At the very cusp of the fifth month(!), the world turns green! Monkeys dance down the streets and families ford their way through rites of passages despite the perils implicit. Belly buttons begin to burst and bumps biggen while mommening panics throw our flame-faced femme into a tizzy. Swee' Potato Fonzarelli sips onion soda and continues kicking as the first pass at gender norms and nonsense loom. All in time for Grammy Pammy to meet on the battle field with Mombossa Englett.
We Interrupt This Sockage With a Birthday Throwback
My big sis is 37 today. Don't believe the photos, she was an evil child hellbent on punishing me for my incursion into her placid family existence. She would lock me in attics; throw me in showers and empty everything under the bathroom sink over my head; scare me with stories about how our local stores were black markets for child slavery rings; and try to provoke me into any kind of behavior that would get me into trouble. So, typical older sibling. No doubt I became a significantly better (if more alert and sensitive) person for the trial-by-fire entry out of my tender years.
And she was also fun, wise, and sweet in her other moments, of course. By the time she was a teenager, I was less an impediment than a project. And the project was upgraded to tag-a-long, upgraded to honorary clique member from time to time. I could pass for much older than I actually was (not sure if this remains true, although in the soupy mire of "thirties" I'm pretty sure it's indistinguishable), so she'd often sneak me along to dances and let me stay out all night with her and her (mostly very well-behaved) friends. I had a lot of first-hand experience with high school craziness through her. And a lot of previews of normal college life and those various rites of passage.
No doubt, my personality was molded more by her influence than anyone else's. It took a long to recognize just how much we have in common. So much of my personality evolved to work in complement to hers and many of my life choices were divergences from hers after studied observation. But we are both alike and not alike, as one might expect of siblings. And no matter how vigilantly my father insists that she and I look completely unrelated (similarly he and I apparently don't resemble each other at all, which I try not to take too personally, but he is totally wrong, we do), we definitely are related.
Rachel travelled the traditional path and hit the rites of passage for adulthood far earlier than me. Four year college, bridge program to an advanced degree as a Nurse Practitioner, marriage to her first college boyfriend at 24ish, they bought their first home together, and had children a bit after that. They now have three boys scattered across the first decade of childhood. They're fairly well off, responsible, and their kids are involved in every childhood activity and fun enrichment program imaginable. Ryan coaches little league. Rachel volunteers at the school. She always immerses herself in a fabulous supportive network of moms in child-heavy neighborhoods of like financial stability and investment in family.
I, of course, embraced every counter-culture movement for brief periods of time, started college early, stuttered through a bit of a liberal arts enclave, abandoned college (also early), worked blue collar jobs experienced an array of heartbreak from dramatic to self-destructive to just profoundly bittersweet, travelled on a few bucks a day to various continents, worked myself back to finishing college late, obsessed over dance for a few years, and finally resigned myself to that law school and stable relationship thing. I'm still not convinced I'm a grown up in any conceivable form. I'm not great with regular formal activities or commitments. I tend to shy away from groups, even when that leaves me prone to some isolation at times. And well you've seen my sock collection.
I finished all that law school nonsense about 7 years older than my sis had, married 8 years older, will own my first house at 11 years older and have my first child at something like 5 or 6 (depending on which side of my birthday that labor hits).
But as always, I've paid attention. When I visit the Falconer household, I see the craziness and am in awe at the maternal superpowers my erst-nemesis has now acquired. I learn and I hope that I can be as loving and patient and utterly fun (and willing to be disliked when it is necessary to love toughly) as she is. With her kids. And generally. Because, the more we visit, the more I realize that life experiences and timelines won't always define whether a certain person just clicks with you. And we really are so alike at the bottom of it all. In good ways. In ways that makes me hopeful about myself!
Anyways, she is always so feverishly running about making life better for her family and friends that I hope today she is able to stop and let down the assumptions that let her take her own efforts and actions for granted. I hope she has an unmitigated blast filled with expressions of the latent love that sometimes gets missed in quotidian flurries that characterize her triage-heavy day.
Five Month Fonzarelli and the Bell(e) of the Pepper Ball
While my ornery omphalos contemplates breaking itself out of its innie mode (countdown to outie in 5-4-3-2... weeks probably), it's time to fete the onset of my very own fifth month of pregnancy! Has it been that long? Is there that much left to go? Holy crap, I'm gonna get huge soon, and huger later. Break out the crane and the body pillows!
This week - lucky number 18 - my wee little gender-neutral bundle o-myelin may be analogized as the following:
* A bell pepper, color not specified. Given my general complexion and slight sweetness, I'm going to guess red. And oh my wouldn't that be just an adorable little Halloween costume, a red pepper? Just a red suit and a big huge green stem on the hat. Probably only good for babies that have no intention of lifting their necks away from their proper support.
* A can of cola. Ok. That complements the yogurt from last week I guess. Cola - sweet, refreshing, and explosive when shaken. Also, should not be frozen. Good advice. What brand though? I'm thinking maybe Moxie, because I like to think my spawn will have a lot of that (a wish I'm likely to regret). But could be one of those local brews as well, I suppose.
* A sweet potato. Hopefully a garnet yam. Those are my favorite! Nummy. Of course, this one is pretty variable, as the sweet potatoes I buy at the store come in such a vast variety of sizes that my image of the roughly 5.5-6.5 inch baby is mucked with variety ranging from 3 inches to about 12 inches. StillI like the idea.
* A red onion. Why a red onion? Why not! Goes with the red pepper. No onion yogurt last week. No onion soda this week. Although when I was at St. John's, there was a local Diner (Chick 'n Ruth's) known for selling celery soda. Andrew and I went there to eat last year when I visited, but neither of us looked for the soda on that. A shame.
* A fetus! Ok, I added that one. I'm kind of surprised that at this point they aren't using more animal analogies. We did have the guinea pig option last week, but now that the baby is kind of a creature verifiably, why not go with it? I'm sure by the third trimester, various lap dogs would be apropos and arguably less variable than produce.
Anyways, the days of "it-baby" may be fading. There's an ultrasound scheduled for next week, and it's fairly likely that the gender will be determinable at this point. I've kind of enjoyed not knowing, but Andrew's a fed up with calling our precious Fonzie an "it" (he's probably also afraid that the longer "Fonz" sticks around, the more likely I'll insist on that name officially).
My thing is mostly that we put so many expectations on gender. I know the way I read a baby guide changes just by the gender pronoun they use. And I think it's pretty prescriptive. I like that open sense of possibility, and offering that to the little swee'potato. Right now, it could be anything and anyone. And of course yadda yadda yadda, gender identity and biological sex aren't really the same anyways... but mostly just I don't really need to choose between Pink Princesses and Red Racer Dinosaurs for the nursery. Kid's going to be unique and like its own things if I let it. And I think it's harder to let it once you start forming the expectations of what it will be. That's my theory anyways.
But hey, it'll be fun to know too, so not horribly strong on the ignorance.
In Adella-land, the mommening is manifesting in a cantaloupe uterus, a popping belly button, and faltering posture. Between the center of gravity shifts and all that relaxin, it's taking a lot of concentration to keep that tail-tuck ingrained in me from all those dance classes. It too shall fade into a sway-backed waddle!
My cardiovascular system will continue to get crazy, meaning more headaches, more flaming faces, and possibly even lower blood pressure! If that's even conceivable since I'm virtually dead normally anyways. I have been eating more sodium recently, even adding in some NUN electrolyte tabs to my ocean of daily liquids. Maybe that helps?
I'm told for the headaches, I should apply an ice pack to my forehead the second that I feel one coming on. Hey, I do that! When I'm home and not lazy. And I seem to get more benefit from an ice-pack to my neck, but same idea. At work, I mostly just have a few cans of sparkling water that I won't drink (for fear of heartburn) that come out on a regular cooling rotation.
And then there's my skin! Oh boy is there! The mild eczema is enjoying the raging hormonal shifts to go full throttle AGGGGGH on me recently. Apparently supposed to exercise restraint with steroid creams like cortisol (and it wasn't that great anyways), so I'm using some baby eczema cream with colloidal oatmeal.
And then there's the general dryness. Oh, and I'm a mom-to-be, so the ongoing paranoia and panic. This week's theme: parabins and phtalates and plastic goblins, oh my. Had the misfortune of running across some recent study about how these cost the European health system Bajillizillions of dollars a year in horrible adverse developmental effects. Being contrary, I spent several hours researching the study to prove it wrong or clarify its limits. But I have to admit there's a decent amount of evidence out there to at least question whether it's such a great idea letting these particular chemicals absorb into your skin and bloodstream on a regular basis. And even the FDA acknowledges there's a heckuvalota exposure right now between food, cosmetics, consumer goods, toys, packaging, furniture, air, medical anything, and most personal care products.
So, sure, bajillions of babies are born every year from mothers who marinate in the stuff, heat their meals in plastic, sleep on fire retardants, and have vinyl everything. But you know... mommening and all... Why wouldn't I strive to make my life worse and more anxious now?
My skin is so dry I require a creaming at least twice a day. Probably more. I actually am sensitive enough to fragrance that I gravitate towards simpler creams anyways, but you know... I was between creams anyways and still trying to find my perfect cream, so I was relieved to find that the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Stretch Mark Massage Cream that bestie-Molly bought me way back in December was parabin and phthalate-free. No doubt, it still contains a million carcinogens because what doesn't, but really there's a line. I'm placated for now...
For a few more minutes. Before the next thing to panic over emerges. Because, as I've noted before, life will kill you. And living past the age of 35-40 is the primary cause of all major killers of our population. Food for thought there. That's why I wanted to have this baby before 35 and all, of course!
Anyways, last day of mom-bossless office existence. It's going to be nuts when she gets back. The week is stacked with work and personal appointments. But I'm glad to have her back even if she brings the chaos.
Grand-Sock-Marshal And Return of the Mom-boss
For those of us on the Pacific side of the world, happy almost-St. Patrick's Day. We hereabouts are Euro-mutts by heritage for the most part. Aside from a strong Dutch contingent up in Lynden, I think most people can count several points of origin, and at least enough to feel properly Irish for the Irish-American holiday (long tradition going back to times when the Irish were the ethnicity du contempt) that we have made of St. Patrick's Day. Sure, it involves plenty of green beer and whiskey and a dollop of carousing, but of course it also involves green-everything else, parades and a little whimsy.
And to the Atlantic folks, Happy Mother's Day! I do believe I'll celebrate a little myself.
Mom-boss has returned! Or at least her vehicle, the mighty +Pamela Englett appears to have survived toddler and turbulence to arrive on our coast sometime late last evening! Phew! Realty realigns... gradually.
It's strange when a constant presence in your life vanishes.It's sometimes equally strange when they are merely pulled out of your familiar context but still semi-present.
I joke that Mom-boss has turned into Gramma Pam, but there's some verity to that. We change facets of our identity, focus, and personality in the face of context. Those around us define and reinforce our experience. In the absence of the mill of work and home routines - and in the middle of an entirely new but familiar set of routines and relationships - the confirmed experience shifts.
Or something. I know I feel like I'm in "kid-world" when I'm visiting. It's harder for me to connect or feel connected to those outside of that bubble, even when it's a subtle "away for the day during a visit" experience. I can even tell that it's harder for me and Andrew to find our common argot at the end of the day when my context is different than our familiar rote of inside references and mutually built habits. We may not experience the same day (largely not), but I am so versed in his life and he (mostly) in mine that there's this common language and vicarious experience about both. That can falter a bit when context is wrenched and habits upended even somewhat.
All this in turn makes my day to day life here quite peculiar. I'm used to a constant stream of confirmation of quotidian experience that has just been yanked. I hear a song on King FM that moves me, and I can almost guarantee that if I remark on it, mom-boss will respond accordingly (we listen to the same station all day). The ongoing quirks and personalities of our colleagues and clients spark a certain reaction in me, just as legal questions, interesting news, or my interactions with our mutual acquaintances... and I know there's a complementary reaction (not always the same, but part of my natural rhythm) to counterpoint it.
I am interested in the day to day fracas of the Falconer household, but it hardly consumes me the way it would somebody in the middle (unless I'm there and then I am obsessed of course). And with the fickle memory of children, they barely recall I exist beyond a convenient name for make believe, so it's a fair trade that I lack the obsession and attention of one present.
And there's just an inevitable dearth of familiar reinforcing ritual when you talk to somebody who usually does, but didn't experience the fugal patterns of the personalities at the Collaborative Law Board meeting. Who won't get all the in-jokes in the minutes or find them oh-so-painfully truly funny because of witnessing the same key moments presented in parody.
Of course we build new contexts and patterns rapidly, but shorter trips happen before such things occur. And they make us rather nostalgic for the ones that have been suspended.
So break out the parade, there will be some mental deprogramming (brain washing? Naw, just decompression and scouring of the "going potty" vocab for at least a few more months), but we'll get there in a way that bends to my selfish needs!
E Tu Monday? The (Ey)des of March have Winked and Twinkled at Me
Ok, when did March march straight into "half over"? When did our prospective closing date tiptoe straight into less than a fortnight from now? Oh my lord, we have to move? Boxes, STAT!! Pitchforks! Shovels! Kindling for the bonfire! Not kindle, kindling!! Give me my book back!!
Ahem, ok, well, we survived Pi day and the Ides and Transcontinental Mother's Day ok. Let's keep on jigging to St. Patty's day and finally panic day/Passover/Easter/my-god-we'd-better-be-moved-somewhere-before-the-MIL-visits-or-we-might-be-joining-her-at-her-hotel Day
I celebrated transcontinental mother's day by seeing my mother, so that worked quite nicely! I did not eat pie or Pi this weekend. Nor did I stab Caesar or his great ghost. Ah well - next year maybe.
I'm oddly excited to be back in the office and ready for a real Monday. And nervous. My treadmill stopped moving last week. I thought it just needed a relube, but then it stopped again after that. It's currently moving, but it's only been 15 minutes and last time, it took 18 to stop. It feels a little lurchy, but that could be my oversensitivity now that I suspect something's awry. If that doesn't work, I may have to take the week off work. I don't do stationery desk work well!
But whatever else, we've got mom-boss back! I should be panicked, because I've seen our schedule and know the mad dash coming up. But so far I'm just excited to get things addressed and handled! And to sink back into my office day routine. As well as I might with a potentially busted treadmill. But I'll make do. Somehow. Maybe.
Yesterday was a lovely indoor day for me and a wretched mud-fest for the husband. Hey, he wanted to go out racing at a course he didn't particularly care for several hours away and he didn't care that it was typhooning outside! But I guess there are some things a man has just gotta do. I guess. I'm glad he came home in one slightly demotivated and surly piece, and that a ridiculously large slab of oven baked cheesy sausage ravioli seemed to lift his spirits right-high enough for a nice coma.
And with a wee tarantella of further ado, I take a leap into our third week of March. Toes first to test the waters...
The luck o' the Tuesday! This mad breakfast rush was brought to you by... some serpents, Irish Americans, and a very long pair of socks
Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone! Naturally, I couldn't go straight green-green-green today. That would certain forsake my Irish Protestant heritage. Yes my mother would sometimes joke about wearing all orange for this particular holiday just in honor. But... well... I like green... so a lot of green.
And I can't really manage to eek out a creative breakfast every morning, but sometimes a gal has too good of an excuse not to shake up the morning ritual with some flailing and experimentation and plenty of melted butter all over the stove (whoops, just meant to leave it atop the oven for a spell to soften it... more like liquidate apparently).
Today's experiment was oven baked egg in avocado cups. Or some such title. Found the recipe off of a Wellness mama blog while searching some inspired terms like "egg Irish easy green." You never know what hits you're going to get. I will say that her recipe promising you can easily fold an egg into an avocado with just a little scooping first is fairly optimistic. Also her estimated bake time of "15-20 minutes at 350"... she must have a magic oven. I baked mine for 35 minutes before finishing it off in the microwave. But it did work! With those variations of "hastily mop the remaining egg overspill with a paper towel and let the rest just kind of bake into a nice white plastic layer on the baking pan" and "nuke it!!". It worked and was pretty tasty.
Particularly with some cilantro pesto on top. Because I needed more green and I happen to have cilantro. And oh do I love cilantro pesto. Walnut oil, parmesan cheese, cilantro, lime (usually lemon, but in honor of green...), garlic and onion. Nummy. The rest of it made it to lunch of course.
And yes, that's Irish soda bread. No, nothing green on it. I just didn't have time to make green butter.
Dinner of course will also be green. Bamboo/jade rice - naturally infused with bamboo to have a naturally creepy green hue. Some cilantro, some mustard greens, and potatoes of course! Black eyed peas maybe don't really fit the theme, but they're tasty anyways.
Needless to say the kitchen is a battered veridian miasma of various verdurous hues and smeared fixings. Needless to say, breakfast bell was more of a hastily shouted "breakfast is ready!" at several minutes past usual instead of the normal amble upstairs and grand proclamation to a half-dressed hubby. Needless to say, it was totally worth it. Because green food! And while I just cannot sustain the energy to be culinarily creative on a regular basis, I enjoy the occasionally sanctioned opportunity to channel my inner Manic Martha S.
Today, my chore - aside from casting out snakes - is to survive a full workday without a functioning treadmill desk. I'm currently standing at it and pumping my legs in an alternating stairmaster sort of style. Keeps the blood from pooling with too much standing and we shan't even discuss what horrors of actually sitting this forstals. But it is now making the treadmill deck creak and cavil, so that might not be advised either. Oh how I hope we can find a magical voodoo doctor to help the poor misused thing! And sooner than later... this gal was not formed for sedentary anything.
But with the luck o'green non-alcoholic gluten-free beer (Bellingham Irish!), peradventure the day shall surely turn super fantasticadaisical for me and all y'all out there in cyberworld.
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