The Circle of Life

Well, since my house has been full of misplaced appliances, men in HAZMAT suits, and scary plastic tents reminescent of E.T., and since my computer crashed and I've been unable to continue freelance work during the day (I worried I'd lose clients but so far they've been pretty understanding of my limited availability), I decided to clean out our filing cabinet and reorganize office materials. I thought this would take an hour. It took four. But that's a good thing because otherwise I would have sat on the sofa and stared at plastic-clothed men speaking other languages.

Little did I know our five foot tall filing cabinet held old pencil boxes full of wallet-sized photos of high school classmates and old letters from grandparents. It even held this treasure:

My mom! Pregnant with me and wearing ketchup red maternity pants! (Are they polyester, Mom? Be honest!) Eh. It doesn't matter; I happen to think she looks pretty darn good--and HAPPY. Yes, her eyes are closed but, unlike me, she didn't have a handy digital preview of how her image would go down in history. Me? I make Craig take and retake photos of my belly until I'm convinced the angle is right, the smile is almost natural, and my hair lies as good as I can get it. Here's the one he took tonight, at the end of my 28th week:

I'm sure one day my daughter will make fun of my clothes too, and I think that's okay.

By the way, everyone, Craig turned the big 3-0 today! This is his 14th birthday that I've been able to celebrate with him--almost half of his life I've been following him around pestering him to bring me water and make eye contact when I'm speaking. To celebrate, we ordered peanut butter chocolate shakes and drank them on the beach watching the sunset. We decided it was a little cool for that but since we haven't found a place specializing in peanut butter hot chocolate, we also decided we didn't care.

Happy Birthday, sweetie!

Complications, Part 2

So the de-construction crew came Thursday morning and set about putting up plastic tents--double-walled with hazmat dressing areas between partitions--cutting holes, dehumidifying, and bleaching. They worked here for two solid days, during which time I spoiled our two dogs with super long walks and cuddle times in the bedroom in order to keep them out of foot and bark-free. Six grown men rotated through, each asking permission for their turn in the restroom and, since I didn't want them peeing in the bushes, I gladly gave my consent. They finished Friday afternoon but dehumidifiers have been running non-stop since they started Thursday. I was told these would be turned off once the mold specialist arrived to take his measurements. We expected him today but apparently he will come tomorrow at 10am. Meanwhile, we've gotten used to the constant whir of the machines and are sleeping relatively well. The mold specialist will take his measurements tomorrow morning, our landlord will get the results Thursday and, at that time and assuming the measurements are "good," will schedule a different construction crew to begin the restoration project, which is expected to take another two days. Craig and I are headed to Tahoe on Thursday to celebrate his 30th birthday; we hope the construction will be done by the time we return Sunday evening. Assuming that the construction is finished by then, we can start the process of putting refrigerators, appliances, china, and cutlery back in their rightful places in the kitchen--after we unpack from the trip, anyway. Ugh. I'll just be glad when I no longer have to fill our Brita water pitcher from the bathtub.

In the meantime, my laptop decided it was time to end its life Friday. We managed to salvage the hard drive and save it to an external drive but the laptop itself is no more. Try to imagine me in a construction-zoned house, unable to clean, cook, or really even move, with no computer access for freelancing, blogging, news-gathering, or chit-chatting. And we don't have cable or a newspaper subscription. Craig comes home talking about health bills and who Sandra Bullock's husband has been sleeping with and I'm lost. But not for much longer! Craig is in the process of hooking me up with an old and discarded computer from his office to get me through until we have enough money saved up to buy my dream computer: an iMac. Since Best Buy is just a block away, I've been walking there frequently just to stand at the floor model and hold her magic mouse in hand.

When I'm not at Best Buy oogling computers, I've kept busy throwing out old files and reorganizing our file cabinet. It's amazing the stuff I've kept: high school transcripts, ACT scores, wallet-sized photos of middle school classmates. Wow. Have I really carted all these things through three states? Well, no longer! Apparently all I needed was complete isolation from the rest of the world to motivate me. That and needing to make room for baby, of course.

Nesting Complications

Until recently, Craig and I were unsure we'd be staying in our current apartment, to put it mildly. To be not-so-mild: I panicked.

Craig doesn't panic, which is something I really appreciate about him. But I tend to panic, and I did. I scoured Craig's List for cheaper but still well-maintained  and dog-friendly two-bedroom apartments on the ground floor (for the dogs, groceries, and soon-coming baby) in a nice part of town with plenty of storage space, ideally within walking distance of a park, and in a location that would not add more drive-time to Craig's commute. Ha! Turns out such things don't exist around here. And the more I prayed about it, the more I felt God telling me we just need to trust Him a bit more and stay put.

Well, once that decision was made, we turned our attention to other things. We picked up paint swatches and soon our conversations became peppered with debates over the pros and cons of "powdered blush" versus "southern belle" and the amount of red undertones to be found in "chocolate sprinkle" versus "chocolate cocoa."

We also decided it's time to start moving furniture around in order to transform the "study" into a "nursery." We moved the "reading nook" chair from the living room to the bedroom and the piano from the former "music nook" to the former "reading nook." The plan is to eventually move the desk and filing cabinet from the study to the former "music nook" and thus have ourselves a nursery. Phew.

Well, when we moved the piano to its new location two weeks ago, this is what we found:

That's right: that would be mold coupled with some severe water damage. Turns out the pipes from the kitchen angle off toward this particular wall. It further turns out that the wall in the storage space under the kitchen sink is "wet" and the mold specialist suspects there's mold inside that wall as well. The suspicion is that there are pipe problems. Either that, or the massive amounts of rain we've had lately somehow soaked its way through the exterior wall. Because of the piano's position, we missed all this happening (and yes, the piano is mold-free and in working condition).

Well, like I said, that was two weeks ago. A week later, our landlord managed to bring the mold specialist guy over. After getting the mold specialist's estimate of costs, he decided to go through his insurance. A week after that, the insurance adjuster and construction manager came by. The insurance adjuster said they'd only cover it if it was a "one time" deal; she said that the construction manager and mold specialist would have to tell her if it was a "one time" deal. The construction manager said they won't be able to know what caused the mold until they cut the wall out. The landlord said he didn't want to cut the wall out until he knew insurance would cover it (I'm thinking, "Dude, you have to cut the wall out regardless"). Meanwhile, none of these people are putting on HAZMAT suits when they come over so I'm guessing I'm okay. The landlord told me the mold specialist told him that the air quality was "still good."

The "good" news is that the construction crew is coming to section off my former music nook and kitchen, knock out the walls, suction the moldy air into some special container, bleach and scrub and suck some more until all the mold is gone. This is estimated to take two days. They will then leave my house in an unfinished state while the mold specialist takes readings and then waits two days to get the results. Once the results come in (assuming the results are good), a different construction crew will come in and take two days (hopefully no more) to put everything back together. This is starting tomorrow morning at 9am.

Realizations have slowly dawned on me. Like the fact that I'll be stuck in a house with construction crews and high-stress dogs for a total of four days (maybe more). The fact that, in addition to not being able to cook anything, I also won't have a kitchen sink, which means either buying bottled water or filling my Brita pitcher in the tub. I hope to avoid doing dishes in the tub by stocking up on plastic bowls and canned soups for lunches and frozen waffles and paper plates for breakfasts.

It also means that everything from our kitchen had to be removed to a) make room for the construction crews and b) prevent myself from needing to scrub everything really good after the mold "exposure" process. Here's what our house looks like right now:

The refrigerator has temporarily displaced my music stand and violin.

Glassware fills the console table behind our sofa and bakeware has taken up residence on our piano bench.

Our dining table holds an assortment of kitchen odds-and-ends.

Most of our appliances (toaster, microwave, crockpot, etc.) have a new home on the island (which will not be sectioned off but which, unfortunately, has no electrical outlets).

Meanwhile, our kitchen plates and cups are stacked on this soon-to-be-craigs-listed desk in the room that was once a study and is now a desolate sort of transition room (the room in which I find myself spending the majority of each day).

My plan for this afternoon is to move all of the other kitchen stuff from our living and dining areas and into this room. If Craig and I have to eat take-out for a week, we should at least be able to eat it sitting at a table like civilized adults.

I suppose you could look at all this and say, "Well, at least they caught the mold before the baby came and the air quality went kaput." You're probably right. But unless you're inviting me over for dinner sometime in the next week, I don't really feel like hearing that right now.

The Beach

So yesterday we decided to hit the beach. The weather's finally been warming up and drying out, so I told Craig we should make a picnic lunch and he said we should do the picnic at the beach.

"But what would I wear?" was my question.

"Your swimsuit," my wise husband replied.

Well, for one thing, it may be warmer but it's not that warm yet. For another thing, even with the maternity swimsuit a friend lent me, I hardly feel like traipsing around the beach with my big ol' self on display. But I decided to play brave.

"I could do that," I said. "Big and beautiful."

That's when my husband decided to tell me that "big and beautiful" doesn't apply to pregnant women. He meant this as a compliment.

In the end, I put on the swimsuit (more out of curiosity than the belief that I'd actually want to strip down to it) underneath yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Choosing just the right yoga pants and shirt was another battle. I may be set up well enough for everyday maternity wear, but beachwear is another story altogether. The beach is peppered with lithe, well-oiled bodies. I couldn't throw on Craig's old teeshirts (which I wear to exercise in) and expect to feel good about myself.

Well, a couple of wardrobe changes later, we managed to pack our lunch and head out. I was right about lithe and oiled bodies. Unfortunately, I was even right in assuming that though the weather was far too chilly to lay near-naked by the water, most people were doing exactly that (tans are sometimes more important than bodily comfort, I suppose). But it turns out I didn't mind so much. We set up our beach chairs, pulled out some sandwiches and managed to bask in the sun while forgetting about everyone around us (except the surfers, whom we like to watch and, occasionally, laugh at).

All in all, it was a good time. And, as was evidenced by the mother busy supervising two young children nearby, such times of peaceful relaxation at the beach are soon to be extinct. I suppose next time, I'll dress faster and focus more on treasuring the time while I still have it.

My "big and beautiful" belly at 25 weeks (and yes, I'm at 27 weeks now).

Nesting

Time is flying right along and here I am in the middle of my 26th week (or 7th month for those non-moms out there). Complete strangers have taken to asking me when my due date is and whether or not I intend to breastfeed. While I'm relieved to finally know I absolutely do look pregnant and not just bloated, I'm not so excited to be receiving breastfeeding tips from men while in line to buy popcorn at the movie theater. But I guess these are the sacrifices we make in order to bring new life into the world.

The advancement of my pregnancy also means that we've begun making our way into the Center for Health Education at the nearby hospital. This past week, we attended both the Pain Management and Maternity Ward Tour classes. I can't say the Pain Management class taught me anything I couldn't have read about but there was a level of comfort in meeting some of the anesthesiologists I may encounter in June, and there's nothing like sitting in the midst of a lecture hall packed to the brim with extremely pregnant women and their partners. You get to laugh at the silliness of people's questions (like asking the neonatologist if the post-delivery checks they do on babies are really necessary--c'mon, what do you think a medical doctor is going to say to that?) and you get to listen in awe to the really smart people (we sat next to a medical doctor whose wife is pregnant; he opened our eyes to things like blood patches and other terms that I can't even pronounce, let alone spell). But strangest of all, you get to participate in the herd of waddling pregnant women tripping over lecture chairs trying to make it to the bathroom before the end of each 5 minute break. Best of all, you get to check out these same pregnant women's shoes from under stall doors. (We can't wear heels, remember? It's like relearning shoe fashion all over again. Close-toed wedges with buckles and bows seem popular.)

That was Tuesday night. Sunday afternoon was the maternity tour. We started off in a room with one long table filled with water pitchers and cookies and another long table filled with "literature." We learned about the hospital's professional baby photographers, social security scams, the local doula association, free valet parking, and visiting hours. I started off scribbling frantically while the tour guide spit out information; when I missed visiting hours and Craig admitted to having not paid any attention whatsoever, I scowled. When he told me I "probably don't need to write out everything," I scowled harder. But it turns out he was right; at the very end of the tour, we were given a sheet with all the information pre-printed on it. That would have been helpful to know at the beginning!

The tour itself was a lot of fun, though. There were second-, third-, and fourth-time moms asking if they're allowed to request their newborns be put in the nursery alongside newbies like me asking if we're allowed to keep them in the room with us. There were pregnant teenagers alongside 40-somethings and scowling grandmothers who wanted to make sure that "all these girls know they might be given an enema."

The labor/delivery/recovery rooms are gorgeous, by the way. They're large and have bassinets, hospital beds, and pull-out couches. There's a jacuzzi tub for "laboring only," rich jewel colors on the walls, seascape paintings, and dim lights. When delivery time comes, there's concentrated spotlights in the ceiling that follow the movement of a "wand" that nurses use to direct the light where it's needed. We were told this was to maintain a relaxing environment for the mother. In the past, we were told, women complained about the bright lights that were necessary.

The room they stick you in after "recovery" is not so nice. I was disappointed to learn that "recovery" takes only 2-6 hours and that we only get this really great room for the amount of time that we're in so much pain we won't even be able to enjoy it. Once we've rested a bit and the baby is stable, we get shuttled off to the older wing to rooms that actually look like hospital rooms, with beige walls bereft of any artwork and bright blue telephones with interpreter services. We were told that in eight years they've never had to use double occupancy in these rooms and that they "hope" they're able to maintain that. You'd better "hope" that! You'd better hope I don't end up being the first woman in the history of this new maternity ward to be doubled up with someone!

So the classes have been good. Perhaps the most useful aspect of the classes, though, has been that Craig was able to practice out our labor route to the hospital. Tuesday night, as we're running late for the Pain Management class, he foolishly headed east instead of west from our house. I pointed out the error of his way and he argued a bit, but when we went west Sunday afternoon on our way to the Maternity Tour, he grudgingly admitted I'd been right. "See?" I told him. "Aren't you glad we learned this now instead of in two months' time when I'm screaming and crying and less patient with you?"

Yes, indeed, he is! After all, my way shaved off a whole 5 minutes. We're exactly 7 minutes from the hospital--not 12. And you know, in the process of a 4+ hour birth, 5 minutes is a big deal.

The Raging Sea

I don't like bumper stickers--or rather, I'm automatically prejudiced against people who have bumper stickers. It doesn't even matter if I agree with (or even like) your particular bumper sticker. If you have a bumper sticker, I'm less inclined to want to know you. If I already know and like you before realizing you have bumper stickers, there's always a strange feeling of disappointment when I see your car.

It's a strange fact about me that I've only recently stopped to consider, and I've reached the conclusion that something in the very nature of bumper stickers suggests that the people who make use of them are loud-mouthed, stubborn, and arrogant to the point of thinking their opinion is automatically the right opinion. Awhile back I heard about a study that found that people who have bumper stickers are more prone to experience road rage--the more bumper stickers, the more extreme the road rage tended to be. This did not surprise me.

What did surprise me was finding the online equivalent of bumper stickers plastered on a pacifier discussion board I was reading yesterday. Community members participating in the discussion had these labels appended to their profiles: EBF (Exclusive Breastfeeder), Cloth Diaper Baby, and I Went Natural!

Ugh. So what? Your husband never gets the bonding experience of feeding their baby a bottle of breast milk? You're one of those women who can afford cloth diaper laundry services? (I'll be more impressed with an online bumper sticker that says "I wash my own cloth diapers.") And wow, if bragging rights make the pain worth it, be my guest; I will let your all-natural self stomp all over me.

Don't get me wrong: I have plenty of friends who are EBF, cloth diaper, all-natural supermoms. But if I ever caught them plastering their online presence with these kinds of stickers, I might rethink sending them a Christmas card next year.

I can't help but wonder if the road rage mentality somehow transfers to playgroup settings. Maybe when I see a mother unpacking a child from a car with one of those yellow caution "Baby on Board" stickers, I'll grab my young daughter's hand and run as fast as I can in the other direction.