Am I a Grinch, or is this just totally wrong?

Since I'm too tired and brain-dead to be funny, here's a link to someone else you can laugh at in the meantime. Enjoy. (Thanks to my homegirl Amilah for the tip.)

Hello again from the land of the sleep-deprived. I have been cooped up in the house (mostly) with a sick toddler and a gassy infant, along with my equally stir-crazy husband and my mother. Plus I've been on antibiotics, so I can't even drown my sorrows in spiked egg nog.
Of course, my husband has been putting up with the kids, his ailing wife, and his mother-in-law for this period. Not that anyone is keeping score or anything, but I'm sure that your sympathy meters are registering just as strong for him.
Little Gigi did not have thrush, it turns out. It was something called herpangina and it was equally unpleasant but required less medication. She has her appetite back and it's no longer painful for her to eat. I am determined to get her back to school tomorrow even if it kills us both. The incubation period is over, her fever is gone, and the nursery has had plenty of time to disinfect the joint in her absence. If she isn't back in school tomorrow, so help me, I'm staying in bed all day.
Go ahead, call the Bad Mommy Cops on me; I doubt they'll even give me a warning.

Chappy Chanukah!

Sick Bay Update: I had my "two-week" checkup yesterday. The doc says I have a low-grade infection around my incision area, so I'm on antibiotics and an antifungal lotion for the next ten days. I will spare you gory details. You're welcome.
At the same time, 25-month-old Gigi has apparently developed thrush. This has been unofficially diagnosed by phone with my brother-in-law "Uncle George", the doctor. For two days we thought Gigi was just having wicked teething pain, until Grandma pointed out the white coating on her tongue. Ah, so that's what's making her howl like a lunatic. And Baby Halley has been very gassy of late, so I have screaming kids on each side of my lap for full stereophonic effect.
The good news is that I'm allowed to drive now. I had to promise my mom I wouldn't take advantage of this to run away from home. (How far can I run? We're on an island...) As a gesture of good faith, I bought her some egg nog yesterday and showed her where the rum is. (Updside of island life: plentiful supplies of good rum!)

Some numbers, for those who are interested: When Baby was born, two weeks ago, his stats were as follows: Apgar scores 9 and 10; weight 7 lbs 3 oz; length 18 1/2 inches; head circumference 14 3/4 inches. Not too shabby! When we left the hospital, he was down to 6 lbs 12 oz. Last week he was back to 7 lbs even.
Today was two-week checkup day, and the numbers are in: 7 lbs 13 oz (Yowza!), length 20 inches, head circumference 15 inches.
I am NOT returning phone calls from Barry Bonds.

For my Big Brother, a special interest piece.

"Right on track. Perfect." So declared the nurse at Baby's one-week checkup today. He has regained most of his birthweight. His eyes appear to have settled on a dark brown that matches mine. He sleeps, eats and poops prodigiously. Not much else to report.

I got my staples out today. That was something I'd been looking forward to for about six days. The nurse at my doctor's office wasn't as effusive as the pediatric nurse, but said my healing was progressing nicely. The painkillers continue to be necessary, but effective. And now, back to resting.

Paging Phillip Pullman...

Home at last, home at last! My baby boy is healthy and beautiful. He arrived Monday at 12:25 in the afternoon (that's a 10:50 operating room slot, on Island Time). He was about 18 1/2 inches long, 7 pounds, 3 ounces, with sandy brown hair and eyes like the sea after a storm.

Only when speaking of a baby can I say both that he is beautiful and that he looks like a cross between Kevin Spacey and Mr. Magoo.

The hospital experience - surgery and aftercare - was surprisingly positive. I definitely went in with a better attitude this time, and since there weren't any concerns about baby's size and weight, I wasn't being woken up every two hours to nurse. He slept a lot, and I slept a lot. I am definitely recuperating better this time than the first time around.

We came home on Thursday, and I've been trying to rest. But in truth, I really don't feel all that bad. Two years ago at this time, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. This time, comparatively, the truck just brushed past me. I'm still taking painkillers (nothing narcotic, just your basic weapons-grade Tylenol and anti-inflammatories), I get tired easily, and I'm moving verrrrrry slowwwwly. It's taken me an hour to type this post. And now I need a nap.

Last post before the hospital. Tomorrow morning, we take Gigi to day care, then proceed to the place I didn't really want to go: the operating room. I'm bummed about having to have a repeat C-section, but as long as Baby comes out healthy that's all that matters. I tell myself that it's not important how the child is born; how the child is raised is what really counts. I only get to give birth to the child once, but I get 18 years to screw up his foundations, ha ha.

Anyway, I'm running out of time when I'm allowed to eat (nothing after midnight!) and it's past my bedtime. Thanks to you all for your love and support. I may not be able to post from the hospital (the Island has a lot of things, but 'net access away from home is not plentiful), so it will be a few days before I'm back on line. Peace.

It's Official: surgery scheduled for 10 a.m. Monday. So much for my Florida football theory. Of course, factor in that the Patriots play this evening... still time to slip in under the wire!

Still no major news, sorry. Gigi is taking a nap, her Daddy is dissecting the Florida-Florida State game over the phone with his dad, and Mom and I just took a tea break after clearing stuff out of the garage. We discovered several neglected boxes, whose contents were infested by mildew and molds that were no doubt on the verge of developing the wheel and representative democracy. Euw ick.

I'm glad that the FLA-FSU game is on, because once it's over I'm free to give birth. You see, I have a theory: Gigi was two weeks late, I am convinced, because she knew Daddy was a Red Sox fan and she had the good sense to wait until the ALCS and World Series were over before making her debut. Likewise, I speculated early on that "Halley" here would wait until FLA/FSU had their matchup. Daddy roots for Florida State; his Daddy is a Gator. (Paging Dr. Freud...) So even though Florida State is having a really bad season, Halley has similar sensibilities as his big sister, and will not deprive his Daddy of a chance to exchange trash talk with Grampy. (Did I mention that my father-in-law is also a Yankee fan?)

It's the third quarter, and Florida is up 14 points. I'm going to chug down some more evening primrose oil and lift some heavy things. Maybe a newborn will cheer up my husband after his beloved Seminoles get their butts handed to them.

Went to the hospital this morning for pre-admission stuff. Nothing else to report. Didn't sleep much last night - too much tossing and turning (internally, that is). Naptime now. Ooooooog.

Happy Thanksgiving! Not much to report from The Island. They don't observe the North American holiday here - which shouldn't come as a surprise, but for some reason not everyone gets that. Think about it for a minute: anywhere they still have pictures of a European monarch on the currency, they're unlikely to celebrate the survival of colonies founded by people who ran away from Europe.

My OB visit was uneventful. I lost the two pounds I had gained last week, and Baby's heart rate is in the 130s. My blood pressure is still on the low end of normal range. Tomorrow I report to the hospital for some advance bloodwork and a consultation with the anaesthesiologist. Nice to have that chat ahead of time: "Hi, so you're going to insert a needle and catheter into my spinal column? Okay! And please don't give me any Percocet, that stuff gives me nightmares; you'll still remember this on Monday, right?"

In the meantime, my mother is laundering or vacuuming anything that will hold still long enough. She rearranged the living room furniture today. This baby had better show up soon, before Mom rebuilds the garage and resurfaces the roof. Thank God hurricane season is almost over, otherwise she'd probably be putting plywood over the windows "just in case". I am NOT complaining; just observing.

Nope, still no labor. Back to the OB tomorrow.

Epiphany du jour: I was leaning over to heft a laundry basket onto my hip, when the wait-I'm-pregnant! reflex kicked in. "You're not supposed to lift anything heavy," I said to myself. Then I said, "Hey, self, what's the worst that can happen?" Hmmm...we are now safely past Due Date. If my water breaks or I go into labor because I picked up a heavy basket, what's the big deal? So I picked up the basket without incident.
When I shared this little insight with my husband over dinner, his eyes bugged out of his head. "You did what?" Again, I asked, what's the worst that can happen?
"You throw your back out and have to spend the rest of your pregnancy in bed?!?!?"
All five and half remaining days, maximum?
"You fall and break a hip?"
I'm pregnant, I do not have osteoporosis. And I would have landed on the carpet. Not a likely scenario.
Worst case: he would have had to put the rest of the laundry away. I have faith that he could have handled that.

Today's Update: Mom got her filling redone (and an up-close and personal look at Island Time in action). I'm still home. It's still raining. I am drinking raspberry leaf tea in the hopes of getting something moving before Monday.

Stopped by the office today to drop off some paperwork (doctor's certificate for medical leave - as if I could be faking it to get maternity leave?!?!) and The Boss asked for my help: he'd misplaced his password for some of the accounting software, and could he use mine?

Possible responses:

a) what, you don't have it on a sticky note on the back of your badge with your safe combination?
b) I'm pregnant, not brain-damaged.
c) Sure, what's professional liability insurance for anyway?
d) [go rent the Terminator if you can't think of the snappy answer that goes here...I'm trying to keep this PG-13.]

Yeah, I don't think so. He was hoping to avoid loss of face by not having to admit to the techies that he couldn't remember his user ID and password. As if they don't get a million identical requests per month. As if you could lose face with people who have little to no regard for users anyway. As if you couldn't just e-mail them with "I must have typed something in wrong, I'm locked out, can you please reset my password?" As if they give a flying flip.

Nope, not missing the office at all.

Made it through one more day. Tomorrow's plans, should the Ineffable One allow it, are to take Mom to the dentist for a replacement filling. We called the "Emergency on-call Dentist" service for visitors to the island on Friday, and got an appointment for Tuesday. Island Time strikes again.

Fortunately, Mom says she is not in any pain, she just has to cut her food real small (or eat lots of soft things, like ice cream and cinnamon rolls). Of course, Mom would not likely admit to being in pain unless she had a noticable compound fracture; she'd rather be rearranging my garage or moving bookcases. You know the gag about how many Jewish mothers it takes to screw in a lightbulb (None, dahling, I'll just sit here in the dark...)? Yeah, you get the idea.

Due Date Today. It started off raining and crummy. For the past two nights, I haven't fallen asleep until after 2 a.m. For all my complaining about feeling like I have a bowling ball resting on my bladder, I am more upset at the fates for my other-brother-Darryl and his wife, who are not having a baby in April after all, it turns out. My husband's best friend is in the hospital, several hundred miles away, with a blood clot in his lung.
And yet, we are grateful.
Probably the only thing that kept me from going completely ballistic navigating island traffic in the rain this morning was having read this, courtesy of a reference from other-brother-Darryl's website, before leaving the house.
The sun is out now. I'm going to attempt to remain upright for a while longer, and maybe read something that doesn't have cartoon illustrations or a rhyme scheme.
There is nothing quite like the gift of perspective.

Quick! Before I lose the "lunatic cravings" excuse, I totally have to make these...

Nope, still not in labor. Tomorrow is officially Due Date. Considering that Gigi was two weeks late and a compulsory C-section (showed no signs of any interest in coming out) I'm a bit skeptical about the Due Date notion. In order to avoid a repeat of the two weeks of melodrama we went through two years ago, we've got an OR booked for a week from tomorrow, just in case. So no more than a week left of pregnancy, one way or the other.

Not much else going on here. I had another "Duck Day" - spent mostly horizontal and semiconscious. The highlight was a walk with my mom down to the gas station so she could spend nearly eight bucks on a Sunday New York Times for the crosswords. Woo hoo, I left the house! For my next amazing feat, I may attempt some shopping tomorrow. Or maybe tackle my mending pile. Ah, the hedonism of maternity leave before the baby actually shows up.

Made it through one more day without going into labor. I have also made through the day without a nap, which is even more remarkable.
Instead of a nap, I went to a matinee of the new Bond movie with my husband. It didn't suck, but it has several moments of lameness which are unworthy of the Bond franchise. (I am a purist when it comes to Bond movies. Yes, that means Connery is the best one. Don't even attempt to argue with me.) Judi Dench is brilliant. I will give Daniel Craig some credit: he's better than George Lazenby and Timothy Dalton. And I enjoyed this more than, oh, say, License To Kill. And it was a movie in a theatre, and this time the projector didn't eat the film. So as cinematic experiences go, this was probably the high point of the last several months.
Now if they could somehow, for the next movie, pair up Judi Dench's "M" with either Connery or Brosnan... Yeah, dream on, Mugs.

Today, we visited the maternity ward. JUST VISITING!!! We took the tour and saw the kind of room I'll be in for labor, assuming that "Halley" decides to take the conventional path - rather than the Roman road - out.
The only thing I really wish now is that I'd read this article before we went. I want to know if I can get an IV of Valrhona hooked up.

Blame it on the switch to NewBlogger Beta. That's my plan. Apologies to anyone who was having trouble loading the blog. The transition appears to have been successful, though.

The timing of this switchover really stinks, though. If I hadn't been able to adapt to the new system, and couldn't post, I'd start getting frantic e-mails from folks on the mainland wondering about the baby.

Oh yeah, that happens anyway. Carry on.

Since I can't figure out a way to put this on my Amazon Wish List, it goes here. I promise to share.

OB visit went just fine. I will spare you gory details, let it suffice to say that everything is within normal ranges for this period of gestation. I've gained two pounds, my blood pressure is fine, and Halley's heart rate was in the 150's. Tomorrow, we tour the maternity ward. I go back to the doctor in another week, unless we see her sooner in the delivery room.
No more than 11 days left to be pregnant. "Due date" in four days.

Technical difficulties? My sister-in-law wrote to say that the blog had been down for two days. It's been looking okay to me, so I don't know what the problem may be. Blogger.com can be tetchy sometimes. When in doubt, hit "refresh" or its equivalent on your browser.

God Loves Me. How much does God love me? Here's my next birthday present.

Nope, still not in labor. Going to the OB tomorrow. Due date is still five days away.

Edible Duct Tape. I'm getting that patented right now.
I know that demographically, I'm supposed to be a stressed-out Guilty Mom for whatever reason society is inflicting on us this week. (See the link at the lower right to Judith Warner's "Perfect Madness", currently on my bedside table.) But I will not go gentle into that good night. I'm very particular about my guilt.
You see, I have never liked being typecast. In college, I would walk up to people wearing "Question Authority" pins and say, "Oh yeah, why should I?" So when society is telling me on every magazine cover that as a working mother I'm supposed to be stewing in guilt all the time, I tell society to go [Cheney] itself.
I can't avoid guilt altogether. I was raised by a preternatural worrier and an ex-Catholic in a suburb with a large Jewish population. It was like fluoride in the water, I'm sure. But I can control what I feel guilty about and to what degree. I think of myself as a guilt connoisseur.
Which leads me, logically, to edible duct tape. Work with me here:
Most, but not all, school days, I send my daughter to pre-pre-school with a lovingly packed lunch including a classic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The bread is usually whole-wheat, never white; the peanut butter is my childhood brand; and for variety, I switch jelly flavors throughout the week.
"Oh my Goddess," I hear the Mommy Police Neighborhood Watch committee moan, "You mean it's not organic? And a steady diet of peanut butter?"
Yes, and I'll tell you why: because whenever I pack her a sandwich with lunchmeat and cheese, Gigi will take it apart, eat the filling, and leave most of the bread. And when bread costs anywhere between 3 and 7 bucks for a one-pound loaf - if you want anything with any nutritional value - I will be damned if I'm gonna let her take it to school every day and NOT eat it. So my choice is to give something that sticks together, or find a way to keep the filling in her sandwiches. To the guilt-floggers, I say either hook me up with a venture capitalist and some food scientists, or get out of my face.

Grandma arrived safely, and all is right with the world. Today was my "I Mean It This Time, I'm Really Out Of Here" Last Day. Had to go in and do one last check with the Alpha Geek and transfer some accounting stuff blah blah blah but I am now officially stick-a-fork-in-me DONE.
Mom and I celebrated over ginger beer at the brew pub at the bottom of the hill in our neighborhood. Then we came home, Mom cleaned a few things and I read the first chapter of the new Bob Woodward book before zonking out. When I got up, Daddy and Grandma had already gone to get Gigi from school. I'd feel guilty about zonking out while everyone else is being busy if I weren't due in less than a week.
I might feel a twinge of guilt for being on leave for three months in an island paradise. But not likely. On the one hand, the company spent a lot of money to get me here and to pay my rent and utlities, so if I'm not actually working, do I look like some sort of freeloader? On the other hand, it's only three months -- one fifth of what I took with Gigi -- and half of that is unpaid. Island Paradise is an expensive place. And it's not as though I'm going to be sitting on my butt eating bonbons and reading novels at the beach. I'm going to be tending to an infant 24-7, recovering from birth, and wrangling a toddler. Is it an office? No. But is it "work"? Oh yes.
And in 12 more weeks, I'm probably going to be just as tired and back at the office full time. Oh, I can hardly wait... What does it say about me, that I haven't even given birth and I'm already dreading going back to work?

Feeling Better Now. When I posted earlier, I was a wee bit tired and cranky, so I kept it short. But now, upon reflection, I've had a very good day today, despite having gone into the office.

Yes, I know, most people who go on leave actually stay away from work. I've been slipping back in after hours, walking through a difficult systems upgrade with our new Alpha Geek, who is having an extra challenge with our proprietary software. Fortunately, it only took us an hour to work out the glitches today. While he was taking care of that, I went through a few more stray in-box items. Going in on the weekends really stinks, but I'll tell you, I've gotten more done in the off-hours than I had in the entire previous week. It's amazing how much more productive I am without the constant parade of people past my desk.

Yesterday I had what's known in my family as a "Duck Day". The phenomenon gets its name from a vacation my father and stepmom took in Duck, North Carolina a while back. Both Dad and Stepmom are very hard-working professionals who frequently work hours that would probably kill me. But they both love what they do so one can hardly fault them. Anyway, they got to Duck that afternoon, set down their bags and said to themselves, a nap before dinner would be a nice thing. They woke up 18 hours later.

So I had a Duck Day yesterday. Today, I got up before both husband and toddler, had a luxurious warm shower (lather, rinse, and repeat, whoo hoo), nuked a frozen croissant, and sat on my balcony overlooking the ocean, drinking coffee and reading a book before everyone else got up. It doesn't matter that it was a cloudy day; the view was still very pleasant. And that set me up for a nice productive day getting ready for my mom's visit. Don't worry Mom, I still left you plenty to do. But now your bedroom looks like someplace to sleep, not a warehouse; and the rest of the house doesn't look like a dumpster/laundry hamper.

My sister-in-law keeps telling me that I should be relaxing and revelling in these last few pre-baby days. (And she is wise in the ways of the force: she also has two kids, about two years apart.) Yeah, yeah, I know - but I don't relax well when I'm up to my ribcage in laundry baskets.

And on that note, I'm off to bed. A bed with fresh linens. And one that I don't have to get out of at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Good night, all.

No, I'm not in labor, and I'm not at the hospital. We're now at the stage where, if I don't post to the blog at least every 24 hours, I start getting phone calls.
Nope, still here at home, just very tired. Mom arrives tomorrow. Deep sigh of relief. Once she's here, "Halley" can show anytime. I have a maximum of two weeks left to be pregnant.

OB Update: Visited the obstetrician again today. I've gained two pounds, fundal height is 38 cm, baby's heart rate is 150. The strep swab tests came back negative (that's good, trust me, you don't want to know more.) We're going back in another week, unless Elvis decides to leave the building sooner.
My "last day of work" was pretty uneventful - probably because I've been really tired and sat at my desk staring at the computer like a deer in the headlights.
I'll be perkier next post.

Dropping! Even I noticed it today. My co-workers have been saying for several days now, "You've dropped." But this morning, while I was brushing my teeth, I thought, "Hmmmm...something looks different..." When I got to the office, people kept it up: "WOW! You sure have dropped!" "Are you sure you're not going into labor?" "Good grief, you must be ready to pop!" At first it was cute. Now it's getting on my nerves. I think that the next time someone says something to me, I'll clutch my belly, lean on his or her desk, and moan something about water breaking.
Not that it'll shut anyone up, but I will get a certain visceral satisfaction out of it.
What else did I do today? I went to a rugby match. Having lived Down Under for two years, I absorbed a certain amount of appreciation for the game (and far be it from me to turn down corporate tickets in a tent with free food). Don't ask me to tell you the rules; for that, I'll tell you to ask my sister-in-law, who actually played the game at university. (When people ask me why someone as apparently sensible and bright as she is married my brother, I remind them that she played rugby, and they think, "Ah, head injury, poor dear.")(Just kidding, bro!!!)
But the real advantage of going to a rugby match when you're eight and a half months pregnant is knowing that no one in the crowd will look askance at the Guinness in your hand. Yankees would give you the Stinkeye, or try to have you arrested. Islanders will ask if you want a refill.

Two Weeks To Go. Three days left in the office. Six days till my mom gets here. No more than 21 days left of being pregnant. I'm still trying to grasp the concept that I'm going to have *two* children. There are days when one is enough of a handful. My two-year-old is capable of simple conversation, and that alone blows my mind. How did she get so big so fast? I don't want to lose sight of everything that she accomplishes in the next twelve months because I'm so absorbed in every burp and coo that comes out of the New Kid on the Block.
I'm just going to hook up a pull string in my back and give it a yank every time she starts fussing about all the attention The Baby is getting, so I don't get hoarse repeating, "When YOU were this little, we did all this for you, too..."

For my "Feel Better About Your Parenting Skills" File: This one and this one.
The former I can almost understand on some days.
The latter I will never understand in a million years. Scissors? Try them on yourself next time, Mister. In the meantime, I hope you get a special corner of the prison shower with a lot of slippery bar soap and rusty towel bars.

Maternity Leave Countdown: Six days left in the office. Only one of them is a Monday. Thank the Maker!
In other matters of perspective, it occurs to me that I have no more than 26 days left of being pregnant. You see, Player to Be Named Later is "due" (ha ha ha ha ha) November 20th, but if Elvis doesn't leave the building by the 27th, we're going in after him. I'm not repeating the scenario with Gigi where we waited two very anxious weeks in constant fear of losing her. (That, and I don't want to burn up my limited maternity leave without having an actual infant to take care of...) I'm not eager to have a repeat C-section, but I'd rather do that than wait around.
Besides, I suspect that we won't have to wait very long to see P2BNL. Some of my co-workers, seeing the size of me, didn't think I'd make it past Halloween. The new IT guy - who started this week, Praise Buddha - said he'd noticed that I'd "dropped" between the time he came in for his first interview and today. I think the new office pool is betting whether I make it all the way to next Thursday. Hey, as long as Baby waits until after Grandma arrives, I'm cool.

As Promised, The "Grandparents Special" Post on Gigi's pediatric visit: she is just fine and hunky-dory. Height: 32 1/2 inches; weight: 25 pounds; all vaccinations are up to date. We got her a flu shot, which she really did not appreciate one bit. (Truth be told, she cried like Nancy Kerrigan through most of the visit.) Doc says she's hitting all the right developmental targets, and unless she gets sick, he shouldn't need to check up on her again until her next birthday.
Wow. I'm totally used to this every 3-6 months business. The idea of not having to take her to the doctor is pretty heady. You mean I'm not going to get hauled off by the Bad Mommy Police if I don't take her in for a weight check and another random jab every 12 weeks? Wow. I guess she really isn't a baby anymore.
Of course, by the end of this month, we'll have another wee one who will have to come in for those visits. I don't want to think about the next cycle of immunizations. It's bad enough having to contemplate the notion of circumcision; who wants to think about making her child a pin cushion? Eeeek.

Island Life Rants, Subsection: Cost of Living. Halloween candy: ten bucks a bag. That's not like, Dove or Godiva or anything. That's your basic Hershey stuff, in seasonal wrapping. Ten bucks.
The dumb thing is that I had figured this place to be Guy Fawkes territory. "A penny for the guy" I can handle. But after 70 bucks to fill my gas tank so I can go spend 50 bucks a bag on groceries, now you're extorting candy from me at that price?
These kids had better dress up like a drag revue at Mardi Gras. Make it worth my while to open the door for you, little thieves.

I only have one Monday left this year when I will have to go to work. I think that's pretty sweet. I have eight full workdays remaining for this calendar year. And believe me, they're going to be very full.
The thing is, I keep forgetting that I wasn't working during this point in my pregnancy with Gigi. I was on leave, at "home" in North America, though far from relaxed. We were buying and moving into a house. International moves are tiring and stressful enough; try it sometime when you're eight months pregnant. Ugh. So even though I could lie down in the middle of the day, I didn't feel particularly well-rested.
Now, I'm working 40 hours a week, ferrying a two-year-old to pre-preschool, trying to keep my house from looking like downtown Basra, and still attempting to unpack the occasional box. Oh, and gestating full-time 24-7. It's a wonder I'm upright most of the day. It's a wonder I'm upright at this moment.
Fortunately, I have a husband who cooks and who doesn't especially care if there is toddler paraphernalia embedded in the carpet of every room in the house. I also have a daughter who can be persuaded to make a game of picking up books and toys - though she's not fooled for long. She also likes to play with the broom. Let's hope that behavior continues after she makes the transition to Big Sister.

She is two years old today. I'm still amazed sometimes that she can breathe on her own, but here she is, walking and talking and feeding herself and throwing tantrums and asking to sit on the potty. Her eyes are still blue (mostly - depending on what she's wearing) and she is still a carbon copy of her daddy.
Here's where the Grandparents' Special Edition kicks in, feel free to skip this part if you have a low tolerance for "guess what my kid did today" posts...
Milestones: Yesterday, she spoke the first complex sentence either of us had ever heard from her, "Gigi wanna go outside and see the cows." (There's a nature trail that she and Daddy go to not far from our house; you can see cows from there.) Today, she buttoned Elmo's jammies in her "Good Night Elmo!" activity-story book. She can tell us that her hands are dirty and she wants to wash them. She can sing the ABC song, sometimes missing a few here and there, and she's picking up the concept of numbers. Her favorite songs are "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", "The Wheels on the Bus" and "B-I-N-G-O". She occasionally puts herself into Time Out when she realizes that she's done something Mommy and Daddy object to. She scolds the cat for no particular reason. She loves having books read to her and pretending to read them. She knows that on the last page of Goodnight Moon, we say, "Good night noises everywhere." And she still loves to play the "going away" game, where she walks out of sight and waits for us to say, "Where'd that little girl go? Gosh, I miss her!" before running back into our arms for hugs and kisses.
Yeah, I think we'll keep her.

The latest from the doctor's office: I had an OB checkup on Thursday. My blood pressure is fine. My weight appears to be unchanged, but Baby continues to grow and kick so there's no issue with the scale numbers. Baby's heart rate was in between 145-155, and the kickage is considerable. I got a strep swab (if you have to ask, you don't want to know) and will be back at the doctor's office again in two weeks to get the results and have yet another checkup. We appear to be on track for an approximate due date of November 20.
I have dusted off the pregnancy books from two years ago -- I have hardly cracked them open this time. It's not so much that I feel like a seasoned veteran, it's just that I figure anything that makes me feel like crap or otherwise weird is to be blamed on the pregnancy and there's little that can be done about it. I know by now what requires an urgent call to the doctor, and everything else I just have to put up with.
But I'm dusting off the books now to remind myself of what labor is all about, since I didn't really go through it the first time. I had a late-evening function at work last Saturday, and when I went to bed that night I had my first experience with full-fledged Braxton-Hicks contractions. Those wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been 1:00 in the morning. Ugh. Fortunately, they've stayed away since then. And now I know how they feel, so I hope that I'll be able to tell the difference if/when the real thing starts happening.

Surprise!!! My co-workers threw me a baby shower today. My boss came to sit and chat in my office with the door closed (yikes, I thought, it must be pretty serious) to distract me while they set up. I honestly had no idea. Nice loot, too: lots of nice goodies in blue with sports themes.
The funny thing is that they didn't realize till the last minute that my office is the one with the security camera monitors in it, so in theory I could have caught them in the act. Good thing my boss is still new enough that he commands my undivided attention when he closes the door.
The other gag came when one of my colleagues brought in her four-month old grandson to visit at the end of the day. I said I'd hold him for a few minutes while she went to get her desk straightened up and collect her bag. So there I am, snuggling this cute little puddin' on my lap, when some of the ladies from upstairs came by. Bear in mind that the grandson and I are of obviously different ethnicities... The double-takes were priceless. "Yeah," I said, "while you were upstairs, I've been a little busy, but hey, I've got all these cute outfits now, why wait?" Heeeee!
While I'm camped out this weekend by the washing machine catching up on ten days' worth of laundry, I'll be writing thank-you notes...and giggling my butt off.

"Kvetch and Ye Shall Receive" seems to be the order of the day. The AC in our bedroom is back to life, and at work our servers have gotten the Lazarus treatment as well. My husband swears that we can get the washer to work, we just have to nudge it along - it won't automatically move into the spin cycle. I wasn't planning to spend my weekend camped out by the washing machine, but if that's what it takes, that's what it takes.
On some level, I sympathize with my landlord's plight. We too are landlords, but there's a bit of ocean between us and our tenants, so a management company deals with the tenants most of the time. Our landlord lives downstairs, so he really can't hide from us when the next machine decides to give up the ghost. And everything on the island is expensive, I can't imagine how much it would cost to replace a washing machine here. Heck, if a bag of groceries is 50 bucks, picture the price tag on some durable goods. Eeeek.

Just a quick check-in with Baby: It is now One Month till "due date". My co-workers keep asking me, "When are you due?" and when I tell them, they furrow their brows and mumble something about how I'll be lucky to make it to Halloween. I look like I'm smuggling a beer keg. Earlier this week I kept waking up in the middle of the night with howling leg cramps. When I talked to my doctor yesterday (and yes, Mom, I asked about flu shots) she said she'd gone through the same thing. Usually there isn't much one can do about it but extra calcium can't hurt and it might help. "Extra calcium" is something my brain interprets as a code for "all the ice cream you can snarf down". But since I started chugging extra glasses of milk - and yes, indulging in the occasional scoop or two - I haven't had a night waking. I love going to a female OB.

It's been a stellar week at work, too. One of our security guys quit, and the server my division relies on to support all of its applications Went To Be With Elvis during the Alpha Geek Interregnum. So we have the old systems guy, who agreed to be hired back as a consultant until his replacement starts, coming in at an outrageous hourly rate - which i$ of cour$e the rea$on he left - to tell us that, yep, we need parts from the mainland in order to rebuild it better, stronger, faster. HQ FedExed us repair discs, which turned out to be the wrong ones. (Somebody please tell me why the IT guys back home even have "Migrating from NT4 to Windows 2000" discs in stock?!?!?)
So my division has been out of commission for three days now. I'm not a vindicitive sort, really, honestly, but somebody on the Help Desk had better get fired for a screwup of this magnitude.
New Alpha Geek starts in ten days. In the immortal words of Leonard Cohen, Alleluia.

C-I-L-L my lan'lord.** Our house, which my employer found and rented for us, is turning into the bane of my existence. Okay, we have a great view, many of the fixtures are new, and the location is very nice: 10 minutes' drive to the hospital, for when I go into labor, and only five minutes away from the mental health center, which is going to have to make room for me unless things improve radically. As if the ants weren't bad enough, we have discovered termites. Termites mean one thing: tent fumigation. Tent fumigation means moving out of the house for several days. And the exterminator says they can't schedule it until January.
So in three months, we get to move into a hotel or guest house, for an as-yet-unspecified period, with a two-year-old and a newborn. My Husband the International Telecommuter gets to either set up a new base of operations without his VOIP phone line, or take a few days' vacation under duress. Oh, and I'll still be on leave during that time, so he'll be cooped up with an infant and a stir-crazy mommy. If we're lucky, we can find someone to take the cat during that time.
But it's not just the insect world, oh no. Inanimate objects are also somehow synchronizing their efforts to antagonize us. First, the air conditioner in our bedroom broke down. I know, you're all looking at your calendars and seeing the word "October" up there. Yeah, me too. I'm more used to having snow up to my knees by this time of year, but here the temps are still in the muggy 80s. And when you're eight months pregnant, getting comfortable to fall asleep is hard enough without sweating through your sheets.
Then it was the water filter in the fridge. Then it was the oven. And now, our washing machine has broken down. So we can either schlep to the laundromat, wait for the laundry to crawl out of the hamper and into the bathtub on its own, or we can wash our clothes in a machine that won't spin all the soap and rinsewater out. Ugh.
The repairman who looked at the washer said it would be "a few days" to order the parts. Yeah. Our landlord said something similar about the AC...several weeks ago. We still have the box fan propping the window open.
Island Time: even Einstein and Stephen Hawking would go nuts trying to figure it out.


**Anyone who doesn't get the reference, Google "Eddie Murphy and Saturday Night Live". You know, back when it was actually funny, edgy, and worth staying up for.

I spoke too soon. Today, somebody at nursery took another chomp at my little girl's arm.
I really don't want to be labelled at school as Pain In The A$$ Over-Reacting Mom, but what is with these kids?
The teacher said, "Oh, she was very brave about it." Great. I'm sending her to you because you advertise as a day-care facility, not a friggin' Stoics Academy.
I'd rant a little bit more about where my thinking is on daycare for our Player to Be Named Later, but I didn't sleep very well last night, so I'm at high risk for logorrhea. Best to keep it short right now.

Good news from the Nursery, too. The biting trend among Gigi's peers looks to have run its course. I had a chat this afternoon with the school director, who said there have been no incidents for several weeks. Teacher also had high praise for Gigi's social skills, good nature, and all-around ray-of-sunshine-ness. She seems to be developmentally on target for someone who is about to turn two, so yay, we're happy. I'm always a little skittish about the subject of milestones, not because I'm a fanatic to ensure that Gigi is top of the class, but because she was born two weeks late and was very much on the wee side. But she's always progressed along her curves, according to the pediatrician, so as long as she keeps growing and learning, I'm not going to go into Manic Mommy Superachiever Overdrive.
Okay, enough with the Grandparents' Update, back to our regular blogging, already in progress.

Good news from the OB. My appointment Thursday went very well. I gained a pound in two weeks and my blood pressure is fine. But of course the real news is Baby, who is already as big as his big sister was when she was born. Player to Be Named Later is in the 72nd percentile for this gestational age, based on the sonogram readings from last week. Heartbeat was 155 beats per minute (Yo Dre, kick in the bass!) And kicking? Oh boy, I think this kid is going to come out and head straight to a Riverdance audition.
I'm going through another round of bloodwork to check my thyroid levels (since I've had issues with that gland since college, ugh) but otherwise, it's business as usual, back in two weeks.

I rarely engage in political commentary, but with the U.S. elections just around the corner and every wingnut aflutter, I must ask...
The Republicans have had control of the Executive and the legislature, and exerted tremendous influence over the judiciary for close to five years now. During this time, the U.S. has experienced the worst attack on its soil over 50 years; fewer people earn a living wage and/or have health insurance; both North Korea and Iran are gearing up to join the Nuke Club; a record surplus dissolved into record debt; over half a million Iraqis are dead in a badly destabilized neighborhood; and the guy behind the bombings of two Embassies, one naval vessel, a significant financial center and the national military headquarters is still at large.
These guys have had the reins for five years.
When are they going to stop blaming their problems on Bill Clinton?

I'm just saying, the view from the outside: Gigi's nursery school is not a model of government. Pick up your toys and play nice, set an example for the other kids.

Island Life, subsection: Road Rants. It took less than a month of owning this car for me to put some nice dents and scratches on it. (Parking garage, thankfully, not another car!) It's not that I'm unaccustomed to driving on this side of the road, it's just that I'm not used to roads and corners that are so freaking narrow. Seriously, I've been up and down streets that could barely fit my car on them, and I'm told they're two-way streets. Lance Armstrong couldn't get through there, and you're telling me there could be someone coming at me around the corner? Sheesh.
Oh, and I got my first parking ticket yesterday, while dropping Gigi off at nursery. Argh. There's 50 bucks I can't spend on groceries or bug spray.

The Vampire Chronicles, update: Gigi hasn't been bitten at school so far this month. Grandparents, you may relax. For now.
btw, when it comes to teeth of her own, Gigi has about four left to sprout. They're causing her considerable grumpiness, but at least she can say, "teeth ouchy" now, instead of leaving us to guess what's wrong.

Five years ago, I was in Hawaii. You see, Friday was Our Anniversary. Five years later, we have one adorable kid, another on the way, a house in suburbia with a monster mortgage, and after two freezing winters in Baltic Europe we get to spend the next three years living on an island which has never seen temperatures recorded below 44 degrees. So life is pretty good.
But you see, celebrating our nuptials seems to be fraught with hazards for us. Five years ago, I was in Hawaii - three days after the wedding. Why three days? Because the airlines wouldn't board us the morning after. The tickets were in my married name, and I hadn't brought the marriage certificate with us because hey, that's an important piece of paper, wouldn't want to lose that - so we gave it to our best man for safekeeping. It was less than a month after a particularly horrific episode that made the airlines very skittish about boarding *anyone*, so of course the bleary-eyed couple with new jewelry, tickets to Hawaii in the names of Mr and Mrs, and just shy of having rice falling out of our hair? We were clearly not bona fide honeymooners, we must have been up to no good, we must have wanted to hijack the plane to Cuba or something.
Today's adventure in Attempting to Celebrate Our Wedded Bliss was on a more modest scale. We both took the day off from work to catch a matinee movie while Gigi was at day care. We haven't been to the movies in three months, at least. No Clerks 2, no Wicker Man, no Snakes on a Plane, none of that for us, nosiree. But this weekend, The Departed came to our island. And it was our anniversary. So we had lunch at a little cafe in town, went to the even littler theatre, and settled into our seats for a few hours of escapism. The reviews had been good, I'm okay with giving my money to Martin Scorcese, and let's see how well Matt Damon's Southie accent has held up since Good Will Hunting.
Our story starts out well enough. Despite the size of the theatre and screen leaving you with the expectation that you're going to hear "Ladies and gentlemen,this is your captain speaking, today's cruising altitude should be..." it was a decent place. And the lady at the concession stand gave me free candy when she saw the size of my belly. And Jack Nicholson's character is as loathsome as he oughta be, and Leo D reminds us all that he really can act (forget the sinky boat thing, go see Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet. You're welcome.) And wow, it's a cool story and Martin Scorcese really is a brilliant director, and we're just at the denouement when blurWHIRRblurrrrr Hey, what's wrong with the picture? BLURRRRRwhirrrBlurwhirrrWhapWhapWhapWhap
I kid you not. Ten minutes shy of the end of the best movie I've seen so far this year, and the projector eats it. And they can't fix it in time for us to catch the end before picking up Gigi.
This being an island of under 100,000 full-time residents, we don't get too many movies in the theatre with a shelf life of over one week. Which means The Departed will likely live up to its name as of Thursday. So Hubby and I have three days left to either persuade the manager to hold this movie over so we can use our consolation freebie coupons without missing two workdays, or we wait several months until video.
One advantage Baltic Europe had over this place: instantaneous bootleg DVDs.
Happy Anniversary to us.

First, my apologies to all non-grandparent readers: It's time for another gratuitous installment of Cute Things Gigi Does. Believe it or not, this kid is going to be two years old in another couple of weeks. For the most part, she is still the sweet, good-natured, turbo-cute little darling we all know her to be (or, as I put it, "the kind of kid who tricks you into having more.") But the twos are sneaking in there. In between minor outbursts, though, she sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, the alphabet song, and crawls on Daddy's lap to demand his reenactment of the Wheels on the Bus Going Round and Round. When we drive past my workplace to take her to school, she recognizes the building and shouts, "Mommy Office!!!" She can say "please" and "thank you" with minimal prompting, and shouts, "Go [Mommy's baseball team]!" any time she sees someone on TV wearing a number and breaking a sweat.
I could go on and on, but I don't know how many of you keep insulin shots handy.

Doctor Updates: New ultrasound exam last week shows that we are 95% certainly expecting a bouncing baby boy. Daddy says don't go crazy with the blue shopping, we'll only know for certain on B-day. (This is life with a Red Sox fan, people.) The exam also estimated Baby's weight at 5 lbs 7 oz - just one ounce shy of what Gigi was when she was born (two weeks late...it's in the archives...) Based on the calendar, I'm supposed to be at 33 weeks, but based on the measurements done during the ultrasound, the tech calculated 35 weeks. Huh?
You see, I'm counting on this kid to be reasonably close to the November 20 due date. I'm stopping work as of the 10th; my mom arrives on the 13th; kiddo can show up anytime after that, I figure. Well, the sonogram tech said, "November 9." NOT FUNNY. Of course, if Big Sis was two weeks late...
Ah, forget it. We all know that the concept of due date is severely fungible. As long as my water doesn't break at the office, I'll be cool.
I see the doc again this Thursday. We'll probably talk about my weight, and I will complain about the sciatica that has developed in the past week. There's nothing like shooting pains in your hip when you're already moving like Jabba the Hutt. Ugh!

More biting at school. My girl has now been bitten three times, and not always by the same offender. I'm trying very hard to be reasonable about this. So far, no broken skin, but the latest one left a mark for over 24 hours.
Trying very, very hard...

In today's edition of Really Great News: Gigi is going to have another cousin! My other brother Darrell and his wife, parents of The Nephew on My Side of the Family, announced to us yesterday that they are gearing up for their second. Part of me wants to cry Copycats, and the rest of me is saying the more the merrier, bring 'em on.
Okay, there is a very minor insignificant downside to this: one more birthday to keep track of. I admittedly stink at tracking birthdays. It's on my list of Things To Do When I Have Control of My Life: make one of those perpetual birthday calendars so I don't neglect friends and family on major events. I actually did make one at one point, but then lost it in the move to Europe four years ago. I keep hoping it will turn up so I don't have to start over from scratch, but...
Yeah, I know: LAME.
But I'm going to be an auntie again! Whoo hoo!!!

Network issues. I actually composed that last post sometime last week, but for some reason Precious didn't feel like talking to the rest of the house. It's all better now, and we even have more computers set up (YAY STUFF!!!) so I'm never at a loss for blogging access and space. Time, oh boy, that's another story.

Status Report: My blood test results were quite satisfactory. The Glucose Tolerance was normal, so I don't have to go through the 12" extended dance mix version, hallelujah. My thyroid, a perpetual issue, is within normal ranges.
Okay, so I'm anemic. That didn't really come as a shock to me, considering that I've been walking around like death microwaved for several weeks now. So the doctor recommended some nice cheap iron supplements that seem to be bringing me back to life. But let's face it, I'm two months away from Due Date, I'm working full-time outside the home, wrangling a nearly-two-year-old, and unpacking from an international move. I'm entitled to be just a bit groggy.
But at least my boss is a good family person who doesn't think that 12 hour days are the norm. Longtime PS readers will recall that my last contract involved a supervisor who had no life outside of work and did not comprehend those who did. (Many of those posts were removed from the archive on advice of counsel, who still wants me to shut this thing down. Sorry, Dad, ain't gonna happen.) Anyway, as I was saying, this boss doesn't expect people to prove their worth by the amount of time spent at their desks. Praise Buddha, I think I might actually get along with this team.

Some people are seeing good news in this headline. I see it as one more way that women get screwed by getting on the Mommy Track: nine months - or longer, if you're nursing - of compulsory teetotalling.
Mind you, I got this link from a friend who I spent a week in France with during Month Five of Waiting for Gigi. And if you think I spent all that time in Paris, having three-hour, thousand-dollar lunches for four without wine, you're nuts. And Gigi is just fine, thank you very much. The only reason I'm drinking less during this pregnancy is that hubby is on a very successful low-carb diet, and ice cream is more socially acceptable for me than wine or margaritas.

Oh, the humanity! The first major casualty of unpacking has occured. The moving company guy said, "I picked it up and the pot just slid right out." Um, maybe you should have picked up the carafe separately from the coffeemaker, guy. Thanks to my own klutziness at home several months ago, when I whacked the little coffeemaker's carafe into the fridge, I now have a grand total of two drip coffeemakers with no pots.
Well, at least the frothing pitcher for the cappucino maker is stainless steel. Whimper.

Working Mom Conundrum du Jour: What do you do when another kid bites your kid at daycare?
Lucky us, the little creep didn't break skin, but Gigi had to spend some time with ice on her hand, and when I came to pick her up there were still tooth marks visible. The ladies at daycare handled it pretty well, I think: they told me up front what had happened, how they treated Gigi, and what consequences the offender faced for the rest of the day. I felt somewhat reassured. But am I being too calm about this?
After all, at the place Gigi went when we were still on the mainland, they had a "three strikes and you're out" policy for biters. Here, they tell me, they spoke to the parents about it, and Mommy and Daddy Dracula say that yes, he has a problem at home too and they're working on it. Very well, but can he play on the other side of the room from Gigi until you get some results?
Okay, I know: toddlers can play rough. Some of them bite. Even Gigi has attempted to take a chomp out of me and Daddy on occasion when the teething is getting to her. It's a phase, kids go through it and get on with life.
So am I being a cool, reasonable person; or, am I risking a ticket from the Bad Mommy Police because I didn't rise up righteous and take out a restraining order on Gigi's classmate?
In the immortal words of N.W.A.: [very very bad word] Tha Police. I'm sticking with cool and reasonable. Until Gigi shows up with another set of Baby Marv Albert's impressions.

STUUUUUFFFFFF!!!!
Oh frabjous day, callou, callay, I chortle in my joy.
Our stuff has been delivered (which is, in part, why I have been off-line for a week). That's the good news. The bad news is that NOW we look like we got hit by a hurricane. Boxes, boxes, everywhere. The movers unpacked a lot, which is nice, but we seem to be running out of places to put things. Or I seem to run out of energy after unloading two boxes. I occasionally stop to catch my breath, and ask myself, "How the heck did I pull this off last time I moved house in my third trimester?" The answer comes back, a resounding "MOM." Oh yeah. And since today is her birthday, this post is a shout-out to her.
My husband, who shares a birthday with my mom (proof positive that astrology is a heap of crap!), suggested that we stop unpacking so that Mom would have something to do when she comes to visit. It wouldn't be a bad idea, except that Mom isn't coming here until November. The only thing worse than living without your stuff is living up to your keister in boxes of your stuff. No way.

So that stuff of ours that was supposed to arrive last Sunday? The good news is that it arrived. The bad news is that it hasn't been delivered yet. The trucking company is booked up till Wednesday, assuming that their operations aren't hampered by some seriously yucky weather heading our way in the next few days. So we may be facing a threat of cabin fever, unless we can score a deck of cards in the next 24 hours.
Again: I know, I have a limited right to complain, considering that I live on a very nice island in a very safe house (albeit inundated with ants). But I am facing the prospect of a weekend indoors with a teething toddler, brown- and blackouts, and mucho canned goods. Oh, and a rabid football fan who may not be able to watch his games on opening weekend.
I wonder if it's too late to evacuate.

First not-quite-crisis at work: Our lone IT guy gave his two weeks' notice. When he's gone, I'm alpha geek. Oh crap. Let's hope that a replacement rides in on a white horse FAST.

If Samuel L. Jackson lived here, his neighbors would know him instantly, because they'd constantly hear, "Enough is ENOUGH! I have had it with these [very bad word] ANTS in this [very bad word] house!!!"
As it is, even Stevie Wonder wouldn't mistake me for Sam Jackson, but a similar outburst regarding the local wildlife is constantly on the tip of my tongue. The only thing that holds me back is the presence of a toddler who is an increasingly precocious mimic.
The tree frogs aren't so bad; they're really only out after sundown. They are heard more than seen, which means that sleeping with the windows open isn't really an option.
But the ants, oh the [very bad word] ants.
Islanders will tell you that it's actually not a hygiene issue: they come in whether your home is immaculate or slovenly. No, oddly enough, it's all about water: when it's too dry, they come inside looking for it; when it's too wet, they come in to get away from it. Today, in the middle of a three-day weekend, we're having nice steady showers all day. So the half of my paycheck that isn't going to day care is going towards bug spray.
It's not that they're big nasty destructive beasts. It's just that they are omnipresent. And persistent. I'm going to go all Mad-Eye Moody and start bellowing about "Constant Vigilance!!!" storming around the house with a can of bug spray and towels, shooing my daughter away from spots I've just treated and looking for the next vulnerability.
I realize that people in big sweaty cities with roaches the size of circus ponies are not going to feel sorry for me. And in the grand scheme of things, I am a ridiculously fortunate person. But even the most hardcore Buddhist monk would, after a week in this place, start roaming the house with a can of Raid swearing that if it's got more than four legs and ain't paying rent, it's [very bad word] toast.

In theory, our stuff arrives today. That is, the boat that is supposedly carrying our household effects from the mainland is supposed to arrive today. (In keeping with the Ineffable One's well-documented sense of humor, once again we get a shipment in the middle of a holiday weekend...) So on Tuesday we'll find out whether our stuff is truly here, and if so, when will it actually be delivered to our home.
The last time I went through this (i.e., having to deal with unpacking a household of stuff while in my last trimester) two years ago, I was fortunate in two things: one, I was on leave, so I wasn't expected to function at the office after a marathon session of Finding Places For Stuff; two, I wasn't wrangling a toddler at the same time.
So if you check back here in another week and I haven't updated, please don't assume I've fallen off the planet; chances are I'll just be in another one of my periodic comas.

A few notes on Island Life, for those of you who may be wondering what else I do with my time besides going to the office, teaching my daughter not to eat puzzle pieces, and whining about when the rest of our stuff is going to get here...
Everything here is ridiculously expensive. The company gives us a cost-of-living adjustment to my paycheck, but let's put this in perspective: pretty much everything has to be imported. Hence, a bag of potato chips: over six bucks (U.S.) You would think seafood wouldn't be too much - not the lobsters from New England, but the local stuff, right? Wrong. Think about it: you want to run a fishing boat, you need fuel. Double your overhead costs right there.
My scariest encounter yet was at the grocery store, where I did a double-take at a prominently advertised "SPECIAL!" At first glance, I thought the sign said 2/$5.99. Hmmm, pretty good price, eh? I looked closer, and there was a carton of ice cream, some foofy European brand, two liters, for...$25.99.
Are you people kidding me? 26 bucks for a carton of ice cream?!?!?
I mean, speaking as a pregnant woman who, if she has a boy, would be well suited to name her kid Ben or Jerry, even I have limits on what I'm willing to spend on ice cream.
At that price, I wouldn't know whether to eat it or put it in my friggin' gas tank.

Two bits of goodness today: first, the dreaded Glucose Tolerance Test is over, and wasn't nearly so bad as my previous run-in; second, we got our car!!!!!!
My first GTT, back in the Baltics, was a miserable, several-hour ordeal which involved me puking up a bunch of the stuff I'd been attempting to choke down. Seriously, when I gagged on the liquid form, they just gave me the bag of powder to eat. It felt like half a kilo. I looked like Al Pacino's stunt double from Scarface.
This time around, they gave me what looked like a small pop bottle, said I had five minutes to drink it, and they'd draw my blood in an hour. So I glugged down this stuff, which had the look and feel of slightly flat complimentary airline orange soda, and waited. I know, sounds kind of harmless, but imagine chugging a 12-oz bottle of Jolt cola on an empty stomach, and then not being allowed to eat or drink anything else but water for the next 60 minutes.
So I was a bit nauseated, and bored, and slightly light-headed, but on the whole I prefer the Island version of this test.
The car! The car! We got our car today. It's a Mazda 3 hatchback and it's a shade of blue that doesn't quite match what we expected. But it runs, it has carseat latches (which many models sold here don't have, oddly enough), the A/C works, and it's ours. Yippee! No more driving the company car (and being paranoid about denting or scratching or failing to fully account for every meter driven). This weekend, we'll probably take it to the beach.

Today was my first visit to my new island OB/GYN. Baby's heartbeat is steady in the 140s, my weight is fine, and overall things look pretty good at 27 weeks. Deep sigh of relief.
The bad news is that next week I have to have a Glucose Tolerance Test. Longtime PS readers will recall (and the rest of you can look in up in the 2004 archives) that my first experience with one of these things, back in the Baltics, was less than pleasant. It was several hours long, involved attempting to ingest what felt like a kilo of pure glucose powder, and felt much like a sleep deprivation experiment conducted by refugees from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
My new OB, bless her heart, took it very well when I groaned about the prospect of another GTT. She also described the regimen I would face here: drink 50 g of glucose solution, then have a quick blood test after one hour. That's it. The contrast is tremendous: like the difference between visiting your pre-Renaissance barber and seeing Marcus Welby, MD. So I'm still not thrilled about having this test, but at least I'm dreading it a lot less.

It Came To Me...My One, My Only...My Preciousssss. Stuff has arrived! Not all of it, but some of it. We are officially no longer living out of suitcases. And I have my new toy back in my hands, at last at last at last. I've been using my husband's work computer sporadically; however, that means I need to find a time when he's not using it (and with fantasy baseball in full swing and fantasy football just around the corner, good luck with that). What also happens is that he'll walk away from it but I won't notice or get to it in time before it locks up. But this is no longer a problem because this little baby is mine mine mine mine mine.
Of course, I still have to find time. Tonight is my husband's bridge night. Far from begrudging him this Boys Night Out, I am happy that he has a chance to get out twice a week and socialize (to the extent that semi-pro bridge players have social skills...) since he's working from home five days a week. All work and no play -- and Red Sox losing to the Yankees 12-4 this afternoon -- makes Jack a dull and grumpy boy.
So after dropping him off at the club, getting the child bathed, snacked, toothbrushed, read to and put to bed, doing the dinner dishes, sweeping up the dead roach in the sunroom, picking up toys, putting away laundry, scooping the catbox, doing two crossword puzzles, and booting up the laptop, I find myself getting to Blogger somewhere after 10:30. My goal these days is to be under the covers by then. Rats.
Well, if I'm using the laptop in bed, I can technically meet my goal... Besides, tomorrow I can sleep in a little - assuming Gigi decides to sleep through the night, which she's had trouble with lately. There are a few teeth still fighting their way out, and when she's teething, she gets clingy. Seriously, her new pet name is Mommy's Little Barnacle.
She has one week left of "day camp," then a week at home before the term starts at her new day care/nursery after Labor Day. She's gotten back into the swing of day care all right: she's getting accustomed to the idea that Mommy takes her someplace where she gets to play with different toys all day; then Mommy comes to get her and we go home to Daddy, who is Still Working; so Mommy makes a little snack and we play together until Daddy makes dinner. Either that or we come home to Daddy, who is Still Working, and Mommy passes out on the couch while Gigi turns the living room upside down and brings Daddy toys to share. The latter is a little more common as we approach Month Seven of this pregnancy.
But hey, it's a routine, right? And little ones thrive on routine, right?
Yeah, it's past my bedtime. More updates on Getting To Know Our New Island Home, on our next episode of Purple Scare. Good night, y'all.

I admit it. I keep saying that "It's Just Stuff" and really it doesn't matter if it all arrives in shards and smithereens, there's nothing we can't live without or replace, blah blah blah. I kept saying before we left, "We have money, tickets, passports, and each other. Everything else is just details." It was a good little mantra.
The real challenge to me in keeping up this Zen and The Art of International Transfers mentality will be the arrival of our air shipment, which contains my birthday present, my only, my Precious...the laptop.
The computer I'm using now is my husband's telecommuting machine. For my birthday, my husband got me a lovely lovely new laptop of my very very own, which I hope will make it easier for me to keep up with the blogging. But we could only carry one computer onto the plane with us, and his gets priority. (Our other carryons were the diaper bag and the cat. My husband would have argued that the cat could get bumped, but I wasn't going for it.)
Anyway, I've been hoping that our air freight would be here by now. My fear is that it won't arrive by Wednesday. We're coming up on a holiday weekend here, and island time being what it is, as of Thursday the whole place is going to be shut down. Think SuperBowl Sunday, or the Stanley Cup perhaps, or the NCAA Final Four. Nothing is going to get accomplished after Wednesday at noon, I'm quite sure. And that means one more week before we get the baby's crib, her wading pool, a few more changes of clothes, and oh yesssss my precious...

It is said that many of us, no matter how far into adulthood we get, continue to have those dreams where you're back at school and you can't find any of your classrooms, or you have a test but don't remember going to any classes or reading any of the material, or you can't find your locker and you're late to class, or variations on that theme.
There is also "The Actor's Nightmare" where you're supposed to go on stage in one minute but you don't remember any of your lines, can't recall having been at any rehearsals, or don't even know what play you're supposed to be in. (Brilliantly rendered in a one-act version, btw, by Christopher Durang. I did that one in high school. Ben Lang may never forgive me for actually taking his pants away during a dress rehearsal in class...)
As for me, being in the travel industry, I get the "I have to be at the airport in 30 minutes and the car is here and I haven't packed and I don't know where my passport and tickets are..." variation on the anxiety dreams. If you have ever seen Gone With The Wind, and recall Prissy's "packing" before they evacuate Atlanta, well, you get the idea. That's the one that usually has me waking up in a cold sweat.
Here's the thing: usually, before I start a new job, I get bombarded with these types of dreams -- especially when a move is involved (ohmigawsh, the packers are here and I haven't a clue what's supposed to go where!) This time around, though, almost no anxiety dreams.
The last major outbound international move was four years ago, when hubby and I left North America for Baltic Europe. I was married less than a year. My grandmother, to whom I was very close, had just died after a lengthy and agonizing struggle with Alzheimers. My cat had just had a cancer scare. I was going to a job with unprecedented levels of responsibility for me. My mental state at the time was such that I would have aspired to catatonia. My dear brother, who lived nearby and was between jobs at the time, came over to keep me calm while the movers went about their business. He considered feeding me Xanax and Valium cocktails washed down with vodka tonics. Seriously, I was pretty close to a nervous breakdown.
This time around, while upsetting, was much much better. No "Prissy-packing" panic dreams. No pharmacists on speed-dial, no nail-biting/wailing/gnashing teeth, no family restraining me from jumping off the roof. Even my boss told me on my last day in the office, "You are remarkably calm." Honestly, I couldn't have told him whether it was because I have matured over the last four years, or whether I was just so deeply in denial that nothing registered.
We got to our new island home six days ago. Since then, I've had one school dream: I was walking around my old high school, trying to find my locker, and realized that I didn't remember the combination. Then I found it and the door was unlocked and there was nothing in there anyway. Last night in my dreams, I was working a production of Les Miserables. We'd been working hard, it was opening night, and somehow we realized that even though we'd been rehearsing multiple roles, we actually hadn't cast someone in one of the major parts. So I stepped up to fill in. I knew I wasn't the best singer, and I didn't have all of the lines down solidly, but the show must go on and this was the best I could do and they could all just deal with it. And I got up there, played the part, and didn't care whether I made an ass of myself or not, I was having fun and no one threw any tomatoes.
So, am I actually getting better at this business, or am I -- dare I say it -- growing up? Or have I just gotten to the point where other people's definitions of performance and accomplishment are not that important to me?
Maybe that's the definition of being grown-up?

Did I say a few days?

Okay, yeah, so I did. Heh. After getting back from my college reunion (which was lots of fun despite lots of rain), I realized that I had six weeks left to prepare for my next international move. I've done international moves before. I've done international moves with a cat before. I've done an international move pregnant before. But doing all of the above with a toddler? Oh, new levels of excitement.
The funny thing is, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Okay, granted, we had some of the usual hoopla about what goes into storage and what comes with us and what do we ship as air freight and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo on. And the fact that I came down with a respiratory bug for two weeks didn't help. All that time I would have spent playing Hogwarts Sorting Hat and running down to Goodwill with carloads of stuff I instead spent horking up lungbunnies and sounding like Lauren Bacall on helium.
So we didn't prep for this move with much detail. And the movers, although they appeared to be reasonable people, left empty Gatorade bottles all over the house and left the hot water tap in the bathroom running overnight (guess who's getting that last utility bill...?) But in the end, it's all just stuff and there's very little that we can't live without and couldn't replace. We got to our new island home in one piece; that's all that matters.

I may be off for the next few days. Yeah, okay, I don't post for over two months, and now I'm giving you notice?
Okay, for real: I'm off to New England for my college class reunion. I won't say which college or which class, but let it suffice to say that it's in Massachusetts and I'm not yet old enough to be the mother of anyone who just graduated. So there.

Yesterday was not an easy day. I went into a photography store with Gigi, in the hopes of finding a replacement battery for my camera and getting passport photos for my little girl. Hmmm, international move in seven weeks, might not be a bad idea to get her a passport, eh?

Well, I failed at both missions. First of all, they didn't carry the kind of battery I need. Second of all, Gigi decided that once we got to the picture-taking corner, she would have the absolute worst teething fit I've seen her experience in months. I kid you not, this child would barely settle down after multiple applications of Orajel and a dose of ibuprofen. For half an hour I sat on the floor of this shop, rocking Gigi and trying to coax her into at least not shrieking in Mommy's ear. It was quite a show. If I'd had any sense, I would have just excused us and left after the first dose of Orajel.

So after 30+ minutes of hoping against hope that we could actually get a decent picture of Gigi, we gave up and went home. Of course, by the time we got to the house, she was calm and reasonably quiet. Argh.

Then, just to be sure that all was forgiven... she and I were playing in the living room later that evening. Among the 40 or so words in Gigi's vocabulary are "baby" and "belly" (yes, if you ask, she will show you her belly in all its rotund glory. I am never letting her anywhere near Mardi Gras.) She was sitting beside me as I lay on the floor, and she pulled up my shirt and said, "Belly!"
"Yep," I said, "there's a baby in mommy's belly."
"Baby," she echoed, and made the sign language motions for 'baby'.
"Right, baby in the belly."
"Belly. Baby!" she grinned, then leaned over and planted a kiss on my tummy.

Yeah, she's cute. I think we'll keep her.

Oh, yeah. I'm back. Where have I been?
Let's see...I was on a quest for the last of the state quarters missing from my collection (damn you, you elusive Arkansas!!!)
No, that's not it.
I've been camped out in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out once and for all whether my scalp is dry, normal, or oily.
Nah...
I've been wigging out over the prospect of moving to an island for the next three years.
Hmmm, more plausible, but still not it.
Oh yeah.
I've been semi-comatose for most of the last two months because I'm back at work, raising a very mobile toddler, and gestating her younger sibling.
Yep, it's true, PS fans (if any of you are left out there), "Gigi" is getting an upgrade in November, to Big Sister.
Which brings me back to two years ago, when I inaugurated this blog: pregnant, working outside the home, facing an international move, and barely able to keep up with e-mail.
So mea culpa on the bloglapse. Now that I'm in Week 16, supposedly I'm going to be feeling better soon. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Meanwhile, it's past my bedtime. Night-night, my friends.

Today was a momentous day for me. I was driving home from a midweek treat, dinner out with an old friend (a restaurant with cloth napkins, oooh) when one of my favorite songs from my youth came on the radio: "I Don't Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats. Now I'm sure the local radio station was not doing this by way of attracting controversy, considering recent events and the song's ignoble history.
But what hit me was this. I am now the parent of a small child. As a full-fledged Volvo-driving Suburban Mommy I am the target demographic for being outraged at a song about an evilly banal shooting in a schoolyard.
Instead, I sang along with Bob as I wound my way through the subdivisions, just as I did twenty years ago. And I still love every note and word of this classic tune. And I feel no sense of outrage, even considering what my reaction would be if it had been my child in the crosshairs. Why?
a) Because it's just a song.
b) Because the song does not celebrate the act it refers to.
c) Nor does it preach about the causes and effects of the act.
d) Because God alone knows what kept the silicon chips inside my head from switching to overload when I was sixteen.

Anyway, all of this is by way of saying that I'm glad that two years in hardcore suburbia have not totally morphed away my personality, and I can still hear a song about a distasteful subject without wigging out, getting the FCC on speed-dial, and writing shrieking letters to the Editor. Praise Bob.

Earlier this week, I learned that in contrast to the Catholic Church's reckoning of seven deadly sins, Buddhism counts 108 "defilements" (conveniently listed for you here).

As if I didn't have enough on my "To Do" list...

Gigi and I were enjoying some unseasonably warm weather this afternoon after I picked her up from school. She was having a sippy cup of milk al fresco and pondering the weird device I had attached to it (a strap that is supposed to keep the cup attached to a high chair or car seat, so when kiddo wants to play The Gravity Game, Mommy doesn't sprain a knee retrieving the cup).
Anyway, this thing is purple and shiny and new, so of course it requires a vocabulary lesson. "Shiny," I said to Gigi, turning the strap over in her hands. "See how shiny? Pretty!"
"Purr-po," she replied.
No way, I'm thinking. "Did you just say 'purple'?"
Without taking her gaze from it, she repeated, "purr-po."
My daughter identified her first color by name. And it was purple.
Now I know how Anne Sullivan felt at the water pump that day.

I am caving in. After several weeks of falling behind on housework, and with the arrival of spring, I have come to the conclusion that I can either be both a full-time housekeeper *and* full-time employee, or I can be a full-time employee, outsource the housekeeping, and have some semblance of a life.

This is not to say that I do not have pangs of bourgeois guilt. It's just that I'd like to ensure - now that the baby is totally mobile and has discovered the joys of pulling stuff up from the garden - that at least once a week the carpets get vacuumed and the kitchen floor has more than one patch of non-adhesive surface. And I'd like to be there in the garden with the baby pulling up stuff.

Tomorrow I have a carpet-cleaning service coming in to get the smell of cat whizz out of the living room. The previous owners had a cat, and I only have so much time to play "CSI" with the blacklight looking for signs of our cat's power struggle with her predecessor. I also have a few housekeeping companies coming over to give us estimates. Naturally, this means I have to clean up the place before they get here, right?

Which means I should get off the blog. Right.

The past two weeks as haiku:

Spring and winter play
leapfrog. Immune systems blown.
New ear infection.

Spouse has surgery,
limited mobility.
Mommy needs a drink.

Yep, the day my husband has knee surgery and I'm teaching a class - as the substitute, mind you - is the day that Gigi develops a fever. Hubby can't drive, and I can't leave on a moment's notice. The ladies at day care (or, as I prefer to think of it, "pre-pre-school") called to tell me that she had a temperature, and they were giving her the ibuprofen I supply for teething pain, and she was really quite listless and I should consider taking her home. I explained my circumstances and said I'd wrap things up as soon as I could, yadda yadda. They called again two hours later - in between my phone calls to my brother to see how my husband's surgery had gone - and said the fever hadn't broken, she was napping now but she seems to be really sick.

You know, they never actually come out and say, "You negligent slattern, how dare you inflict your diseased spawn upon us," but I'm learning that Day Care is a highly nuanced tonal language.

So I got the babe, took her to the pediatrician, got her a diagnosis and an antibiotic, and took her home to daddy, who was on the couch with ice packs.

Oh, and did I mention that I had a cold too?

Yeah, things are looking up now. However, I should point out that I am blogging on a friend's computer between the cocktail and dinner portion of our weekly Movie Nite. Blogging at work is not an option, and while my family was playing Sick Ward I kinda let the housework go to hell, so I've been playing catchup on the laundry and such in between baby's bathtime, teething fits, and playtime. Oh, and I have relatives coming this weekend (brother-in-law and his fiancee). Hooray, they are graduate students, so a little clutter and fledgling civilizations in the bathroom isn't going to bother them, as long as they get lots of Niece Time.

It is a good person who lets you blog from their home. It is a remarkable person who will do so and cook paella for you at the same time. I am very fortunate in my friends.

I saw some stats today that said that a majority of bloggers fit the profile of females from North America, and that on average blogs are abandoned after four months. I felt a wee bit smug, seeing as PS has been in effect for over 18 months now. Nevertheless I also felt a momentary twinge of guilt for not having posted for the past two weeks. The twinge lasted just long enough to get shot down like a Vice Presidential companion, though, since it's been a jam-packed two weeks. More on that later.

"Deny the passport, throw it away and make a great decision that you will not leave this shore until and unless you have liberated all the human beings." -- Buddha

I came across the above quote a few days ago, and started to wonder if maybe it's a sign from Higher Powers that it's time to quit my job.

Then I remember that my job is sending me to an English-speaking island paradise this summer, to make up for the two years they had me working in a glorified snowdrift with a boss who was clearly the mutant love-child of a Dilbert cartoon and a Stephen King novel.

So whom do I trust? Buddha or the bureaucracy?

January was a very busy month (as anyone reviewing the dates of actual postings can see...). Going back to work was only half of it. Between Gigi and me, we spent an inordinate amount of time in doctors' offices. My employer, being steeped in the business of sending ailing travelers back home - often at ridiculous expense due to a lack of insurance - is very careful about health screenings before sending people overseas. This is good, because it lets me get a really thorough checkup every few years. On the other hand, it can be a pain because my whacked-out endocrine system often raises a few hurdles.
Since my thyroid gland - already as dysfunctional as a Hollywood household - has yet to level out since Gigi's birth, my doctor finally decided that between the blood counts and the nodules it was time for an ultrasound. The results of the ultrasound would indicate whether a needle biopsy was required. I didn't like the sound of that. "Biopsy" and "needle" are words that I don't like to hear individually. Put them together and they're not much improved. But we'll burn that bridge when we get to it; the first step was the ultrasound.
The technician was amused to hear me say that this was my first u/s from the waist up, though I doubted that I'd do any better figuring out what was on the screen. Many times my OB pointed to the screen and said, "See that?" when we previewed Bizzleburp/Gigi, and I couldn't tell which end I was supposed to be looking at. So this technician didn't bother with the detailed, guided tour, just, "here's the left side...here's the right side..." My favorite comment from her? "Wow, your thyroid gland isn't just multinodular. It looks like cottage cheese."
Great, I thought, so it matches my butt. Too bad I can't see either one of them.
But the good news is that a biopsy is not warranted. The doc is just going to adjust my synthetic hormone dosage *again* and we'll test my blood again in another few weeks. If I'm very lucky, we'll have found the magic number and my metabolism will actually get out of first gear.

I finally figured out what it is about the song "The Wheels on the Bus" that bugs me so much. It's the verse that goes, "The driver on the bus says 'move on back!'" that has always gotten under my skin. The passing of Rosa Parks, I think, threw it into sharp relief for me.
Look, I'm not so steeped in my liberal arts education that I'm going to interpret the entire song as an homage to Jim Crow and denounce it as a tool of the white patriarchy indoctrinating young children with institutional blah blah blah. It's just that I finally feel like I have a reason - other than the fact that the tune makes me want to puncture my eardrums with an icepick - to dislike that song.
And because God has a sense of humor, naturally, my daughter got a toy school bus for Christmas, with little shape-sorting figures and interactive sound features. And it is one of her **favorite** toys **ever**. She likes nothing more than to press the little orange button where the "driver" sits, which makes her bus light up playing TWOTBGRAR. And she lights up right along with it, bouncing up and down and clapping her hands with the music.
When she's a little older and starts singing, I'm going to teach her a variation: "The old karmic wheel goes round and round, round and round, round and round..."

Ave atque vale to a truly uncommon woman.

Ear infection. (Gigi, not me.) The poor little thing has been fighting off a fever for the past three days. (Why three? because it's a three day weekend, of course!) Anyway, prognosis is very good. Now if only we could all just sleep through the night again...

Overheard at the Asian art museum:

"What's a...chah-bah?" (said standing directly in front of the little plaque explaining that the kaaba is Islam's most sacred site, the house Abraham built for God, and the items you are looking at are ornamental keys to it...)

Tween Princess: "Mom, can I have sushi for dinner tonight?"
Suburban Martyr: "NO. You had sushi for dinner last night, and sushi for lunch today, and I don't want to hear any more about it. I am not a sushi-making machine."
TP: "Yes you are!"

Um...Happy New Year. No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I did return to work, though. More on that later. Just posting a quick thing to remind myself that I do have a blog which some people occasionally read (whoo hoo!)

btw, Gigi has her third tooth. The next three seem to be coming in all at once. More on that later, too.