kitchen) three or four times. Sometimes Jacob will come into our bed and pretend to fall asleep again or roll around and cuddle/wrestle, abusing our Obama action figure by pulling off his "hair".

The thing is that even though it's only about 15 minutes, it feels like forever, and it is a wonderful way to burn off the fog in my mind. These days, this former night owl is chirping with her chickadee. At least until she falls asleep on BART.

Monkey Brain

Things that make me feel fearless:
1. I’ve walked 60 miles in three days for breast cancer, the last three miles of which the feet of my skin were being ripped off by an athletic tape hatchet job.
2. I’ve labored for 26 hours.
3. I’ve lost more than 25% of my blood volume and lived to tell the tale with no need of transfusion.

And yet.

Here I stand at 6am, at the threshold to my bathroom, a cringing, cowering, blubbering mess of a girl, until I can squeak out “Helphelphelphelp!” until Josh comes in to kill the 1 cm spider who has caused such a ruckus.

Meanwhile, Jacob sees these creatures and says, “Oooh, spider! Cute.”

Pregnancy Dream #5

I've traveled back in time and am somehow on the set of DJ AM's upcoming reality show, and I'm trying to tell him not to overdose when he goes to NYC. While I know that he's going to die, I can't tell him what I know, so I just keep giving him hints to save himself. Erm, okayyyyy. . .

Semantics

As we were driving to Target (diapers, Q-tips, toothbrush, baby toothpaste, Halloween decorations, Dino costume) today, Jacob was clearly getting hungry and picky. I reached into my Mama bag o tricks, and all I came up with was half of a Nature Valley Granola Bar and a package of dried apricots. Here's what went down:

Mama(offering a piece of granola bar): Granola bar?
Jacob takes the granola bar, then bursts into tears and gives it back. (I told you he was hungry)
Mama: Apricot?
Jacob looks skeptical and slowly palms the apricot
Mama: It's good, it's sweet.
Jacob: Sweet?
Mama: Yes, sweet. Have some.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, sweet, like a cookie.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, it's a cookie! Eat the cookie!
Jacob, satisfied that it is indeed a cookie, chewing: Mmm, pretty good.

Handel's "Messiah" plays in the soundtrack of my mind.

Sometimes as a parent, you feel really helpless. Other times, it's really fun to trick a 2 year old.

22 Weeks: Does this baby make my butt look fat?

Well, our little spaghetti squash is moving right along. I had a very good appt this week. I received the results of my glucose screening (nice and low at 117) and I don’t have to do the dreaded 3 hour test that I experienced with Jacob. Blood pressure is also still low, Keiki’s moving around like a little dolphin, and the heartbeat looks good. All good things, for which I should be very grateful.

Instead, I’m a bit obsessed with is my 20 lb weight gain. I started out the pregnancy on the plus size side of things, and already have enough issues about my body, which are not helped with the alien invasion that let’s me know that I am definitely not in charge. Last time around, I gained A LOT of weight. In the first trimester alone I gained 13 lbs, mainly due to the fact that McDonald’s was one of the few foods that quelled my nausea, and I felt too sick and tired to exercise. I was so emotionally spent by being sick 24 hours a day and thinking it would never stop that I just gave up on everything.

This time, I’ve been able to workout through the nausea, and find healthy foods like crisp apples and watermelon. I’m more prepared emotionally to tackle the harder parts of pregnancy. My doctor is not concerned about my weight, but I guess it’s the one thing that I think I can control. Some days I step on the scale and it’s gone up 2 or 3 lbs that don’t go away. Intellectually I know that I am gaining blood and fluid, along with baby, and that I’m not eating 10,000s of calories each day, but it’s still disconcerting.

This, of course, is one of the many lessons of parenthood, in that whatever your issue is, pregnancy and parenting are sure to bring it up in your face.

So you’re a neat freak? Guess, what, you are going to get a kid with exploding poop and spitting up after every meal, I can guarantee it. Are you a bit shy? Let me introduce you to your son, who will engage every check out clerk that you encounter. Trust me, whatever your “thing” is; your child will make you face it. And that is a good thing.

I can be very mindless when it comes to self-care, and pregnancy is a daily reminder to be in my body, and that what I eat has a consequence. If I eat to much or not enough, I get violently ill, and I am forced to pay attention to my body and its needs on an hourly basis. This is a challenge, as I would much rather focus on other things than myself.

I know that as a parent, if I don’t give myself the basic love and care that my body and mind needs, not only am I unable to be the best Mom I can be, I am teaching my son that self-care is not a worthy endeavor, and I do not want him to learn that lesson. So I’m trying to be kind, to myself and the little gourd within.

Monkey Brain

Most of my husband’s ancestors perished in the Holocaust; his grandparents were each the only surviving members of their family. My family history, or what I know of it, is a Nazi’s eugenic dream: protestant, corn fed blue-eyed blonds from Sweden, Germany and the UK.

My aunt recently made a photo book of my paternal family history, rich with stories about the first president of Michigan University, and my great-grandmother, brave enough to risk God knows what to dress up like a boy to be with her husband on a field visit to Syria at the beginning of the 20th century. It makes me sad to know that Josh (and our children) does not have as much of a reach back into his past because much of it was snuffed out by a megalomaniac sociopath intent on wiping out a group of people simply because they existed.

It brings me much pleasure to think of my boy, my ginger-blond boy with deep blue eyes, ski jump nose and 50 percent Ashkenazi Jew blood as a big fuck you to Adolf Hitler. I’m so happy to be expecting another child who would make the Fuhrer roll over in his grave.

I am rubber, you are glue. . .

Josh is a Minnesota Vikings fan. And by fan, I mean a true fanatic. And by fanatic, I mean checking the local papers, The Pioneer Press and The Star Tribune, on a daily basis. By fanatic, I mean staying up the night before the NFL Draft the way that I once stayed up for Santa. Watching the ENTIRE draft; BOTH DAYS. While his obsession has faded somewhat since Jacob's birth, it smolders on and once in a while, it flares back up.

My brother Ben is a Green Bay Packers fan. Not at the same level as Josh, but enough to get me interested enough in professional sports through stories about the general fanaticism of Green Bay itself.

Josh and Ben have a friendly rivalry, the trash-talking cementing their brothers by marriage bond. Given that the Vikings record is not that great compared to the Packers, Josh has resorted to arbitrarily blurting out "Brett Faaaaaarve!" in this funny announcer voice. He yells it when I am on the phone with Ben, sometimes he takes the phone out of my hand and yells it into the phone without saying anything else. When Ben visits, Josh will say "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on infinite repeat.

While this started out as Josh mocking the sycophants praying at the altar of Brett Favre, that glue-y insult has bounced off Ben and stuck to Josh. Because now, Brett Favre is a Viking. And not only that, the Vikings are kicking butt.

So now, Josh has drunk the Favre Kool-Aid, and can't stop exclaiming, "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on game days like he's been newly diagnosed with football Tourette Syndrome.

This kind of reminds me of my friend from college, S, who made fun of her friend's wheezy laugh so much that eventually she could only laugh in the same loud, wheezing manner. Her laugh became so unique that my friend SP, exclaimed, "I've heard you in the dining hall!" after meeting her and hearing her laugh.

Driven to Distraction

Lately I've been thinking about lots of things, none of which have to do with the fact that I'm going to be a mother of two in about four months. This is nothing new really. Right before going into induce labor for Jacob, I became obsessed with getting our house professionally cleaned and a video camera. Two years later I can't even find the charge cord for our video camera, and yesterday I let Jacob eat a dropped piece of toast w/cheese off our dining room floor (to be fair, I had just Swiffered).

It is much easier to focus on the little things that aren't necessarily relevant, than the BIG things coming our way. And 2 little kids is a VERY BIG THING. However, I don't think that this is a really bad thing. Then again, I've let my child eat food off the floor. I think that this can be a useful tool, especially since I am more aware know that this is just a tool, and I don't really need that thing that I'm obsessed with.

What BIG THING are you avoiding? Here are some things that are helping me get through my upcoming BIG THING:

1. I need a car with room enough to fit a BOB Duallie Jogger
2. Did Ed really cheat on Jillian from The Bachelorette?
3. I need a dishwasher
4. I need a new kitchen to match the dishwasher
5. My garage is a mess
6. My front door needs painting and weatherization
7. Who did let the dogs out? Who? Who?
8. Will Jacob ever stop saying "Say Please" instead of "Please"?

Our Little Paleontologist

Every Saturday, we all head out to a local park to attend Stroller Strides, a mom & baby fitness class, although Daddys are welcome (and free on Saturdays!). We sing songs like "Row Row Row Your Boat" to entertain the kids while getting our butts kicked by lunges, squats, sprints, etc.

Anyhoo, we end class at a playground, where the kids burn off some energy while the parents finish up with abs and stretching. Every Saturday without fail, Jacob spends an obligatory five minutes at the playground before getting down to business: looking for dinosaurs.

There is a small wooded area right next to the playground, and it is prime dino hunting ground. First, Jacob enters the woods and sings, “Dinosaur. . .where ARE you?” Next, he looks for some sticks, maybe to help him corral the dinosaurs when he gets them?

Sometimes, he tires of the hunt, and decides to become Max from Where the Wild Things Are, which he indicates by ceremoniously tapping the tree and declaring, “Rumpus, Start!”

For the most part, though, it’s all about the dinosaurs. Just once, I’d love to see a brontosaurus show up, just walking along through the woods of Northern California. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

Pay Attention During Physics Class!

Was my elementary school the only one to show the filmstrip of the frozen milk bottle exploding? A co-worker put their can of soda in the communal freezer, forgot about it, and it exploded, leaving a high fructose corn syrup frost on everyone else’s food. Thanks, dude.

Pregnancy Dream #4

A few nights ago I dreamt that I gave birth to a fish. A big, pink, hairy fish with a green mustache and green patches over its body. I put the fish/baby in water, but then realized that it couldn't breath because it was, erm, "human," so I pulled it out of the bowl of water.

With Jacob, I had different versions of the same dream: I forget to feed/care for the baby for days on end and it shrivels up like a raisin. This time around, evidently my subconscious is satisfied with my caretaking skills, so all bets are off. Does this mean I'm having a girl?

Birth Story, Part I

Every mom has her birth story. Even those moms who haven’t experienced childbirth, they have their own form of a birth story.

Here is mine.

WARNING: The following includes some personal and potentially graphic information, especially for any menfolk out there. Okay, you’ve been warned.

Today is Jacob’s birthday! I can’t believe our little nugget is a walking, talking little person. Today is also Gandhi’s birthday, which is why I think that Jacob is so mellow, and it may also be why he fought so hard to be born on October 2.

Oh how we tried to get him out of the hot tub! At 36 weeks, his head was measuring at 39 weeks and his weight was 7 lbs, 4 oz. Yikes! Everyone kept telling us we were going to get this big old baby that would never make it to 40 weeks. We tried to induce a week before Jacob’s birth, and it failed. This was somewhat horrifying because we didn’t realize that an induction may not work. We figured we’d come out with a baby no matter what, right? WRONG.

We checked in on a Tuesday night, and they gave me Cervidil, a vaginal suppository (Seriously, you have been warned) which is a cervical ripening agent, which means that it should have gotten my cervix to open up and get ready to make room for my hopefully not too big kid.

About three hours into the 12 hours of Cervidil, I woke up with the WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE. Worse than labor, and worse than what followed Jacob’s birth (That would be the future post entitled Postpartum Part I). In the days and weeks that followed, I got very familiar with the 1-10 pain scale, and I can say unequivocally that this was a perfect 10. It felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly in the ONE place that a woman does not want to be stabbed. Thankfully they took it out and the pain subsided. The downside was that we just had Pitocin (another drug used to speed things along) to induce labor and that wasn’t enough.

Night two, we tried again, and once again, I woke up with the WPOML. Thankfully we had a fabulous nurse (I could write pages about the awesomeness of labor and delivery nurses and I probably will, but that is also another post) who asked if I had bad period cramps, and I said, “You mean like take massive drugs for three days bad? Why yes, yes I do.” Evidently that was a sign of hypersensitivity to prostaglandin, the MAIN ingredient in Cervidil.

Day 2 was a Thursday, and with a still un-ripe cervix by the end of the day, we had a choice: C-Section or go home. As much as we wanted this kid, I didn’t want a C-Section (Hear that? It’s God laughing as I tried to make a plan for this birth), so we went home. Tired and emotionally spent, I finally let my friends that I was still alive, and sobbed on the phone to my mom-friend, L.

Back at home, we decided to wait and not push things. So we waited, and my due date came and went. Monkey Brain struck the weekend after Jacob was due, and I tried to induce labor using castor oil. I ended up with bad breath and 12 hours of false labor.

I went into real labor the evening of October 1, and 25 hours and one C-Section later (that’s Birth Story Part II), Jacob came into this world at 9 lbs, 14 oz. As much as I tried to figure out a plan, it seems that he had his own.

Jacob’s birthday reminds me of what’s coming in February, and the big question is to VBAC (Vaginal Birth after Cesarean) or not to VBAC. What I have learned is that I’m not going to decide right now. I remember the last time I tried to pick my child’s birthday.

Monkey Brain

You know what is NOT okay to tell someone when they are hung over? “How about a warm tuna milkshake, with a dollop of mayo on top?” It’s been thirteen years and I still vomit a little in my mouth when I think about that.

21 Weeks: To sleep, perchance to. . .sleep?

Our little carrot is wreaking some big time havoc on my circadian rhythms. I’ve heard tell that the sleep interruptions that one experiences during pregnancy are Nature’s way of preparing you for the interruptions of a hungry, wet or cold newborn. That Nature, what a bitch! Shouldn’t we be stocking up on sleep?

Here is a sample of my nighttime routine as of late:
9:30-10 pm: get in bed curled around my trusty Snoogle, on one side or the other.
10:30 pm: Hopefully fall asleep
1:17 am: wake up, pee, return to bed, change sides
2:33 am: startle awake from pregnancy dream #3 (last night's was about hemorrhaging blood clots and IV bags, wtf?!), change sides
3:47 am: wake up once again, switch sides. Start to feel like a rotisserie chicken.
5:27 am: Cell phone alarm vibrates; hit 5 min snooze several times
5:45 am: Josh gets our 2 year old human alarm clock and plops him on our bed. After some hugs and pretending to sleep for 15.2 seconds, Jacob decides it is time for me to start my day: “Mama? Light on?”

With the exception of the human alarm clock, this situation is so not cool. This also may explain why at least once a week I come home and immediately pass out at 6 pm.

Monkey Brain

I just read about Knut the German polar bear, and how he got smacked by his first encounter with another polar bear, a girl! According to the zookeeper, “It was as we expected it to be. Knut was very shy and the Munich bear was clearly the one wearing the dirndl.” Dirndl?! What the heck-a-dee-doodle is that? At first I thought it meant pants, as in “Well, we know who wears the dirndl in that family.” Silly Monkey Brain, sexism is so last season. Evidently, a Dirndl is a “maid’s dress.” I love it! You go girl (polar bear)!

Monkey Brain

Am I the only sucker for any product that starts with the word "Artisanal"? It just makes anything sound special and schmancy pants. Artisanal cheeses, chocolates, soaps have us all paying a bit more, even in these economic times.

"I'll have the Artisanal toe jam, please." What? It's locally grown.

Mystery

Why does 101 always slow down right around the Kehoe exit in San Mateo? Every time, north or south, regardless of the time of day it slows down at Kehoe and picks back up by the time you pass Burlingame. Is there an invisible traffic fairy there making us slow down and consider hanging out in San Mateo?

Sigh

I have had 54 profile views since February 2008; I'm pretty sure that 50 of them have been me. Boo Hoo. It might help if I actually told people that I'm doing this.

20 Weeks: Freaking Out

I’ve been reading Mommy blogs, and it’s messing with my head. Yesterday I was reading some archives of a Mommy blogger writing about her newborn who wouldn’t nap, and all of a sudden I had a flashback to Jacob’s second month.

Jacob has always been a good sleeper, which I think of as Karma for what my body went through to get him into the world, and the six week aftermath (that’s all for a later post). However, his sleeping through the night at 7 weeks also meant that he was not the best napper in the world.

One day, Jacob woke up at 3:30 am and never went back to sleep. He would doze in my arms, but any time I tried to put him down in his Moses basket, he would start to scream. Josh’s school day ended at 3:05 pm and at 3:06, I called him and as soon as he picked up with phone, I didn’t even bother with hello: “Jacob has been up since 3:30 am.” He came straight home, thank God, and that was the worst day for a while. While I remembered this incident, I am only now revisiting what that felt like, that mixture of exhaustion, fear, frustration with this little being, and guilt about being frustrated with a little baby who didn’t know how to let himself fall asleep.

It might have helped to think about these things before getting pregnant, huh? But maybe that’s some sort of evolutionary thing to help us have subsequent children. I know that I can do this, but I’m having some visions of my poor future 2 ½ year old having to deal with psycho-mama and baby who won’t sleep.

Erm, Universe? I’d like my denial back please. PLEASE?!

Monkey Brain

You know what's a funny word? "Hoobastank." I dare you to say it and not smile.

Bend it like Keiki

More and more, Keiki is making his/her presence known. For the last day or two, I’ve been feeling bigger movements. Keiki’s kicks are now more in line with the feeling of having a reflex hammer drumming me from the inside. Freaky!!

Evidently Keiki is now the size of a large, heirloom tomato. I like the fact that my kid not only resembles a piece of fruit, but locally grown, sustainable fruit at that; how very Bay Area!!

Sex? Or no Sex?

It’s almost here, the 20 WEEK ULTRASOUND. This is the big one, when you get a real good look at your kid, and can find out the sex (What did you think the title meant? Dirty birdie. . .). I keep saying that I don’t want to know this time, but I am very bad with anticipation, so we’ll see. I really don’t care about the sex, either one will suit our family just fine. The not-knowing is just one more thing to savor for (most likely) my last pregnancy.

This is very different from how I felt with Jacob. I wanted to know everything, probably thinking that knowledge provides control. The craziness of his birth and the next 6 weeks (that's another post) pretty much broke me of that thinking, so this time around I’m a bit calmer. All I need to do is get through about 20 min tomorrow and I should be okay, but let me tell you, that Monkey Brain of mine is pretty unpredictable, so I may cave. Luckily, Josh will be there and can be the rational one.

It's all good

So we're all hanging out on our bed after work, letting Mama (that's me!) recover from the 75 minute, nausea-inducing commute. All of a sudden, Jacob stands up, grabs my curling iron from the headboad/shelf (not sure how that got there, but maybe the little ham stored it there just for this purpose), holds it up like a microphone and starts singing "I like to move it," EXACTLY like the the Will.I.Am version from Madagascar. It's like he's CHANNELING Moto Moto the hippo. Then, just like that, Jacob is back and offers the curling iron: "Dosh turn? Mama turn?"

He's not even TWO!

How does he know how to do a fake microphone? How?

When Josh and I were on our honeymoon in Kauai, we spent one day ziplining with a group of people that included a man with his two teenage sons. At one point, we were talking to the father, asking him what it was like raising two boys. He looked us in the eye and said, "It's all good. Every age is great." Later on, Josh and I realized we both had had the same thought, Cancer survivor. I know, it's pretty cynical to think that anyone with that rosy of an outlook must have faced death. Now, we are eating our words, our hats, some crow, a piece of humble pie, and some foot for good measure because Kauai Man, you are so right. It's all good. Every age is great.

19 Weeks: Letter to my body

Dear Self,

This may sound critical, but please filter my complaints through the lens of hormones and know that I am so appreciative that you are protecting and growing a living human being, which is hard work! Overall, you are doing a great job, but there are a couple of bones that I'd like to pick with you.

Bladder: Dude, your behavior is SO not cool. Please stop messing with me. I keep running to the bathroom, convinced I’m about to pee myself, only to find that there are 2, maybe three tablespoons of liquid ready to come out. This is unprofessional (running and/or peeing myself at work) and needs to stop. If this is retaliation because I'm a bit dehydrated, I’m trying to get over the fact that water makes me gag.

Please
Give
Me
A
Break!

Boobs: Ladies, it’s time to slow down. I’m serious here. I’ll focus on laying of the chocolate Riesen at work if you please stop growing. This is not a race, and if it were, you win.

Belly: You, my friend, are doing just fine. Keep on growing so people stop thinking that I’m cultivating a drinking problem and realize that I am pregnant, not a bloated alcoholic. Sorry, that was the self conscious hormones talking. Seriously, I like it when you get big and round, so keep up the good work!

RIP Patrick Swayze: 1952-2009

I am sad about Patrick Swayze. I’m not devastated, though. I’m not River Phoenix Sad. I never had a huge crush on Patrick, but he was kind of like the big older brother to my childhood crushes.

My friend Bird and I pretty much spent most of third grade watching The Outsiders. It feels like we watched that movie at her house 2-3 times each week during the spring and summer of 1984. Sure, there were other activities in which we engaged: playing "Office" in our favorite tree outside of church, pretending to be Ewoks, swim team. We always came back to those boys; “Pony Boy” in particular. We both had it bad for C. Thomas Howell (we’re talking My Secret Admirer watched 20 times bad). And while “Darry” (Patrick’s Character, just in case you have been living under a rock for almost 30 years) was kind of a hard ass, we knew that he loved those boys, and we loved him as we loved our own older siblings. I’m not C. Thomas Howell Sad, but I’m older-brother-of-the-cute-boy-down-the-street Sad.

Another seminal (for me) Swayze flick is Dirty Dancing. This was the first movie that I pretty much memorized. And while it came out in eighth grade, it was strong enough to provide the foundation (along with Pretty Woman) of my college friendship with Rufus, which is 15 years old and counting. Of course, she and I found other things to solidify our bond, but lines like “. . .or ‘What do the Simple Folk Do’? Or, ‘I Feel Pretty’? What do you think Daddy?” and “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” got us pretty far down the path to lifelong friendship. I even have a pair of Dirty Dancing socks from the resort where the movie was shot. Thanks Rufus!

Oh, Patrick. You are missed, but I will drive down to my local Movie Groove and get me some Dirty Dancing tonight.

A Perfect Sunday

I met our friends for brunch while Jacob napped and Josh watched the Vikings (Bret Farve!!). This meant I could actually eat and converse instead of the usual tag-team wrangling that Josh and I do these days when we go out.

After brunch, the husbands and kids went back to our house while my friends S, L &I got pedicures. We had a nice relaxing time catching up and getting rubbed, buffed and polished to perfection. Seriously, I can’t stop staring at my toes; I almost walked into a post this morning!

I’ve been friends with these ladies since college, almost 15 years! It was a nourishing time, spent with friends who know my history, and vice versa, so little explanation is needed. It reminds me that I need to work more of that into our lives somehow. Many of my close friends are on the East Coast, and while I don’t want to move across the country, I can get a little starved for this kind of camaraderie without even realizing it.

After the pampering was complete, we returned home and watched the kids wrestle on the bed, run around, joyfully livening up our house. We ended the play date with some “Jamba Juice”: banana-frozen blueberry-rice milk smoothies for all (God bless the Magic Bullet!). Suddenly the noise stopped due to the “Jamba Train”: the three tots silently filed out of the kitchen to find a spot to sip their special treats.

I loved watching the kids play together. They’ve been around each other, and are similar ages (H is almost 4, M just turned 2, and Jacob will be 2 in October), but this was the most they’ve interacted, and it was fun to see. It makes me even more excited for Keiki’s arrival, and hopeful that Jacob and his sibling will get along, and in a couple of years they will be wrestling on the bed and forming their own Jamba Train.

We ended the day with Jacob/Mama time while Josh went to work for a few hours: Sesame Street, Jack Hanna's Wild Kingdom, banging pots in the kitchen, a bath, and a few readings of Scooby Doo. I made a Rachel Ray pasta dish with the last of our neighbor's tomatoes that Josh and I ate in front of the tv and went to bed early. The dishes were done, the house was relatively clean, and I didn't think about work one bit.

All in all, a loverly day.

Diorama?

I loved making dioramas in grade school. Do they even do that anymore? Jacob kind of likes to make dioramas too.

Monkey Cook: The preggo Arnold Palmer

Ice
Water
Decaf Black Tea (I use Lipton)
Powdered lemonade (such as Country Time)

Make a cup of tea and let it steep for a couple of minutes. Add an ice cube or two to the tea.

Fill a large cup with ice halfway. Add the tea and fill the rest of the cup with water.

Add a spoonful of the lemonade powder, stir, and enjoy

This drink is especially good if you are pregnant and water makes you gag.

Monkey Cook: PB&J Sundae

Vanilla ice cream
Barbara's Bakery Peanut Butter Puffins cereal
Trader Joe's blueberry sauce
Whipped cream (optional)

layer the first three ingredients (amts vary to taste and whether or not you are hungry or just had a bad day) and fold them with a spoon so that you get a nice mix of sweet cream, savory crunch and berry goodness.

Monkey Brain

So the Stoop post from below doesn’t really make sense now that I’m calling this blog Monkey Brain. So why Monkey Brain? Someone once told me that Monkey Brain is a term that the Chinese use when talking about Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). And hey, that’s me! I’m a mix of ADD/HD (hyperactive). Usually I’m the quiet dreamy type, but I definitely have my hyper moments. And even if the brain chemistry weren’t there, the toggling back and forth between raising a toddler and growing a new baby is enough to make you feel ADD, am I right Mamas? Not to mention marriage, work, and that never ending pile of laundry.

So this blog may cover a variety of subjects, whatever my ADDled brain may come up with in a given week. I’ll try to give it some structure as time goes on, but for right now, I’m trying to just write and see where it goes.

Use your words!

Josh and I were having trouble sleeping the other night, and instead of counting sheep, we started to log Jacob’s vocabulary. This all started with my weekly e-mail from BabyCenter.com, which said that at his age, he should be using about 50-75 words, and would increase markedly around age two. Convinced that his vocabulary has already exploded, we started to count, and within minutes were drifting off. Here’s what we came up with:

Mama, Daddy, Josh, Caitlin, Uncle, Dan, Jamie, Ariella, JoJo, Pop Pops, Nana, Sabba D, Noor, Daniel, Ben, how about, bath, markers, pooh, tigger, honey, bear, book, read it, bug hair (from when he had lice, which I’ll get to in another post), bunny, calf, car, cereal, chair, Cheerios, cheese, chocolate milk, crackers, draw, choochoo, football, Bret Farvre (don't ask), new diapert, open door, Dory, Nemo, dvd, fish, eyes, feet, hands, nose, Obama head (yes, we have an action figure of Obama, but his "hair" always falls off), grapes, help with this, horse, neigh, I want, Kenai, Koda, light, movie, my turn, no, yes, Nicole, Tyler, out, outré, owie, panda, Po, Shi Fu, Tai Lung, Tigress, Mantis, Monkey, Viper, snake, tiger, leopard, oh, paper, parrot, noodle, penguin, pig, piglet, polar bear, yucky poo poo, quail, Grover, Big Bird, Abby, Zooey, Street, share, shoes, sorry, stroller, train, truck, tv, zebra, lion cub, cheetah, jaguar, finger puppet, Micky Mouse, oopies (oops), bed, c’mon, come out, night night, sleeping, Baloo, Mowgli, Monsters Inc., scary, dinosaur, hot dog, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, Evelyn, Eileen, Bella, Anne Perry, thank you, please, cinqo, ocho, baby, sister, brother, Keiki, belly button, tickle, birdie, airplane, Cookie Monster, Elmo, Ernie, Bert, wiggle, cookie-rocka (Madagascar). . . oh, you get the picture, right?

Have I mentioned that I like to count stuff?

Hollywood, here we come!

You may remember my previous post about Josh's erm, Stage Daddiness. Well, maybe he's not so off base after all.

Today, Jacob was pointing into his diaper bag and saying, "Dat's Jay-cob!" over and over again. I was completely baffled, since there were no photos in the bag, and whenever Jacob notes something, no matter how esoteric, he's right. For example, you may be in a store, and he'll shout "Rhino!" even though you are in Trader Joe's, not the African savannah. But then you'll see a tiny rhino on a box of cereal or something and think, holy crap, eagle-eyed Jacob has struck again.

Back to the photo-less diaper bag sitting in my kitchen. "Dat's Jay-cob! Dat's Jay-cob! Dat's Jay-cob!"

I'm stumped.

In walks Daddy to save the day. "Yes, that's Jacob," he says while showing me the tag on a burp cloth in Jacob's bag.

It's the Gerber Baby.

18 Weeks: Tiny Bubbles

There’s a bit of Jacuzzi action going on in my belly, and I’m pretty sure that these are Keiki’s (placeholder until #2 makes his/her debut) first flutters. This must seem like a weird analogy, but it’s the best I can do. It really feels like bubbles or pins and needles rippling up my belly. For a while this morning, I kept thinking it was something else, because it feels more towards the outside, but maybe it’s just a ripple effect from Keiki’s tiny kicks from down below.

This is when the baby part of pregnancy starts to get real for me. I’ve had daily reminders of the alien invasion that is going on, but once the kid starts moving, it’s like they are communicating with me. This is my favorite part of pregnancy, the unspoken conversations that go on, which may (MOM, PLEASE stop with the spicy food!!) or may not (Hiccup!) mean anything.

The best is towards the end of pregnancy, when you can “wrestle”: knuckle into your baby and watch them writhe around, the outline of an elbow or hand changing the topography of your belly in a cool/scary sci-fi way, whoo boy!

Pregnancy Food(s) of the Week:

Apples: Jacob pregnancy flashback. I spent a couple of weeks during the summer of 2007 devouring pre-cut apples until I became suddenly disgusted by them. Right now, I’m enjoying their crisp, watery sweetness, while feeling some guilt that the organic Fugi that I just ate had to travel all the way from New Zealand to satisfy my preggo craving.
Oranges: Normally I hate orange juice and oranges, or at least am very picky about my citrus. Now, I’m eating 1 quartered orange/day. And they MUST be cold. Baby is very picky about da juice.
Turkey sub: this is another Jacob pregnancy flash back. I had a 6” turkey from the Caltrain station Subway several times a week before my commute home. I also had one every Sunday at about 2:30 pm while Josh and I visited open houses. This time around, I take BART from San Francisco and transfer to Caltrain, so no Subway. However, the other day I did my old commute and that turkey sub (wheat bread, lettuce, tomato, pickle, Swiss, red wine vinegar) was the best thing I have eaten all week.

What’s Not:
Beef Jerky: I thought it would appeal to my protein cravings, but it was like trying to eat a leather belt.
Organic Lemonade: Sorry Michael Pollan, it’s preservatives or bust for this kid.

23 months!

Today is Jacob's 23 month birthday. So what do supergenious dream baby almost two year olds do to celebrate?

Poop in the bath.

It's kind of like a big potty, right?

17 Weeks: Life in the Chocolate Factory

My high school roommate, J, scared me off acid by telling me that a little bit would always remain in my spinal cord and potentially cause birth defects. (That's me, a good mama at 16!)

However, pregnancy is kind of an acid trip in itself. Case in point? I’m morphing into a 1971 movie character.

Exhibit A: Due to the nausea, I am constantly chewing cinnamon gum.

Exhibit B: My hands randomly turn blue/purple. My doctor says this is totally normal. Okkayyyyyy. . .

Exhibit C: My body (between my neck and my hips) is expanding like a balloon in a very uncomfortable manner. Definitely not like those cute pregnant ladies who look like they swallowed a small basketball.

Basically, I’m turning into Violet Beauregarde.

Pregnancy Dreams: 1 & 2

These aren't the first pregnancy dreams I've had, but this is the first time I'm logging these, and I like to count stuff.

Dream #1: The other night, I dreamed that Josh and I were separating. Now, status quo for my pregancies has been that he has the divorce dreams and I have dreams about dried up prune babies that I forget to feed for days on end, so this one shook me up.

In the dream, I said something like, "You know we haven't been getting along lately, why would you even want to be with me?" This is kind of true, since nausea and hormones haven't made me the most pleasant person to be around these days. All through the dream, I just thinking about how easy it was to get divorced while six months pregnant, and strategizing my next move without any emotion. WTF?

Dream #2 happened the same night as dream #1. Since I no longer sleep through the night, I usually remember a few dreams a night. Josh was kind of awake, and I mumbled, " I dreamed that we separated," before falling back asleep and dreaming of his death. Thanks hormones!!

So in Dream #2, Josh has a heart attack and dies, but somehow they revive him after he's been dead for a while. We then go on a plane, and my brother is there and asking if anyone has had a father die recently, so he can figure out what to say to Jacob. And I'm confused because I thought Josh was saved, but evidently it's just a brief reprieve and when the plane lands, he'll be dead again.

The plane lands and I'm trying to get all of our stuff together (I've somehow sat in 3 different seats during the flight) and get Jacob and his twin sister (instead of whatever is in mah belly) to my college dorm and I'm asking for help from friends that I haven't spoken with in over 5 years. Agh!

The upshot is that when I woke up all cranky today, I stayed by myself instead of releasing my evil pregnant twin on my sweet hubby.