March Madness

I swear: I just wrote last week. But alas, the days seem to move more quickly now. Life with a toddler is INTENSE, y'all. One moment that kid is rubbing my shoulders and picking me flowers; the next, he is throwing "amby-truck" at me in a fit of rage and collapsing in tears of fury.

In. Tense.

Plus, there's that whole second pregnancy thing. I'm 18 weeks now! Huzzah! I am in the sweet spot where I am actually feeling semi-human, and also eating all of the ice cream in sight. So naturally, I'm packing on the pounds, but I'm still hopeful that I can reign it in soon. Enjoying my third bowl of Breyer's last night, I did tell J I should probably stop buying this stuff. Probably.

Li'l Wanya (hereby christened after I met Boyz II Men last week at the House of Blues), is doing great. I've got another highly-mobile baby, but all looks healthy and strong. And, a little secret between friends: methinks this is a lady-child. Something about this pregnancy feels different. I know, dudes, they are all different. But if I were a betting woman, my money would be on lass. We've got our 20-week ultrasound on April 3rd, but of course we are waiting til Li'l Wanya makes his/her painless and joyful arrival sometime in mid-August. Stay tuned.

What else? We're planning a trip to Los Angeles in a few months, shortly after H's 2nd birthday. I've also got to plan his birthday party, which is bittersweet. Our little boy is growing up so quickly; I wish our close family and friends could help us celebrate. Alas, we will celebrate with them in spirit, with a whole lotta candy and Elmo and trucks and cars up in here.

The blessed child is now awake and we've got to run to the Nissan dealership and then dinner and then I'm out into an adult world known as marketing class. The fun never stops, y'all! I'm just totally producing endless blog fodder these days, like did you want to discuss how I'm now freaked out by microwaves and I'm heating up leftovers on the stove and in the oven all damn day? We'll talk. I'm interesting!

A New Season

Recovering from my (fake) brush with death yesterday. My left temple is a lovely green shade and my shoulder and wrist are aching. Nothing a little light exercise and Management reading can't fix. And perhaps I should consider one of those benches in the shower, made specifically for seniors?

So what's new? I've started my grad school courses, though due to Hurricane Irene and Labor Day, I still haven't actually attended my Management class yet. I'm also taking Accounting, which I quite enjoy. All in all, a good semester thus far, a mere three weeks in.

Today marks Day 1 of half-marathon training. I intend to run the Dallas White Rock in early December; and thank Jesus, because I am quite jiggly these days. I managed to gain nearly FIVE pounds on our three-week sojourn through the Northeast (cheese fries, cheese nuggets, ice cream, Italian hoagies, cheesecakes, cupcakes, and the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru will do that to a gal), and I am currently trying to rid myself of the extra girth so I can button my pants again one day soon.

Oh! I found an old journal, one I've been missing for quite some time now. And this one is GOOD, y'all. It is juicy and sordid and paints a picture of a very self-centered lass from 1997 through 99, during which time I move to New York and mercifully gain some perspective and stop obsessing about boys a tiny fraction. As I was skimming, I came across an entry in which I divulge my weight - 10 full pounds less than I am now - and write, "I need to lose at least 10 - 12 pounds; starting to feel like a heifer!" And now I'd like to personally thank anyone who hung out with me in high school, because damn: I was annoying.

Finally, yesterday I hobbled along with my boys to a new friends' place to watch the Eagles game. (Fellow Birds fans: huzzah!) At one point I got down on the floor to color with Hendrik and their two young daughters. Later, back home, J and I were sitting on the couch when he started giggling and burst out, "How 'bout your plumber's crack today?" When I asked him why he didn't nudge me to pull up my jeans, he just laughed and replied: "I'm sure I'm the only one who noticed." Right, J: because no one ever picks up on a person's butt checks billowing out of the top of their pants.

Informal poll this Monday morning: Divorce?

Little Boy.

Some more shots from our Colorado trip...

Who is this little boy? What has he done with my baby? And why is he giving me the stink-eye?

Just two dudes, being adorable. Born a mere 80 years apart.

His pensive mountain look.

Playground on Cheyenne Mountain. Shots taken before a very spirited two-year old knocked him in the head with a bucket. Boy's mama proceeded to put the bucket in time-out. Because it totally was the inanimate object's fault.

Now, let's smile for the camera, Hank:

Fourteen month-old boys are truly the bee's knees.

Rocky Mountain Hiney

First rides!

First solo ride. Look alive, Sadie!

Quality time with Far-Far.


Keeping it classy with mismatched socks at DIA.

Reunited.

Oh, dudes: the pure joy of traveling the friendly skies with a 14-month old! The thrills! The chills! The yogurt puffs!

Last night, when we finally arrived home at 10:30, I told J that when we have another child? I am just never going anywhere again. Ever. Mkay?

Overall, our trip to Colorado was fantastic. Our 1.5 hour flight on Saturday went very well. We had skipped his morning nap so by the time we taxied down the runway for takeoff at 11:30 AM, I was able to rock baby boy to sleep on my lap. He looked so sweetly serene snoozing there on my chest. I have also never been quite so grateful to read the completely inane People magazine. Score one for Mama Dukes.

Of course, he woke up after about 35 minutes, at which time I entertained him and other passengers with dramatic readings of I Love You All The Time and impassioned renditions of Itsy Bitsy Spider. Best mom ever.

The highlights?

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  The flesh-eating bacteria that threatened Hank's delicate booty. I finally had to admit to myself that all-natural Burt's Bees butt cream is totally ineffective. My boy needs maximum strength Desitin on his bits. Poor man finally started to heal as we headed home.






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  I bet none of you chickens realized that Santa actually lives in the foothills of Pike's Peak Suckers. Hendrik totally visited the North Pole, Santa's actual workshop tucked away in the mountains. We rode rides! And I even let Hendrik go on the boats by himself, entrusting a very questionable-looking 4 year-old to protect him from jumping ship.






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  My Far-Mor (that's Swedish for grandmother) getting a positive PET scan reading: no more cancer. We celebrated at the Old Country Buffet. (No, really.)






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  Hank spending quality time with his great-grandparents. He's got three of them! Lucky dude.






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching The Bachelorette with my grandmother. We both agree Ben is super-sexy; and Ames really needed to go.






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  Have you guys seen Despicable Me? Tangled? Go forth and Netflix. Solid, solid films. I think I might only watch Pixar and Disney movies from here on out.






• 
  
  
  
  
  
  The flight home, on which one of us refused to sleep, though it was hours past bedtime. To fuck with me, he passed out as we the plane touched down. Waiting for our stroller on the jetway, every single person who passed exclaimed, "Finally asleep, huh?" One guy told me he was on the flight to Denver with us. "Man, he is hilarious! Nice set of lungs on him!" Indeed. And sorry, fellow passengers.

Countdown.

The HomeValleyians are truly in transition. Right now Hendrik and I are splitting our time between Philadelphia and Las Colinas, Texas. We're staying in a warm, cozy corporate apartment about 15 minutes from J's new place of business. It's quite spacious: two bedrooms, two full baths, a separate dining room; a sunroom that doubles as our "office", even a veranda. Perhaps 900, 950 square feet?

It's lovely, really. It's easy to keep tidy (a cleaning lady helps that cause as well). The washer/ dryer is located in the kitchen, so it's no bother to throw in a load of laundry while Hendrik scales the furniture and chomps computer wiring. And just a few miles from here, MacArthur Boulevard offers a variety of restaurants, supermarkets, book stores, and DRIVE-THRU Starbucks. (Mecca, much?)

Despite J working anywhere between 60 -70 hours per week, Las Colinas feels like an extended vacation. There's a man-made lake a half-mile from here, where Hendrik and I sun ourselves on the waterfront. There's a basketball court and several small playgrounds where H can enjoy his wood chips. There's a community pool, though thankfully it's not quite hot enough to use it yet. (I don't think you're ready for this jelly, Texas.)

But most importantly, there's us. Our little family, having an adventure, making a life. Enjoying real quality time together. Feeling no pressure to be anywhere but in the present moment. Sure, we're stressed - simultaneous house-buying and selling will make even the most laid back among us STABBY - but we're happy.

We feel at home here. It doesn't negate the dread and deep sorrow I feel when I imagine walking through our Manayunk home that last time. Saying good-bye to Montel, Hendrik's monkey friend who adorns his nursery wall. Bidding farewell to grandparents that will no longer be able to casually drop by; swallowing the guilt knowing that months may pass before they hold their grand-baby again.

So we focus on the happy, the good, the new.

Change is a welcome, necessary bitch, eh?

Transitions.

Hello, Lovers!

I ask you to bear with me as the HomeValleyians soldier on to Big D. We've got so much on our plates right now, what with living in different states and all. Oh, I didn't tell you that? I haven't been updating this blog regularly?

Stop looking at me like that. I know I am a sorry excuse for a blogger.

J moved to Texas on January 25th. For those playing along at home, this means we have been living apart for roughly a month, sans the ten-day sojourn Hendrik and I just took to the Lone Star state.

It's been... challenging? Enlightening? Heart-breaking? Empowering? Lonely? Chaotic? Exhausting?

Yes, on all counts.

So bear with me. I want to tell you all the dirty details of the move, but I've got an uber-demanding nine-month old who is TEETHING in the worst way. Teeth are bitches. They keep babies up moaning all night, and temporarily single mamas are kept awake growling and trying to remember why they love this little person, because for the love of Lionel Hank STOP SCREAMING.

I am also in dire need of a blog reno, but I fear the house reno will have to take precedence.

To sum up thus far:

J = Texas, houses, 100 hours of work per week

H = TEETH

HV = puffy eyes, IVs of caffeine, Skype with J, moving companies, budgets, Trulia, planes (so small we might as well be in the fucking cargo bin), HGTV

Manayunk House = SOLD

Dallas House = Under contract, pray God

Sidewalk in Front of Current Home = Torn up by gas company's jackhammer

Gas Company = ASSHOLES

And yet?

Life = Very, very Good

Announcements

Mah People:

Happy New Year! I am sorry I have been away for eons. I have been living the fabulous life of the blogless. Jealous?

So there was Christmas. It was lovely/chaotic/stressful/delicious. Then there was New Year's, and you didn't see a post from me. Surely you thought - this is not the Melissa P. HomeValley I know and love! She lives for New Year's resolutions! Where for art thou, HomeValley?

Well, I return to you bearing BIG news. I'se been busy, see, along with my cohorts here at the ranch.

We're moving.

Ever so slightly south of PA.

Texas, y'all.

We're moving to Texas.

*writer scratches head, wonders if she herself read that right*

Alas, it's true! J received a job offer from a rather prominent institution in Houston, and so on the day after Thanksgiving? We left Snooze with his grandparents and we dragged our turkey-stuffed booties to the airport at 4 AM. We flew to Houston for the day. (That's where we did this, by the by.)

It was a pleasant day. The flight was on-time and uneventful, except that we listed the states, and I listened to the song Black Sheep by Martin Sexton. I mean, really listened. I even jotted down the lyrics, as tears pricked my eyes. Here's a sampling:

Sitting in this lonely town
Wondering when things are gonna change
Dreaming my life away
It seems these dreams turn into a bunch of dust clouds

Get my nerve up
But my past has been pulling me down
Wondering how long this black sheep
Gonna stick around

I remember somebody told me once before
You can never go home again, once you leave
Say anything just to steer me away
From the truth of who I am and what I believe

So I thanked him for his two cents with a handshake, and some sympathy
And I packed up my blue jeans
And I headed for this big prize
Of my freedom.

Friends?

It was a moment.

The decision to move away from family is not an easy one, especially when you have a small child. Feelings are hurt. Loved ones are confounded/incredulous/doubtful.

In the end, of course, J and I had to be true to our hearts. And our hearts tell us that life is a gift; and that it is meant to be lived. I can't quell my adventurous spirit, and I don't want to.

Sometimes you just have to try that thing, scratch that itch.

All that said? We sipped our drinks in the Houston airport at the end of that day, and thought: We can do this. We're doing this.

And then, as the days passed... something didn't feel quite right.

I am going to yadda yadda you now, guys. You've probably got dinner plans.

Houston is hot - yadda yadda yadda - J got offered another fantastic position in Dallas.

The rest is history.

Now? We are in the throes of house selling/moving/job startin'/separating for a spell. Not the easiest few months ahead, but I love me a good challenge.

Life is meant to be lived, after all.

More to come. Until then: the stars at night, are big and bright.

xoxo,

HomeValley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAc9o6nN9ZI

(If you're not familiar with Martin, check him out. He's guaranteed to make you happy.)

Birthday Boy

Last week, J and I had the opportunity to get away together, just for a day.

On the road, I challenged him to name all of the states. I did the same. We each forgot two (he counted D.C.); we both missed Wisconsin. Obviously, we're a match made in heaven.

Then, I challenged J to name the state capitals. We played that lightning round together. We got 38, and made up a whole bunch.

We're stoopid.

But here is this man, y'all. This guy who humors my love for a good brain exercise now and again.

This man who drives his car at five miles per hour beside me as I run through the rough neighborhoods.

This man who surprises me with trips to Southeast Asia.

This man who squeezes my hand during turbulence.

This man who does the dishes.

This man who tries to use acronyms in Scrabble. (He also put down "Nam" during a recent match, claiming it was an important war, babe.)

This man who is one half this tiny boy we both adore, with the blonde hair and the blue eyes and the pitch-perfect J expressions.

This man who is the most self-possessed person I have ever met. I don't think he knows a thing about insecurities. (But I do think, this evening, he will ask me what "self-possessed" means. He has no qualms about asking for help with the unfamiliar.)

This man who told me recently: figure out what you want to be; then go be it.

I don't know what I did to deserve this profound happiness. I do know that we work at it, every day, and that at the end of every day, we will both here.

Working at it.

Happy birthday to my husband, the best decision I ever made.

Snoozer Takes Manhattan!

New York!

Shit, NYC is DIFFICULT with a baby.

But we had a lovely time, thank you.

The Snooze humors his mama for a brief face pic at Taco Taco on the East Side.

Damn! This city is loud. But I will do my best to be heard over the din, y'all.

We took Hendrik to the park where we got engaged.

M. Gell-Mann. Please forgive the typo, M.

The exact scene of the crime. (I was ridiculously excited, btw.)

Koos's store on Madison Avenue. (Shout out!)

My boys.

Extra!

Fin.

38 Weeks: An Epic Retrospection of Absolute Insanity.

Thirty-eight week check-up was smashing! I lost 2.5 pounds! Babies heart rate is remaining in the 120s! (Totally a boy rate, according to Old Wifey. Stop messing with me, child.) Head is low! No internal! Boo Yeah.


I feel pretty good this week, all told. I am busy tying up loose ends at work; still trying to find the right pediatrician; researching breast pumps (news to me: it is unsanitary to share, even if swapping out the attachments); buying industrial-strength foundation for the hospital pics; and ordering a new camcorder charger. (My world almost imploded last night when I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere in our home. SMOKEY!)


Feeling a bit nostalgic, I opened an old Word doc I started when The Ninja was but a fantasy: this, ladies, and gents, is my fertility saga. I called it: Space Baby. And oh, the DRAMA. The absolute crushing disappointment of not getting pregnant on the very first try.


(I was really very annoying about this whole thing. Apologies, husband.)

August 26, 2009 (Home Office)

Where were we?

Ah, yes – most certainly NOT pregnant.

And it was ultimately a relief, as we journeyed to Montevideo and Buenos Aires, and ohhh – the malbec. And mojitos. And Torrontes. So there you go. I was wishing and hoping and simultaneously thinking I was making my baby retarded. I erroneously predicted that my period was due on Saturday, August 15th. When it didn’t come, we were very excited. We took the red-eye home on Saturday night, and I raced to CVS as soon as we arrived back in the Yunk.

Negative.

Boo. To add insult to injury (those tests are expensive, y’all), I checked my day planner and my period wasn’t scheduled to arrive until Monday, August 17th.

I spoke to Koos and gave her a full report. She yelped when I told her I wasn’t with period yet. I told her about the pregnancy test, and she exclaimed that of course I could still be pregnant – she had a negative test with baby #2! I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I started to wonder…

When my period still hadn’t arrived on Tuesday evening, I allowed myself to get excited again. At 8 PM, I dashed to the closest pharmacy in Newton, MA, then eagerly peed on the stick and waited.

Negative.

Of course, the next morning I woke up crampy. I got my period that morning, pushing me out to a 30-day cycle. Since abruptly stopping the pill in April, my cycles have been 30, 29, and 28 days, respectively, so I figured I was settling into a nice, normal 28-day ride.

No such luck. Now I must make sure that J and I baby-mate from days 10 – 17, just to be safe. I have managed to rearrange my work schedule so we will only miss one full day of love (probably ovulation day), but we’ll just have to hope we can get it done another day.

I guess we have officially been trying for one month. I hope that this doesn’t take too long. K, baby? We are eagerly awaiting your conception, so let’s do this!

September 1, 2009

I have been snooping around that damn book again.

I just have a few questions, you know? Like, about cervical mucus. Who can I ask about cervical mucus, I beseech you?

This morning I went to Web MD to calculate when I may be ovulating. As I suspected, the Internet indicates tomorrow. It says my fertile period began on August 28th, and I should ovulate on the 2nd.

I did fairly well predicting that this month.

*I go on here to list the dates J and I baby-mated. Oh Em Gee, I will spare you. Let me just say, that once I decided to get knocked up, I approached it with all the vigor and precision and meticulousness of an army drill sergeant.

September 14, 2009

In the end, it was Drew Barrymore who tipped me off.

I was in the midst of a surprisingly vivid dream. Drew and I were best friends – naturally – and I was on set of a new film starring that Gilles guy with the penis from the Sex and the City movie. Apparently, Drew was banned from being on set, as she had offended the director more than once. She was in love with Gilles, and kept calling me, asking me to watch him for her. She wanted updates on his behavior. I kept trying to assuage her fears, good friend that I am.

In the dream, I realized I had to pee, and that my stomach was acting weird. I rolled over and fumbled for my glasses. I stumbled out of bed and headed towards the bathroom, where I found the last EPT test in the drawer. What the hell, I thought, as I ripped open the packaging. I’ll take this, it will be negative, and I will just wait for my period to start this week.

I peed on the stick, replaced the cap, and laid the test on the floor in front of me. I watched as the negative line popped up in the window, and I shook my head. I told myself not to be discouraged – this is only month two, you asshole. You’ll get there.

But wait.

Is that?

No.

I started laughing. Really laughing. And saying no. No. No! No way.

A second line. Faint, but not even very faint.

Pregnant.

I finally got off of the toilet and crept back into the bedroom, test in hand.

“Are you awake?” I asked.

J nodded, and I laughed again, and was all, “I have something to show you!”

I thrust the stick in his face.

“This says I’m pregnant!”

J was skeptical. But it’s not as dark as the other line, he said. I pulled out my copy of What to Expect Before You’re Expecting, and read aloud:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive, but the line was very faint. Could I be pregnant?

A: Get ready to faint: from excitement!

Of course, the next question caused some brief panic:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive; then I took two more and they were negative. What’s happening?

A: Chemical pregnancy, better luck next time.

“Well, that’s no fun, huh?” I said to my husband, who hugged me but cautioned me not to get too excited.

As. If.

After calculating my due date online, and quickly getting dressed, I headed to Whole Foods and Border’s, and, of course, CVS. I resolved not to pee for at least 5 hours. I made it to 6, and then took a second test.

Pregnant.

And this time, no faint line. I dragged J into the bathroom to show him.

“Well, there’s no mistaking that one is there?”

I left the two tests on the bathroom sink, side-by-side. I can’t stop checking on them. As if they are my baby. Our baby. I creep into the bathroom at least once an hour, and I stare.

This morning, despite peeing twice in the night, I took another test.

Pregnant.

And there the three tests sit, in our bathroom. Lined up in solidarity, shouting:

PREGNANT.

I made my first prenatal appointment today, which won’t be until October 19th! How can we wait that long? I asked the receptionist the same question.

“Then that’s safe? For my baby? I am so new… That’s okay?”

She assured me it was perfectly normal. When we go in, we’ll have a check-up, an ultrasound, and we’ll get to hear the heartbeat.

Heart. Beat.

I sent J an Outlook invitation to this appointment. I don’t think he wants to believe this yet. He’s afraid, probably more for me than himself. “Don’t get too excited yet, babe. Anything could happen.”

“It’s not going to hurt any less if I try to ignore it,” I tell him softly.

I don’t want to jinx it, but I think Ninja is strong.

September 15, 2009

Today – unbelievably – the world did not stop turning, and I had to work. I am in Bethesda, Maryland. Starting tomorrow, I am going to eat properly. Today I had hash browns, bacon, a few bites of scrambled eggs; pizza, and an Asian chicken salad, complete with a side of liguini carbonara. One measly salad does not a healthy diet make, and so tomorrow (and here on out) I will strive for the proper amount of fruits, vegetables, and proteins.

I went to Border’s and returned The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy (because: dumb) and settled on the oft-maligned What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It is straightforward advice and material that I need, and so far it has put me at ease.

Reading the book though, I got immediately panicky; suspect that Ninja had disappeared. As soon as I got back to the hotel, I took a pregnancy test (my FOURTH). POSITIVE. And now the test sits on the bathroom sink, where I can go in and stare at it when I need to be reminded.

I. AM. PREGNANT.

I cannot fathom that I won’t get to see AN ACTUAL DOCTOR until October 19th, more than A MONTH AWAY.

“How will I believe I am still pregnant?!?” I begged of Koos yesterday. “I will have to take a test like once a week!”

I am hoping I can get in earlier; the receptionist mentioned that there may be a cancellation in the meantime.

In other news, I finally ran again today. An easy two-miles, after which I felt great, and not like I killed Ninja. I weighed myself as well: 135.1. I was alarmed to think that I might weigh 160 before this is over. *ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Ha.

But really, Ninja, just stay healthy. We lurve you. (And also, I suspect you are a girl.)

Tomorrow: More craziness ensues. Stay tuned!

Worry Just Will Not Seem to Leave My Mind Alone.

So Sunday?

Meh.

It was a bad day. I couldn't shake my dark mood. Every movement felt like an arduous chore, despite my AM yoga class (which I typically leave floating). My heart was heavy. I was restless in my own skin. Everything - somewhat inexplicably - was tinged with sadness.

I have a tendency towards anxiety. On some level, I've always been a worrier. As a child, my brother and I (and oftentimes, Koos) traveled to my grandparents' house in Colorado every summer. I loved those solo trips across the country, sans parents. I'm sure those early flights alone sealed my future independence and ease with travel.

Until one summer, I became - quite irrationally - afraid to fly. That year, my entire trip to Colorado Springs was effectively ruined, as I was desperately homesick, and I was SURE that our return flight was doomed. I was like some deranged character from Final Destination. John Denver's playing? And he died in a plane crash? Well fuck me, I am not getting on this plane.

Of course, I got on the plane. And survived! And eventually, I got over it. The fear. I gained confidence; became more independent, and continued to travel. The last truly lovely experience I had on a jet took place in June 2001. I flew to LA to visit my friend Brian, who was starring in a production of Evita. Blissful flight - with a connection through Cincinnati - blissful trip.

And then September 11th. Yeah. That.

Dealing with post-traumatic stress and anxiety is hard. It exhausts you. In my case, I could never feel safe. I felt like a moving target. Planes. Bombs. Anthrax. Blah.

That was nearly nine years ago. I have worked very hard to get through it. It's why I fly all the time. It's why I try to stay focused. It's why I make new resolutions every January. It's why I start Happiness Projects. These things make me calmer. More joyful. Whole.

But every so often (read: once every few years), the real dread creeps in. Luckily, it does not linger long. But it surfaces long enough to make me uncomfortable in my own skin. It makes me sad. It causes me to worry about every insignificant detail: new carpet might hurt our baby. The furniture won't arrive on time. SIDS. I'll get hit by a car. We don't have any window treatments in the nursery. WE NEED WINDOW TREATMENTS, J, LEST WE WILL NOT SURVIVE!

That was Sunday.

Monday was better. Today was great.

To help ameliorate my anxiety, I picked up Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now on CD. (I'm doing a lot of driving this week in Upstate New York.) I was skeptical, but Tolle talks a lot about the power our thoughts yield over us. That nagging voice in our heads, he says, is our own worst enemy. It torments us with potential negative outcomes. It attackes and punishes us, draining us of vital energy. (I might have shouted Yes! aloud at this point.)

To free yourself, he says, you only need to start listening to The Voice, paying attention to any repetitive thoughts. Listen impartially - don't judge. Soon, you will recognize your own presence versus The Voice. The thought will then lose its power, because you no longer identify with the thought.

I think that's damn lovely, and absolutely worth a shot. One of my resolutions for 2010 was to stop worrying. If I can consciously recognize these damaging, needless worries, and then banish them from my brain? Sign me up.

Agree? Disagree? I'd be interested to learn how others cope with anxiety. I love to try new things!

Empire State of Mind.

Can I just say first: k.d. lang's cover of "Hallelujah?" May just be the most gorgeous song ever recorded. Thank you, Starbucks.

Now, back to business. I am in Manhattan this week. Folks, I adore the Upper East Side. This morning I was fortunate enough to carve out some time for a nice long waddle through Central Park. It's truly inspiring; I am not sure there is any other place on earth that can invigorate me more than this city, particularly Central Park, when the sun is shining and the joggers are out in full force. What I wouldn't give to have that luxury daily; but then, I'd just take it for granted, wouldn't I? I count my blessings that I have this time sporadically, and soak in every moment.

Staying on the UES offers a rare glimpse into the morning routines of the city's wealthiest. This morning I power-walked past two private schools. I marveled at the small children being escorted to school: some by nannies, most by happy or harried-looking businessmen and women. The little girls were clad in knee socks and pleated, plaid skirts; the boys looked like little gentlemen in their ties and jackets. Most of the children looked vaguely sleepy, their enormous book bags teetering on their tiny backs.

As I buzzed by them, I placed a hand on my belly and thought only: man, I would love to raise a baby in this town.

Do most people aspire to live in a walk-up? To pay tens of thousands of dollars annually to send their kids to private school? To navigate the congestion, the yellow cabs, the subway system on a daily basis?

I do.

Occasionally, I'll quiz J. We talk about where we'd like to live, and then I'll ask hopefully: "So, you never want to live in the city?"

"Not never. I mean, if you make a ton of money, then sure."

Challenge accepted, my friend.

But still. I suspect that the city life is not for him. I believe he needs more space; more quiet. We know life is about to get more stressful; and I know my husband would prefer to slow things down, rather than crank up the intensity.

And so I sit in Starbucks on First, and consider that perhaps, I will have only ever lived in New York for six years. I will make my peace with that.

And I look forward to the next phase, whatever that may be.

HomeValley's Happy Marriage, and Other Things

I find myself frequently wishing for more hours in the day.

There is just so. Much. To. Do. And Ninja's birthday is looming. LOOMING! If the impact of this child's startling kicks are any indication, he/she is already five pounds. If this baby makes it to 40 weeks (oh my God, or BEYOND), it will be 6'8" at the time of delivery.

Mercy.

I started The Happiness Project this weekend. Have you heard of it? The author, Gretchen Rubin, spent a year trying to make herself happier, with a new focus each month. It's interesting, and often enlightening. On Sunday afternoon I spent some time reading paragraphs about marriage aloud to J.

"Oh, we should be hugging for at least 6 seconds, babe. That 'is the minimum time necessary to promote the flow of oxytocin and seratonin, mood-boosting chemicals that promote bonding.'"

"Who are you talking to?" my husband asks. J lurves hugging. We would hug all day, everyday, if it were up to him. At least now I have a goal: hug husband for at least six seconds for optimum success.

"Well, marriage expert John Gottman calls these behaviors the 'Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse:' stonewalling, defensiveness, criticism, and contempt. Hmm. What is stonewalling?"

"Don't know - shutting people out?"

"Do we do that?"

Silence.

Ha!

"Well, we are never guilty of contempt," I mutter gratefully.

"Oh no!" I continue. "Apparently marital satisfaction drops substantially after the first child arrives. Ninja!" I look down at my bulbous belly. "Why are you going to ruin EVERYTHING?"

The truth is, I am utterly fascinated by the idea of self-improvement. And so I embark AGAIN on making sure I take each and every resolution seriously this year. J gives me credit; he says I am improving in most facets of domestic life.

But I am an overachiever. So come on, y'all. You know I am going to write more lists. I live for lists. I pull out my yellow legal pad.

1. List all of my "nagging" tasks (those shitty, thankless jobs that I avoid like the plague). Now DO them. (Yes, my first point on my list is to make another list. I'm awesome.)
2. Begin reading that blogging book I bought months ago.
3. 14 nights sans TV at bedtime. In hotels as well! This is an experiment. (Two nights down!)
4. One-minute rule (courtesy of author Rubin): if it will take under a minute, put it away.
5. Ten minutes of tidying each night (courtesy of Rubin) before bed. (I mean, if I learned nothing else from Danny Tanner? A clean home is a happy home.)
6. Unless I am in the middle of a project and have BANNED all interruptions, I cannot screen two consecutive calls.
7. 14 days of 1 hour of television per day (Two days down!)
8. Recommit to exercise through remainder of pregnancy (have you seen your cellulite OHMYGOD). At least 20 minutes of walking per day, 6 days per week. (One day down!)
9. 14 days of journaling, every day. (Two days down!)

I must say, I have felt awfully tired these last few days, but perhaps that is just the third trimester. I am also a little blue about being in Pittsburgh through Thursday, when I really want my own bed, my own cozy home and husband.

But I try to remember that I will not always travel, and when I don't? I'll ache for it.

So what say you, audience? I am the only one compulsively making lists and compiling pages and pages of tasks to get done all inf the name of self-actualization? Or am I - gasp - "nesting?"

Inarticulate.

Everything I attempt to write today is complete and utter crap. I tried to rant about my rampant dislike for Gayle King, but then I got all stabby and decided to table that one for another day.

So how about some photos, kids?

"God, you are obsessed with your belly!" "Shut up, J. Just one more." 25 weeks, y'all!

Catching the Superbowl at Jimmy's Dive Bar. Hat courtesy of Jimmy.

This dress has saved my life. Thanks, P!

Feeling very good that this shot is far, far away.

This picture is mocking us all right now.

Enjoying beer and sparkling cider on the beach at sunset. These are the days.

Pensive J. No doubt concerned with massive snowfall back in PA.

Egads!

Back from the beach. I only cried a little, I swear.






I have been looking at "thin" pictures this morning, something you should never do when you are nearly seven months pregnant and the size of a planet. I mean, who was the slim girl above?

DUDES. We are obviously, REALLY stretching the bounds of perfectly nice fabric.

Moving on. (Oh, but not before I vow to be that thin chick again! Victory will be mine!)

Turks and Caicos was sublime. It truly was one long, luxurious rest. We laid around all day. We swam a bit. (Until I got taken out by a benign-looking wave, crashed on to my back, tankini flipped inside out. Yep, we thought we'd killed Ninja. After that, we mostly laid.)

More pics to follow. For now, it's back to the grind. Oh, I am totally giving up all processed sugar for Lent. I know, I technically am not a practicing Catholic. But something needs to be done, y'all. Let's try it in the name of JC.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

We made it!

It took a LO-O-OT of crafty planning, but we ended up flying to Boston at 2:15 on Friday, spending the night at the Boston airport Hilton, and then flying direct from Boston to Providenciales.

The Royal West Indies is a low-key, lovely resort, which is actually made up of privately-owned condos. We can purchase ours for the bargain price of $375K; naturally, I am working on J now.

The Ninj is enjoying vacation thus far, despite some spectacularly frightening turbulence on the trip here in which mama had 30 heart attacks. It's astounding to me how active this child is. I wonder where he/she finds time to sleep in the midst of all of the punches and wiggles and somersaults and Zohan-esque drop-kicks.

Speaking of Ninj... I had a routine prenatal on Friday before we dashed to the airport. And, um, there are things happening. Like, gigantic baby alerts. And "growth" scans. And thyroid checks. And oh, your baby may just fulfill its Viking legacy and be 10 pounds and we just want to be prepared for a possible C-section. Boo. But we shan't think about that this week, Internet. We shall revisit that when we return to real life.

For now, I shall try to post a few times this week, but I have a very full schedule of laying around. And eating. And reading. And more laying.

And mercy, I am sorry for you readers in the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast. But, you know, not that sorry, as you can imagine.

All my love,

HV and her amazingly ginormous super-fetus, Ninja.

Panic. Mode.

I really was very cool and calm about the treacherous weekend weather forecast until about 10 minutes ago.

KYW ran a news piece about how "frightening" and "terrible" this kind of storm is, and how it will wreak havoc on any weekend travel plans.

Screw you, soul-sucking AM news station.

J and I have been planning a February trip for months. MONTHS. We started planning before we were prego, but back then Turks and Caicos was actually Shanghai. We've got some awesome friends kicking it in China; and we figured we would start trying to conceive, but that probably wouldn't happen quickly, right? And even if it did, I would still be fine to travel to the Far East, right?

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

So our China trip went the way of my half-marathon, sometime in early December. Although my doctor was cool with it, I just didn't think the fifteen-hour flight and jet lag sans alcohol would do my body any good. And I want to experience Shanghai. We swear we'll book the trip when Ninj is 9 months or so. Just...keep quiet and let me revel in the naivete that is first-time parenthood, k?

So we hemmed and hawed about where we could go. In lieu of China, I insisted we go to Amsterdam. Because, you know, that's probably a place you want to visit when you are six months pregnant, JesusChristHomeValley. I suggested Madrid? Barcelona? Ultimately we decided that the weather would be too cold in Western Europe. I still ache when I think we might not make it back to that continent for a few years. (I know, I have such problems.)

We settled on Turks and Caicos, maybe because it is British. It seemed quaint and quiet and peaceful.

And now it's all gone straight to HELL.

We're depressed. We're frantically trying to come up with creative solutions. J's coworker just received word that her Sunday flight TO Philadelphia FROM Jamaica is canceled. All Southwest flights on Saturday from Philly are canceled.

HATE. SNOW.

The best solution I can see? Take the train to Boston tomorrow night; hop on the direct Boston to Turks and Caicos flight. This would cost us an additional $300, and because we are coordinating a preemptive strike, travel insurance wouldn't cover it.

I thought the worst case scenario would be our flight gets canceled Saturday AM; we take the Sunday flight. But we've called US Air and there are only a few seats left on the Sunday flights to T&C. I can imagine that the displaced masses will be clamoring for those seats.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Do we reschedule the whole thing? Try again in March?

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hold me, Internet. Mama just wants to relax on a beach. This is why we must away to a climate where snow does not EXIST.

"A New Renaissance"

I was sick most of the weekend, but sort of amazed that by NOT taking any cold medication, I healed quite quickly. I was feeling better by Sunday afternoon, and though J told me I should "call out" (I can't "call out." It involves canceling flights, hotel rooms, and rental cars; rescheduling appointments and meetings, etc.), I demured. "I'm fine," I told him. "I'll be fine."

I left the house around 5:50 AM yesterday morning, and then headed to the airport in gusty winds and horizontal torrents of rain. The weather only got worse, and my adrenaline only pumped harder. Half of the flights in the terminal were canceled, EXCEPT for mine. I overheard pilots marveling about the high winds (50 mph gusts!) and gate agents chattering incredulously: "I can't believe they're flying in this!" One bag attendant boomed something about "Hurricane Katrina out there!" Outside, the winds continued to whip around the tiny regional jets on the tarmac;pools of water had formed and small waves crested around baggage carts with every blustery blow.

Never, in all of my years of travel - my nearly 300 or so odd flights in the last five years - have I SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS.

Yep, and then we were boarding.

I slowly and somberly walked towards the mini-plane with winds gusting INSIDE THE MOTHERFUCKING JETWAY.

And I promptly and calmly turned around, and walked back to the gate agent.

"I'm not feeling well. Yeah, I'm not taking this flight."

Never in my life have I done anything like it, but fuck you, US Air. No one had any business flying in that monsoon. And no, I wasn't going into preterm labor to get to Columbus. I still had a cold. I was going the fuck home. The end.

(J: Can you calm down already?)

(HV: Nah.)

And... that was Monday.

But what I really need to talk to you about? What is really important here?

Kwame. Fosu.

So picture if you will a sunny and brisk New York afternoon. Your blogmistress (in all of her glorious pregnant glory, toting two large roller bags and a GIANT Michael Kors bag that is so pretty and yet so heavy) attempts to hail a cab in downtown Manhattan. She is unceremoniously turned down by one driver. (Like, the hell, dude? I am going to Penn Station, not Pelham.)

A second cab stops and quickly agrees to take me to my destination.

The small African driver greets me warmly, and then says, "I have a question for you - oh, you are eating. I'll wait."

(In truth I had just popped a cough drop. But I had been in meetings all day, and I was tired of chatting. I settled in to the backseat and took in the FDR.)

A few minutes later the driver begins again: "So let me ask you this: will there ever be peace on earth?"

I ponder this seriously for a moment.

"No," I decide.

"Good! And why not?"

"Religion. Money. Power."

"Yes!"

Ladies and gents, I give you the gift of Kwame Fosu. I lurve him.

Kwame is West African. He tells me this, and then asks me to guess which country. And then I learn that I suck at West African geography. I pound my head for a moment until he finally says: "It begins with a GH."

"Ghana!" Nice one, genius.

Kwame is no ordinary driver. He's also a teacher, and a philosopher. He was once in a documentary on PBS (which - dudes. I just rocked the wiki on him this evening, and I was pleased as PUNCH that he checked out. Legit!)

As we weave through the 20s and make our way across town, Kwame explains that we're doing ourselves a disservice in this world. We're thinking only on the physical, material plane. Technology and possessions are corrupting our minds. We need to elevate our consciousness, and start thinking on the mental and spiritual levels. He gushes about a "new renaissance!" and exclaims emphatically that we are in dire need of a humanistic education.

Kwame believes we are all connected. We have to exist in all planes (physical, mental, and spiritual), because, "if you go too far to the spiritual, then you can't pay your bills."

Word, Kwame. Word.

Then he asks, "What is your purpose in life?"

I think about this for a few seconds, but I got nothing.

"Honestly, Kwame? I don't know that yet. I'm still searching."

(Guys, we are totally in the cab, driving towards Penn Station. God, I effing LOVE New York.)

But Kwame is sure of his own purpose.

"Self-knowledge. Self-education. Service to others. You must fill yourself up with knowledge - anything you can find - then you must serve others. You must spread your joy around!"

"I love that," I say honestly.

"We all have a right to exist," he continues. "Knowledge. Whose natural resources are these? They are not yours; they are not mine. They belong to ALL of us."

And then this gem: "You can win the rat race; but you are still a rat!"

Kwame encourages me to become a child of the universe. Self-educate. Meditate. Religion ends up closing our minds ("my religion is better than yours"), but if we can open our minds, and fill ourselves up with knowledge, we can use our platform in life and enlighten others. Then, that enlightenment reaches critical mass, and what do you get then?

A new renaissance! A humanistic education.

I reluctantly get out of the cab at 31st and 8th, but not before Kwame hands me his contact information. I tip him 30% and thank him most sincerely for the education.

I'm not religious, but I am a child of the universe (by way of Delaware County). Always have been. And I place the utmost importance on education. Now I tell you, you could do a lot worse than Kwame Fosu as your spiritual sensei.

And to think? I could have hopped in that first cab.

It makes me believe that there is something greater out there, guiding my path.

A Room With A View

Had an amazing flight to New York tonight, by way of Manchester, NH. Of course I was immediately disheartened to board a tiny prop plane, but the ride was smooth and we ended up flying clear across Manhattan (thanks, LGA, for the perpetual traffic). We soared directly above Central Park, where I recognized the Met, and Columbus Circle! And then I was all giddy, because did I ever mention I love New York?

I walked out into the terminal at LaGuardia, actually humming "Memories." I was struck that I had not frequented the airport since the end of 2006, but everything felt so familiar. In the ladies' room, I marveled that there may someday be another airport I call home. That the transit hubs I am intimately familiar with now (Manchester, Providence, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Syracuse) will someday become foreign. Change is inevitable, I suppose.

I arrive at my downtown hotel and begin the check-in process.

"Oh! I forgot to give you my rewards card." I pull it from my wallet and hand it to the desk attendant.

"That makes a huge difference," he smiles. "Let's see if I can't get you a better room."

"On the concierge lounge?" I ask. (I am a spoiled bleeding-heart liberal.)

"I can't get you on that floor, but I've got you just one floor below."

"Perfect."

And up and up to the 37th floor. As I enter the perfectly neat space, I beam as I glimpse the Empire State Building uptown.

Then, I look down.

Still, a gaping hole in the Earth, over eight years later.

Still, it gets me.

And so I shut the blinds, in an attempt to pretend. And now Ninja and I sit, sipping herbal tea and eating chocolate chip cookies from the concierge lounge.

And I remember.

J, KC, The Nard Dog, and Me.

There are three sure-fire ways to get me out of a funk:

1. J, Husband Extraordinaire.

2.

3.

When I explained to J last night that I was feeling blue, he immediately sprang into action.

"What can we do to make you feel better?"

I thought about it for a moment, and then told him that we needed to clean the bedroom.

(Oh, super fun!)

But lo, the bedroom needed to be cleaned. And I needed to get organized. Cuz in the midst of my blues? Leaving the country next week (!). We're going to Buenos Aires and Montevideo (!!). Poor little depressed girl, must dutifully travel to South America. Don't you feel sorry for me?

This trip really sneaked up on us, though. So J, bless his heart, helped me sort the laundry and then, that man went and put it in the machine. I unpacked our bags from the NY trip. I straightened the bureau, and J dusted. Then we sat on the bed and made the Argentina list. As well as a list of cards and gifts that are PAST DUE. (Sorry, Koos. I really do love your baby. I'm just an asshat.)

Once we were organized, I felt I could breathe again. I ate some cherries on the couch and passed out during House Hunters International.

I slept more soundly last night than I have in weeks. It was glorious.

This morning I woke at 6, prepared a no-carb breakfast of eggs and turkey bacon, made some coffee, and then sent an email to Koos: how GOOD is coffee? Also, I watched Chelsea Handler. What of it? She is an irreverent beacon of delicious sarcasm and snark. LOVE.

At 7 I retreated to the office, and I filed and organized my desk while listening to Kelly Clarkson. Internet? Listen to Kelly Clarkson. KC = sublime happiness and productivity. You can imagine I was already feeling good and energetic, when my amazing husband sent me this email:

Subject: Start the day off right!

“They say you should never mix business with pleasure. Really? Well then explain to me how a putt-putt golf company operates.”

- Andy Bernard

And that is why, friends, I don't need anti-anxiety meds. I have J, KC, and the Nard Dog.

And happy hour! With dear friends Grace and JM (JM - don't you already have a pesudonym on this blog? Please advise.) Did I ever tell y'all about the first day of high school? Koos and I arrived and I believe we only had one or two classes together. (Koos? Please advise.) So I spent the first day observing the other chicas to determine whom I would deign to be friends with. (Er, or whom I thought might like my skinny, be-braced, nerd self.) And Grace and JM were the big winners!

I'm pleased as punch that 15 years later, we still can get together to drink cheap beer carb-conscious club soda and recall the old times.

It is going to be a good day.