A Nursery Fit For A Ninja!

Presenting... The Ninja Nursery. Enjoy. There are lots of little nerdy tidbits I need to tell you about.


So this is a wall. We painted it bright orange. It was inspired by our trip to Argentina. We stayed at the BoBo Hotel in Buenos Aires and we loved the Pop room. We thought our baby could use a little Warhol-esque splash of color, no?



And this is an amazing piece of stained glass, which J recovered from a construction site at work. His dad then worked a little magic with the frame, and voila! Gorgeous bright pastels that work for boy and girl babies. Win! (We've actually had this piece for quite some time. Like many things we've collected, it just seamlessly works here, ya know?)




I love a finely crafted wooden toy juxtaposed with a mummified pharoah figurine from a Cairo market; and thus, our child will too.

And here are just a few special books from the Ninja library: I've tried desperately to find a good children's book in every country we've visited... Alas, often kids' books are hard to come by. I managed to collect England, Argentina, Thailand, and Egypt. Not too shabby for a start.

The built-in shelf, which is a lovely feature of our 110 year-old home. Perfect for fun baby tchochkes.

And here is another wall, complete with three buddha cards matted and framed. We picked these up as extras in Thailand, and again, we thought they'd be perfect for the zen baby who is really into Eastern philosophy.

One of my absolute favorite pieces in the nursery is this quilt/playmat, made custom for Ninj by Poppy and Bean. The artist uses remnants of furniture upholstery to whip up these stunning creations, at a very reasonable price. It's totally our taste, and we love it. And I realize that The Ninja will likely just drool and spit-up all over it during tummy time, but it's machine-washable! Again: win.

OMG THIS CHAIR. HEAVENLY.

And the friendly lion, which we recreated on canvas, based on a gift bag we received from one of my favorite co-workers. I saw the bag and knew we had to paint this; J came up with the idea for the lavish frame. I was skeptical for about a minute; but folks? I adore this piece. I mean, that lion is goddamn adorable.

And the crib, which is overseen by a vinyl monkey, who is awesome and smiley and fun-loving. Also, check out that organic cotton sheet! Yeah, our bumper doesn't work in the crib. So I paid a whole helluva lot of cash for two organic cotton sheets and a crib skirt. Such is life.

And now, we just need a Ninja to put in this room. So, we wait.

What do you think?

37 Weeks - Wherefore art thou, HomeValley?

It seems my husband has a point, you guys: I really can't sit still. I can't stop planning things. I was like this before baby; I am like this pregnant with baby. J has already warned me that I am not to plan like a madwoman whilst on my maternity leave. To which I say to myself: good luck.

This past week hasn't left me with a spare moment to update! Last Monday, we had my mother over for dinner. I roasted a chicken as she checked out the nursery, then J and I tried desperately to teach her how to use her new iPod touch. Have you tried downloading music with your parents yet? I highly recommend. My mom loves Prince and The Moody Blues, apparently.

Tuesday night we had a pediatrician lecture as part of our prenatal class schedule. Would you assume that I am the lass who asked the question about vaccination links to autism, sending the seasoned doctor on a ten minute diatribe? If so, then you know me too well. Let's grab a cup of coffee together soon. I'll get my planner.

Wednesday evening I journeyed to the Lehigh Valley to see my extraordinarily talented cousin Anthony in this musical. He's fabulous, by the way.

Thursday I had Koos and her delightful boys over for lunch. This just in: kids are a lot of work. Especially at lunch time. I should make a note of that in my day planner or something. But they are truly adorable children, and I finally had some toys (eh - books) for them to play with, and we read a lot about the fish of the ocean. I could get used to reading books all day about aquatic life.

After lunch, whilst juggling work, I headed to the hair salon to prepare for my baby-birthing close-ups. I met my mother-in-law there (I love that we share a stylist); and she gifted me with an animal trap.

Thursday night? The HomeValleys went huntin'.

Oh yeah - the vermin? Definitely a raccoon. (Spoiler alert: we still haven't caught it yet. Tis a brazen, illusive little fucker.)

Friday we exercised at the track (read: I walked really slowly and chugged gatorade). My memory is foggy, but I think we actually stayed in! Our actual home! And possibly we tried to watch Fringe but passed out around 9 PM. Is it any wonder?

Saturday we did brunch and a cloth diaper run. Holy Lord, I love these diaps. Now no naysayer can bring down my cloth diaper high! We also went to Lowe's and bought flowers, and I gardened! Which was super-fun, until I got sleepy and needed to rest and drink iced tea as J did what it is you do with mulch.

Sunday morning I woke early, dressed in my workout gear, and headed to the Art Museum - by way of Grace's - for the MS Walk. Mr. Patterson's Misfits were a force to be reckoned with: when all was said and done, we raised over 12,000 bucks! Yours truly was responsible for quite a small portion of that, but there's always next year. It was a fabulous day in support of a fabulous woman.

And yesterday? Mama worked about 14 hours, though don't feel too bad for me. I spent my night in a luxury suite at the Phils game, rubbing elbows with Jim Eisenreich and gorging on Chickie's and Pete's crab fries.

Oh! And last night? While at the game, trying to select a tee-shirt size for a co-worker? I described her as thin but "busty."

"Well, what size are you normally?" the sales clerk asked me. "You're pretty chesty as well."

Seriously, you guys? There has never been a time in my life where ANYONE could deign to call me CHESTY.

Thanks, Ninj.

Are you guys as tired reading this as I am jotting it all down for posterity?

I know, I know. Tomorrow we'll get back to our regularly scheduled pregnancy tales of neuroses. Like, how I am obsessed with the firmness of my crib mattress? How I yelled at J on Sunday night (before breaking down into heaving sobs) that I am NINE MONTHS pregnant! And for the next 3 weeks, anything I say GOES, buddy! You just listen to me! That is your job!

And: the nursery. Which, J and I can't seem to pass without sneaking into and sitting down in the heavenly glider. I don't think either of us can quite believe that there will be a baby here in a few short weeks. So we sit and we rock and we stare. And sometimes we read books to Ninj, and J talks in this extremely high-pitched voice because one day I told him I read that babies respond better to high voices.

Oh, Ninj. You are going to just love your extremely geeky parents.

Sexy, Pretty, or Cute?

My husband, J - you all have heard me mention him once or twice - is forever checking out the ladies.

Blatantly.

It doesn't bother me until he is slamming on the brakes on the 76 on-ramp, craning his neck to see a female driver coming from the opposite direction.

"What the hell, man?" I ask, as Ninja's tiny body ricochets through my rib cage.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I was checking out that chick."

Eh. At least he's honest.

It never bugs me. J's never given me any reason to be jealous, and as long as he keeps checking me out as well - and oh, nine months prego me is unspeakably sexy, what with the flatulence and the incessant grunting each time I attempt to turn over in bed - we're cool. I won't begrudge him a little eye candy, and besides, this is a two-way street. I am a notorious flirt.

Gah - what was I saying?

Oh yes. So last night! How I Met Your Mother was a rerun, and you couldn't pay me to watch David Spade smarm about on that abysmal Rules of Engagement show.

So I did as you do: I flipped to Dancing with the Stars.

"I want to see that hot guy that dances with Erin Andrews," I explain, as soon as J starts whining for me to change the channel already.

"Erin Andrews - she's HOT." (Emphasis: J.)

"Really?" I ask. "I mean she doesn't really have the body type you generally like." Read: huge ass.

"She's just BEAUTIFUL," my husband tells me. "She's not sexy or cute."

Damnit. She is beautiful. Shut up, J.

So here we have it, kids. My beloved believes that all "hot" women can fall into any one of three categories:



Sexy.

Pretty/BEAUTIFUL like Erin Andrews.

Cute.



For the last five years, I have fallen into all three of these categories, which, my H explains, is why I am such a catch. Aw.


So imagine my CONSTERNATION (emphasis: HomeValley) when last night, watching Niecy Nash jiggle her jubblies, my husband said to me:


"Yeah... You're not cute anymore."


"J! You're a bastard. How can you say such things to your wife who is 36 weeks pregnant? Take it back!"


The man just laughs. And goes on to explain that in my extremely pregnant state, I am somewhat: harsh.


Perhaps irritable? Stabby? Murderous?


"Whatever, J," I sulk. "Take it back!"


"Maybe... It depends on how cute you are when you write about this incident tomorrow on your blog."


"Haaaaaaaaaaaa. I am going to annihilate you, J."


Shocking, no?


How does one respond to such vicious attacks on one's inherent - if currently concealed - adorableness? I am thinking some creative sentencing: like forcing him to watch Jon and Kate Plus Eight marathons, or any show on TLC for that matter?


Any day now (please?) my tiny tenant will be evicted, and order will be restored to the universe.

Scratchy, Plodding, Whimpering Vermin. Happy Monday!

There is some creature living in my fucking wall.

Conveniently, the creature lives in the wall of my office.

So that's not annoying at all.

I have taken to throwing things at this creature when it starts its plodding. And also yelling, "SHUT UP!" when it moves, which often coincides to the times I am taking business calls. Classy.

It plods and scratches and sometimes - I swear to Lionel - it whimpers.

What the FUCK are you, creature?

If I were not 36 weeks pregnant, I would be on the roof with a machete prepared to annihilate you.

Obvs, I am all sunshine and light over here.

35 Weeks, Yes, But Almost 36 Weeks... Almost.

So, we've officially reached the state of pregnancy that goes something like this:


I'm done. Thanks for the memories, kid. Now, let's get this show on the road.


Unfortunately? I still have 4 more weeks.


Which makes me very, very tired.


I am achy. And tired. And sleep - though it comes easy - is restless. It's difficult to switch positions. There is much grunting involved. There is strategic pillow placement. And Lord, there are multiple trips to the bathroom.


And then there is Ninja, who is awake. All the time. Mah precious kept me up from 3 AM to 4 AM doing some crazy aerobic exercises. Yes, it is still totally heart-warming when his/her feet and tiny bum are stretching out of my abdomen. But seriously, baby? Aren't you sleepy yet?


(Which reminds me, I read somewhere that third trimester babies may already be crying within the womb. Doesn't that just break your heart?)

I finally uploaded the photos from the shower, but they are all the way downstairs on J's computer. And I am all the way up here on the third floor. And I walk these steps many, many times per day. And I am so tired.

Will cease whining and upload photos soon.

Tales of Woe and Car Seat Installations

"You are really emotional. You need to get a hold of yourself."

Aw. I am really going to miss my husband.

That said, he's totally right.

Am in a very weepy place right now. We had our baby shower on Sunday (photos and recap to follow!) and we received so many wonderful gifts for Ninj. As soon as we got home, I reviewed everything and made a list for thank you cards. At one point, I pulled out a book that Koos had given the baby.

It's called Whoever You Are, and okay, seriously? Here are the first few pages:

Little one, whoever you are,
Wherever you are,
There are little ones just like you all over the world.
Their skin may be different than yours, and their homes may be different than yours...
But inside, their hearts are just like yours.

Annnnddd... blubbering! "This is exactly what I want to teach our babies!" I sobbed to J, as I tossed him the book. "But I can't read the rest right now. I can't get through it."

In my continued heightened emotional state, I fretted about the shower. "I shouldn't have asked everyone to buy organic, natural items," I told my husband. "I feel like a brat." (Although, it was somewhat worth it to have my mother announce to the ladies present: "As most of you know, Melissa is 'green.'")

Yesterday, we had an interview with a pediatrician. I'm not sure how that went. Most of her answers were vague. (Taking a cue from Modern Family, I asked what her thoughts were on "Ferberizing" babies. I am not sure I can tell you what she said.) We didn't fall in love with her, but then, she could be a brilliant doctor. How do you know? I asked her how many vaccinations a child would receive over the years, and she couldn't tell us. But she did have a website we could visit. So... there's that. There are four other doctors in this practice. Do I now make appointments with the rest of them, or just hope that one of them is more our style?

Yes, I am probably overthinking this.

On the way home from the doc's, J and I decided to stop by the fire station to have the guys there take a look at our car seat.

How many firemen does it take to install an infant Graco Snugride? Three, apparently. And it takes awhile. These three gentlemen were very kind to help us, but at one point, seat installed completely improperly, they told us that we should probably by a new one. (Our car seat is a few years old. We got it from my aunt and uncle, who's baby is two now.)

I think my engineer husband actually figured it out... Which, he could have totally done anyway. But at least it is now fire safety approved.

So there's that.

When we finally arrived home, I bugged J to go online and figure out if this particular seat had ever been recalled.

"Do you want to just buy a new one?" he asked me, ever so slightly exasperated.

"What, J? I am not supposed to be concerned that our infant car seat works properly? You just want me to forget about it?"

"You're right," he said.

"You know, I just need to be alone right now," I huffed. I retreated upstairs with my O magazine.

So, yeah. Just a tad touchy over here. I am confident we'll weather this influx of hormones. Good luck, J.

In other news: pregnant Brazilian waxes? TRAUMA.

34 Weeks - But I only really want to discuss Glee.

I mean, honestly: we don't need to sugarcoat it. Yes, this chick's adorable. But she also looks like she could have delivered last week. That baby is LARGE, yo.

But I only really want to discuss Glee this week.

Darling baby sisters bought the DVDs on our NYC trip in February, and we watched one episode together before I took off for yoga class - begrudgingly. Because sweet Lord, I love this show.

I happened to catch the cast on Oprah a few weeks ago. And I cried. Tears of unimaginable JOY.

Where did this show come from??

There are people spontaneously bursting into song!

And they are supremely talented!

So, having only seen one show and then Oprah, I watched the first episode of the new season the other night whilst I was holed up in my Gaithersburg, MD hotel room.

And as if the show wasn't spectacular enough, they go and bring in IDINA MENZEL.

This is the stuff that musical theatre nerd dreams are made of, y'all.

Also, as if my heart wasn't bursting with joy already, I have found one friend who is committed to using cloth diapers! His wife is due just days before me. And here is a direct quote:

"I am so committed to using cloth diapers... I've stopped wearing underpants."

I smell a new tagline.

Enjoy your weekend, kids. Stay classy out there.

The Complete Idiot's Guide To Birthin' Babies

J and I attended all day birthin' class on Saturday, which was a rare treat. Our instructor was a bubbly lactation nurse named Jen, and she did a fantastic job with the material.

We learned a whole hell of a lot, and some things I have chosen to disregard completely. (I'm lookin' at you, Group B Strep test. LORD.) And one HI-larious thing I learned was that J and I? We've got identical classroom dispositions.

We're uber-nerds.

Yes, friends, not surprisingly, we are the geeky kids in class. (Although we did not have the opportunity to learn, if J - like me - chooses to sit at the head of the class. I think not, but only because his vision is so good.)

Neither of us is shy (nay, we are extreme extroverts), so we asked questions. Many questions. And shared. A lot. But come on, guys! You all paid good money for this class! Let's get all of our burning questions about pooping during delivery out in the open here! (For the record, I did not ask that question. Someone else brought it up.)

At one point, my loving husband raised his hand and said, "My wife thinks she is blogging during labor. Is there WiFi?"

Real funny, J. The class chuckled, and I shrugged sheepishly. "Not during delivery," I mumbled.

(For the record, there is wireless. Score!)

So now we know how to swaddle, how to comfort, and how to diaper the Ninja, plus, you know, the ideal birth process. They even had doulas come in and talk to the class about relaxation techniques, which warmed my little urban hippie heart.

6 more weeks.

Wit's End

On my birthday (back in February), J's parents and Pop-Pop came over for dinner. We ordered burritos (have I mentioned that every time they come over on a weeknight, we're ordering take-out? Dead-beat daughter-in-law, I know.)

That night we talked pretty openly about parenting. I love these conversations with J's mom and dad. I adore how thoughtful they are about parenting and parent-child relationships. Sure, everyone makes mistakes; but they have certain convictions that I agree with today. It certainly helps that they are delightfully liberal, loving people; when we have conversations like this, I get the distinct feeling that though they had their babies 30+ years ago, the chasm that separate the generations is not so vast.

I wish I could say the same for my side of the family. Sometimes? When I talk to my mom? I feel like we were raised on different planets, and that no matter how delicately I phrase things, we'll never cross that divide.

I have always been fiercely independent. I suppose that's putting it mildly. The bottom line is: I trust myself. I trust that I know what is right for me, and what is wrong for me. With my advancing years, I've also learned to forgive myself. Sometimes I make bad decisions. I choose to learn from those mistakes. I never blame anyone else for them (well, sometimes these days I'll blame J when I forget something that he never reminded me to do, but that's totally justified. PREGNANCY BRAIN, y'all. Do not fuck with it.)

J and I make a lot of choices that, I think, confound people. Like, we get on our sustainability high horse, and we talk about our decision to eat organically. To buy organic items for our Ninja. To use low VOC paints in the Ninja nursery. To use - wait for it - cloth diapers.

There is not one, single solitary person that I have spoken with that understands our decision to use cloth diapers. Most people wrinkle their noses and tell us we are nuts. That we'll change our minds.

And other than my mild exasperation at this thinking, I suppose what confounds people the most about us? Is that most of the time, we just don't care what other people think. We make decisions that work best for our family. And we make them together. We talk through them. And when our decisions feel good, we feel good; and then we hold hands while we walk down the street and giggle at our good fortune in this life. Seriously, we are pretty happy people. Why you tryin' to bring us down?

I just wonder... on the cusp of parenthood... if you had one wish for your children - what would that be?

I ask myself that question everyday, and I always come back to this. I want the Ninja to be sublimely happy in life.

If that means that the Ninja needs to move to Equador to build orphanages, and J and I only see him/her once a year? That's what it means, y'all. That doesn't mean that we don't secretly want the Ninja to live next door to us for the rest of our lives, but we want our baby to do what makes him/her happy (you know, as long as that is not selling meth from a trailer park, or serial killing).

So since I am no meth-dealing, serial killer living in a trailer park, and am sublimely happy most of the time, I wonder... why isn't the one who raised me happy for me? Why isn't she somewhere sighing with contentment that she raised a daughter who is confident and clear-headed (except for the pregnancy brain)?

I wonder.

Site Blocked! Sacre Bleu!

I just tried to access QITNM on a business center computer at the Columbus Marriott, and access was denied.

Apparently, some of the content on this site is deemed "harmful" to children.

Dude, Ninj. Your mom is edgy.

(Actually, the "content" in question was the word "fisting." Which, er, I haven't written about... lately.)

(Dudes, I kid. I am fairly certain I have never written the word "fisting." What the deuce is going on here? Sick bastards.)

(Annnddd... this is why my mom is not allowed to read this site.)

33 Weeks - And This Birth You Cannot Change.

J has accusingly called QITNM a "pregnancy blog." GAH! He's right, but hey, that's the happs. I blog my life. And my life revolves around this 4 - 5 pound squishy kid in my uterus right now. So deal with it, J.

That said, here is a non-baby related story I call: Overheard in Our Bedroom:

HV: Do you think that raccoon is back?

J: Nah, I think it's just squirrels at the neighbors. Nothing we can do.

HV: Well, if it is the raccoon, wouldn't it be weird if it somehow clawed through the screen, jumped on our bed and ate our faces? Wouldn't that be WEIRD?

(Days pass. HV notices that the windows are conspicuously shut.)

HV: Can we please open the windows? Am sweltering. (whined in dramatic pregnant fashion, thank you)

J gets up to open the window furthest from our heads. Also concocts elaborate "trap" with a picture frame to alert us of attempts by raccoon to attack.

HV: What are you doing, babe?

J: I'm not letting that raccoon in here.

Fin.

Now, back to my pregnancy!

I completed my birth plan today. I know many people roll their eyes at birth plans, but I like having an organized, bulleted-list of my preferred methods of birthin' babies jotted down for all to see.

Duh, we're flexible. We know that things happen, and that we can't control the situation. But these are our preferences. The main priority is keeping everyone alive and healthy. And if we accomplish that, I won't be disappointed that I had to be given some Pitocin or that I didn't get to nurse immediately following delivery. (But so help you God, nurse, if you come near the Ninja with that pacifier before he/she has latched. Beware the wrath of HV if mah precious is nipple-confused!)

Other than that, I can't wait to share photos of the completed nursery. It's everything we never knew we wanted, and we are absolutely delighted by it. It's a mish-mash of old and new: lots of the miscellaneous art we scored abroad that magically works in the room. And it makes us happy. Most of the time, we stand in the doorway looking in and we smile and sigh. It's a comfortable space, warm and inviting.

The Ninja is going to love it.

32 Weeks - Fatty.

I swear we will return to our regularly scheduled programming v. soon. I am in the home stretch of business travel (2 more weeks y'all!), and the H and I are clamoring to get all baby stuff done in the upcoming weeks.

(Oh, and I did compose about 3 posts last week, but they were all pretty lame. You deserve better, Internet.)

So whilst I get my life in order, feast your eyes on my evah-expanding belly, and squishy prego arms. GLORIOUS.

More later today, or tomorrow. Depending on how distracted I am by my Easter candy. (Cadbury Creme Eggs!)

More Pregnancy Indignities

"So I think we both need to prepare for the fact that I will likely be bald after this pregnancy."

"Huh?"

"Most women start shedding like crazy, and let's face it: I have no hair to spare. I'm effed."

"Babe, I will love you - "

"HA! You won't love me when I'm bald."

"No, but we'll figure out something for you."

Fin.

31 Weeks - Old Wifey Tales

Let me direct your attention to the latest QITNM widget: The Baby Pool! I stole this from my friend Sarah's page. Click on the widget on the top right of this page to make a guess! Only 59 days (roughly) until The Ninja will reveal its true identity. I'm thinking about a prize for the person who guesses most accurately. Coincidentally, I like the people who are predicting smaller babies and earlier dates better than the rest of you.

If you need help guessing, here are some Ninja stats of the old-wifey variety:

• I am carrying low, all in the front. (Old Wifey says: boy!) (Though as I look at the photo above, I am thinking I may be carrying more in the middle. Ninja! You confound me!)


• The heart rate started out quite high, but at recent visits Ninj's BPM hover around 120. (Old Wifey says: boy!)


• My ass is growing larger. (Old Wifey has nothing. I just wanted to vent.)


• J is getting thinner. (Old Wifey says: boy!)


• I don't see that my face has changed much (neither does J), though I was told the other day that it looked slightly different. (Old Wifey says: girl!)


• My skin is clearing up, but was a mess for a good three months. (Old Wifey says: girl!)


• I crave sweets, all the time. (This is really no different than pre-pregnancy, but Old Wifey says: girl!)


• The all-day queasiness was a killer in the first trimester. (Old Wifey says: girl!)


• The Mayans look at the mother's age at conception and year of conception. If both are even or odd, girl. If one is even and one is odd, boy. (The Mayans say: girl!)


• The Chinese gender predictor says: girl!


• I just took a gender predictor test online, and it was very helpful: 47% boy, 53% girl. Thanks, gender predictor.

That's 7 for girl, 3 for boy. Get at it!

Nosy Parker.

As I write, a man is outside of our home. He's lying on the ground, bare ass resplendent in the sun. He's being held down by our neighbor. The cops just arrived, and I can only imagine what J will think as he turns onto our street from the gym. Oh look! he'll think, a few squad cars in front of the house. That's nice.

And really? It's all my fault. Am a terrible, terrible neighbor.

I saw this joker just a few moments ago, apparently sleeping in the back of our neighbor's truck. More specifically, he was passed out, face down, resting on a bag of rolls. (Our neighbor - let's call him Mack - owns a breakfast cart.)

I took note of this. I thought it was Mack's son at first, who maybe decided to rest as he was helping Mack carry in the day's supplies.

Then I worried Mack's son might not be sleeping (crap - is he dead?), and so I creeped towards him for closer inspection.

When I heard snoring, I headed back into the house.

A few moments later, profanity shouted outside. "MOTHERFUCKER!" Mack bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK were you doing in my truck?!"

(Did I mention Mack recently suffered a heart attack? Jesus Christ: I'm an asshole.)

I ran to the window where I saw Mack's actual son wrestling the weary thief (squatter?) to the ground.

And then I poked my head out of the front door and said, "Do you need me to call someone?"

So helpful, I am.

I'm gonna go ahead and blame The Pregnancy Brain. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking. That the whole scene was normal? That it wasn't my responsibility to say anything? That I didn't want to embarrass myself? The thief? Mack's son?

This morning I ignored a sign for 95 South in Providence, and took a 20 minute detour through the city to get to 95 North.

Only to realize, I wanted to be on 95 South.

I keep forgetting credit cards at restaurants. I pay for business luncheons, sign my name, and leave my card there as a parting gift. I can't recall simple facts, last names especially. I sometimes have trouble finding the proper word to articulate my thoughts.

The Pregnancy Brain is real, y'all. Watch out for me.

And now, I apparently ignore snoozing crooks, or at least shrug them off as normal (in fairness to me, this is Philadelphia. This city is mighty strange, yo. Beware the flash mob.)

GAH.

So now, the doors must remained locked (they mostly are, but I may leave the front door ajar on a nice afternoon as I work upstairs).

And I? Well, I have got to start a neighborhood watch as fucking penance. I am going to have a child, for JC's sake. Lord help me.

White Like Me.

Mah friends.

Why - why?!? - am I only just seeing this?

I mean, I knew I was damn YUP-tastic. I love organics, caramel macchiatos, David Sedaris, yoga, and Obama.

Now check out the complete list of Things White People Like.

Eff me, I have just discovered I am one gigantic, living, breathing, indie music-listening, Whole Foods-shopping, brunch-lovin' CLICHE.

Which is ironic, because I loathe cliches.

But also nice, because I do like me some irony.

I maintain: I do NOT like Sarah Silverman.

Everything else?

Fuck.

David John

I bet you didn't realize that the Ninja already has quite the social network. S/he is just naturally gregarious - like his/her mum - and so s/he easily makes friends, even whilst swimming around a uterus, swinging on an umbilical cord like Indiana Jones.

That said, Ninj's best good friend, David John, decided that he would rather not wait until his June 4th due date to grace the world with his princely presence. Instead, he opted to arrive on Tuesday morning. He weighed in at a bruising two pounds, eleven ounces, and is doing quite well, but I think he still needs the collective prayers and positive energy of the Interwebs. I know his parents - our dear friends Melissa and Steve - would appreciate any and all good thoughts and kind words.

It will be a long road for David: he'll likely be in the hospital until June, but his docs are very impressed with him so far. Knowing his parents so well, I can tell you this kid has heart. We can't wait to meet him soon!

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!

29 Weeks - As Free As a Birth Now.

29 weeks (that's 27 weeks gestational age), and Ninja is already keeping me up at night.

Do you just want to play, baby? Is that it? I don't know when you find time to sleep, friend. But I can tell you are a ton of fun already.

The other night, I seriously got out of bed around midnight to FEED the baby. All of the kicking was making me nervous - had I failed the Ninja? When was the last time I ate something nutritious? So I hoisted myself onto my feet and waddled down to the kitchen for a glass of water and an apple. Ninj: you are welcome. Mama loves you.

I had another prenatal this past Friday, and things are looking up. Ninj's estimated chubtastic glory is three pounds, five ounces. The doc I spoke to at Maternal Fetal Medicine was very enthusiastic. Baby is great! You are no more likely to have a nine pound baby than you are a six pound baby at this point! You are thin; maybe that's why you are measuring big! Hey, you have the perfect amount of amniotic fluid! You are perfect perfection!

The midwife I saw later that morning at my regular OB office?

Not so kind.

Mama Kath accompanied me that morning, and as she settled into a chair in the exam room I hopped on the scale with my usual trepidation.

AND LO: I gained a modest two pounds. SOUND THE TRUMPETS!

Enter Midwife Killjoy.

"I gained two pounds!" I exclaim triumphantly.

"Yes. Are you exercising?"

"Yup. I do prenatal yoga and I try to walk at least 20 minutes per day, 6 days per week."

"No - 45 minutes to an hour, three to five times per week."

"Er, ok. I can do that."

"Yes, because you only have a few more pounds to gain."

"Really? I know you like to keep it between 25 - 35, but I know many women who have gained upward of 50 pounds..."

"No! That is not healthy for you, or your baby. Keep exercising."

"Oh, and I see you had your 24-hour heart monitor," she continues. (I didn't get into this here, but my SVT seems to be rearing it's ugly, uncomfortable, benign head again.)

"Yes, and I didn't notice any abnormal activity when I had it on either." I say confidently.

"Hmm. Well, there were some abnormal PACs. Have you been speaking with your cardiologist?"

"Well, no. They really can't help me; they only tell me it is benign and they could do an ablasion if I wanted to - "

"Call your cardiologist. Just to check in." (Of course this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but every time I speak to a cardiologist they tell me the same damn thing.)

KillJoy measures my belly (29 WEEKS!) and checks for swelling.

"Are you drinking any caffeine?"

"No - I drink decaf coffee and tea - "

"No. No decaf coffee. No decaf tea. No herbal teas."

*HomeValley's head explodes.*

"BUT why?"

"They're diuretics," she assures me. "If you get dehydrated, your heart could act up."

Oh, and then Mom helpfully chimes in, "Tell her what you gave up, Melis! She gave up sugar. She noticed her heart would act up when she ate a LOT of sugar."

(Know your audience, Kath.)

"Oh, well, you shouldn't be eating sugar anyway."

"But.. but Easter? I was going to feast on Easter." WHO WILL EAT THE CADBURY CREME EGGS FOR THE LOVE OF LIONEL?!?!

"No."

She leaves, and I look at my mom. Perhaps my lip is trembling.

"You just do what you can, Melis."

What I can do is cut out MOST of the decaf, but not all. JC, I am only human. I have had 2 decaf coffees since I got the news, which is a marked improvement.

But seriously? You would have to be a saint to avoid the Cadbury, right?

Now, should we talk about the momentous birth of Baby Girl Halpert on The Office?

Perhaps it is the pregnant in me talking, but was anyone else HORRIFIED when Pam breastfed the WRONG child?

I was simply aghast. Seriously, I am not letting my kid out of my sight when we are in that hospital. I mean, what if Pam had hepatitis? Geez.

I also caught a show on Discovery last night about "freebirthing." Apparently, there is a new movement in which not only do women give birth at home, they do it with zero medical intervention. Some even forego any prenatal care. (One seriously misguided 22 year-old kid went to the local pharmacy to check her blood pressure. She also thought she may have placenta previa - holy jesus you don't want to be dealing with that at home - but insisted that she and her husband were the most qualified to oversee the birth process, as they had the most "vested interest.")

The whole program made me slightly queasy, though I continued watching because I had to see the births.

One woman - a pretty lass from Wales - gave birth in a tub as her husband taped (the Discovery camera crews refused to be there to avoid liability). Her labor looked completely painless. She was absolutely silent for the two-hour process (we're told in VO), and then oops, here is your baby floating in this pool of fluids. Scoop it up! To be sure, it looked extremely peaceful.

The other two women were not so zen. Despite being relatively calm in the days leading up to the births, they both ended up writhing and screaming in great pain. "I AM SO SCARED!" cried a woman from London. "DON"T TOUCH IT!" cried Placenta Previa, as her baby's head protruded... Well, you get the picture. (Set your DVRs now, dudes! You can probably still catch this.)

So, er, yeah. I am not going to try freebirthing. I do think that I will continue to focus on my upcoming labor as a beautiful, life-changing experience, rather than a ghastly, painful, perineum- tearing one.

(In other news, the term "freebirth" makes me sing "Free Bird" in my head, which makes me giggle.)

(In other, other news, I have developed a new habit: every song I hear, I must evaluate its potential to be used in a Ninja video/photo montage. Because there is no greater reason to have a child then to feature he/she in a video montage on your blog. Am I right?)

I love you all. You stay classy out there.

My Aunt gave me these maternity pants, and I guess this is how you wear them? Whatever, they're sexy. I think I will sport them later tonight, if J and I get romantic.

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.

StressNATION.

Da Koos - one of my bestest friends in the universe, a woman who keeps me sane on a daily/hourly basis - is moving to Maryland in a few short weeks.

And I can't seem to carve out a moment to see her and her husband and her adorable babies before she goes.

Internet: HALP.

I have noticed this week - ironically, since I began my makeshift Happiness Project - that I am increasingly miserable. Irritable. Overwhelmed. My anxiety has seeped into my REM cycles as well: for the past three nights, I have been solely responsible for killing my brothers and all of their friends in a horrific plane crash; inadvertently killed Ninja (a ten-pound boy named "River," inexplicably); or worked tirelessly to survive the plague in France.

It's work, dudes. I am charged with being "on the road" for at least three days per week, which can entail a myriad of different circumstances. At 7 months pregnant with a baby who's gestational age is likely 8.5 months, I am exhausted. It's not really the travel that's taking it's toll: it's all the time AWAY from my home. Time I should be spending with my husband. Time I should spend doing more prenatal yoga. Time I should spend reading baby books. Time I should spend decorating my baby's nursery. Time I should spend exercising. Time I should spend nesting.

Fuck, even a trip to the dry cleaner's involves extreme precision and planning. When will I go? Logistically, when can I pick up?

And when do I squeeze in a doctor's appointment? Shouldn't my health and the baby's health take top priority?

I have a wonderfully supportive husband who, thanks to my enervating schedule, does more than any man in the history of the universe has ever done. FOR REAL. He makes sure the house is spotless upon my return from a grueling trip. He's coordinating the new carpet installation, the new windows. He does the laundry. He's working full-time as well, and finishing up an MBA. And yet he is managing, better than me.

And what's really frightening me, if I can tell you all honestly?

The kid is not even here yet. CRIPES - how do you DO THIS, moms?? Please do advise.

So I need to reign it in. I need to cut back at work. I am going to speak to my supervisor. Tell him my concerns (in a calm, pretending I am not a hormonal basketcase type of manner). I am going to focus on my happiness project. I am going to keep up with yoga, because all other plans and commitments be damned, yoga is saving my life right now. I feel resplendent when I come out of my Sunday morning class. Whole again.

I am busy making lists, and crossing tasks off. And I am trying to go easy on myself, lest my baby inherit this stress and neuroses.

In the meantime, I am frantically trying to create more hours in a day. Like, maybe 30? 30 would be good.

Any and all suggestions welcome, as well as inspirational "buck up, little camper" speeches.

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?"

Did We Ever Have a Chance?

I seriously can't believe Wheel of Fortune is still on television, or that I am watching it in my pajamas on a Friday night (read: my amazing throwback "THE Zack Attack 1992 World Tour" tee, courtesy of Vanessa). Dudes, who are these nerds? I think it is my new mission in life to become a contestant. Honestly, they have to be paying these people to come on at this point, no?

(All of this reminds me that I totally read Vanna White's autobiography when I was ten. My mother is a sucker for good ole celeb memoirs, and I guess she is not so discerning. I vaguely remember Vanna waxing poetic about crocheting, and lo.)

(What the fuck is this entry about?)

J is in Atlanta for the weekend, and I am luxuriating at home. So far this evening I have ordered a vegeterian burrito from here, and watched a spectacular episode of 90210, in which Brenda Walsh runs into "Reek" from Paris and has to pretend to be Brenda DuBois with the most horrific French accent in the history of the universe, then she dumps Dylan and then he goes and sticks his tongue down Kelly's throat. Also, Rosie O'Donnell makes a horrifying cameo to discuss Donna and David's sex life. Also, Zuckerman gets hit by a car and is confined to a wheelchair, which is hilarious because she was like 67 at the time of filming. Well-played, writers. The (awesome) end. I also took a long bath and finally read the compelling Vanity Fair piece on John Hughes, which only made me feel guilty, because apparently Hughes didn't stop writing until he quite literally dropped dead, and I can only manage two posts a week, let alone some best-selling chick lit. Boo.

(Oh my lands. Allen just totally geeked out after solving the puzzle and winning a trip to St. Lucia. He may explode with happiness. Where do they film this show?)

Tomorrow I take mah precious baby sisters to Manhattan for our annual theatre trip/ trek through the snowy goodness. We're seeing West Side Story. Lord, did I ever tell you how I almost was cast as Maria in our high school production? Well, in my mind I was. But really, I was about 5 inches taller than Tony. And decidedly Swedish-looking. And also, not the best singer. So they made me Graziella but she was just a lame Jet girlfriend. Come on. Those chicks couldn't compare to the Shark girls, who got to flit around singing awesome songs about America! What a giant slap in the face, Buddy.

(Oh shit: Allen just shouted "R!" when it was totally Joanne's turn, and Sajak was all, "I am going to ignore what you just said; it's Joanne's turn." DRAMA.)

And so I shall end this entry about nothing and bid you adieu. I have two episodes of The Tudors to watch - squee! - which means I shall fall into a Henry Cavill-induced reverie for the next several hours.

I am out like Zack Morris when he got too big for his britches and Bob Mackie started designing his costumes and then that bitch Mindy turned him into a male Madonna and he quit and had to run to the hospital to see Slater.

Night, y'all.

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.

27 Weeks, Sans Photos, But Including Smug Judgment of Others Parenting Skills. Enjoy.

27 Weeks? For realz?

I am tweaking, my friends, into a whole new era. One less of the Warren G variety, and more of the third trimester kind.

One more week until we are 2/3 there! Hi, Ninj? You weigh a lot, fatty. And also: I adore you.

So let's talk growth scan for a minute. Ah, hell, we're all friends here. I gained another 10 pounds at my last check up, which occurred at 24 weeks and 5 days. I... I don't know. I am not swollen. My legs are a bit thicker, I suppose, but really, most of the weight is in mah belly. The doctors are deeply suspect of me, and yes, I do have a hearty appetite. But I exercise, and I practice yoga, and I try to eat mostly healthy foods (today's Massachusetts Sonic Run not withstanding.) (Oh, I am in Mass this week. I honestly didn't travel to New England just for a Sonic burger. But would any of you be surprised if I did?)

Back to my belly. My swollen, bulbous, belly. It's terribly sexy. (Stay away stretch marks. Stay away.)

ENORMOUS babies run in my family. I was 9 pounds, 10 ounces. My bro was 9 pounds, 2 ounces. My dad and uncles? One of those guys was ELEVEN pounds at birth, the tiniest on the smaller side of ten pounds. It is the superior Viking genes, you know. We're huge babies, and then we usually chill out. We grow tall, but not obese, praise God.

I had thought that Ninj might defy this legacy; but lo, at my last prenatal, the belly was measuring 27 weeks. So now I'll have another ultrasound (squee!) in a few weeks, to determine how big the baby looks. It's not an exact science; they can be off by a pound in either direction, or just plan WAY OFF. A girl in my yoga class knows a girl who was told she was having an eleven-pounder. Her baby was 8 pounds. She was angry. The end.

I am not sure that any of this really means much? I'll still try to labor as naturally as possible (I make no promises, however, with Ninj the super-fetus). I am focusing on my yoga practice, and imagining that my body (sorry pelvis!) is capable of this feat of strength.

And if it's not? Then I suppose I have a c-section. The whole point is to have a healthy baby, and it looks like Ninj is SUPER healthy. That's why s/he has a theme song that I sing to him/her daily:

Ninjy! Ninjy! The Amazing SUPER FETUS!

Then s/he punches me to quiet down, s/he is practicing her krav maga, jesuschristmom!

Man, I love my kid.

But you know what I don't love? Parents who bring their ten-year old child to see Shutter Island on opening night. I don't love when they sit directly behind me and J. I don't like when the kid hears more eff words than you can shake a stick at - this from the lady that curses with great relish and abandon. I... I don't want to spoil the film for you, but I was completely uncomfortable knowing there was a small child seated near me seeing that mess. There is blood. And murder. It takes place in an ASYLUM FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE. Oh! And here are some shots of dead kids at Dachau, for good measure. There was just so much violence. And rats! So many rats that I couldn't look at the screen for a full two minutes, because I didn't want to have nightmares.

"My god," I said to J as the credits rolled. "I was traumatized by "Thriller" as a child!"

"I was traumatized by Gremlins," he said.

Good luck sleeping this year, sweet boy.

Mr. Patterson Spanks MS.

Hey, guys!



I have been super busy this week. Like, I get it, no one cares how busy I am. We're all busy. Shut up, pretty (yet rotund) blogger. But seriously: me = busy. So there you go.



I wanted to take a moment this afternoon to honor mah friend "Mr. Patterson," who is actually a gorgeous woman whom I met many moons ago, in high school. (She also appreciates her moniker immensely, I assure you.) She is a loyal reader of this here blog and one of the finest people I know.



She also has MS. Which, if you ask me? Is bullshit.



I don't talk to Mr. P as often as I would like (she is busy too, you know), but I have had the opportunity to learn a little about what she is grappling with through our drunken happy hours (those were the days!) and email correspondence. And I will tell you: this chick is dealing, and dealing well.



Recently, I learned via Facebook that another friend from elementary school and high school has MS. J also has a friend from his high school afflicted.



Seriously? Fuck off, MS.



The annual MS Walk in our area is upon us (well, this May), and Ninja-willing I will be able to walk with Mr. P (who, quite disappointingly, did not name her team "Mr. Patterson's Peaches," or something like that. If I had my own team, I'd probably go ahead and call it "Fuck off, MS," because we all know I really, really love the eff-word.)



I. DIGRESS.



Now, I'd like to do all I can to help eradicate this disease for all who suffer, especially the lovely Mr. P. So I am starting my fundraising effort today. If you know me in real life, you will get hit up via email shortly. If we are just blogging besties, and you would like to donate, please feel free to contact me via email and I will let you know how to donate directly to Mr. P's team and fundraising efforts. Or, you could be a doll and go here, and donate something. Whatever you can. Any donation is much appreciated, and funds vital research to help us understand and hopefully eradicate this disease for all the Mr. Ps of the world.



Tell them HV sent you. (And in the memo of your check, won't you kindly write: "Fuck off, MS?" Just at least tell me you did.)



And here's to Mr. Patterson, who is strong, powerful, and shall overcome.

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.

The 30th Rager That Rivaled Pauly Shore's.

Ah, the illustrious celebrities I share a birth date with: Sherman Helmsley; Joy Philbin; and my man Pauly Shore.

Yes, yes, we all wish we were Pauly Shore; or at least had his career trajectory. But I ask you: does Pauly Shore have parties as awesome as this? I think not.

Ain't no party like a Manayunk party cause a Manayunk party don't stop.

My husband brings the awesomeness, everyday.


Party people look to the prego to get things underway.

Hotness: Vanessa and Grace.

"The Melissa Mango Martini," virgin-style. I actually started a tab with these babies, and once I yelled to the barkeep: "Put it on mah virgin tab!" To which my mother-in-law replied, eyeing my swollen belly: "Oh honey, I am not buying it!" Snap!

We're due a week apart. Shut up.

With the ladies who raised me to be such a party animal: Gina and mom.

The adorable Tina Marie, cousin extraordinaire and honorary Vanessa.

And then we apparently stopped taking pictures, as we do. I swear to Lionel, we are the worst photogs. We bring our camera along everywhere and then neglect to take it out. We are trying to remedy this for Ninja by buying a fancy SLR in the upcoming months. Cripes.

But happy birthday to me! It was a lovely evening filled with all the people I love in this world (minus a few who got sidetracked by the snow). Hey! Did you know that it snowed on my birthday party night, and on my Lost party night, and there's fixin' to be a Nor'easter on the morning we're set to fly to Turks and Caicos?

Such is life, my friends. Such is life.

"We're Gonna Have To Bring Him Too."

Time to nerd out, Losties!



Tis the night we have been waiting nine long months for, and I, for one, AM THRILLED. Beyond thrilled. Really beyond spectacularly overstimulated and excited. Bring it, Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindeloff!



Tonight is our annual (and final) Lost Party at the crib. Grace has decided that there is no way she can top last year's contribution, so she is just bringing some hummus. Dudes, she's probably right:



We've had so much going on (Ninj, 30, did I mention Turks and Caicos on Saturday?) that I am a little late in putting this shindig together. Today's "To-Do" List:

1. Download DriveShaft's greatest hits.
2. Sharpen black eyeliner pencil for J, as methinks tonight mah friend is going as the gorgeous Richard Alpert.
3. Outfit Ninja belly in proper Season 1 Claire attire.
4. Find a sassy black friend to play Rose. (Preferably with a big butt, and even bigger heart.)
5. Design elaborate contraption to concoct the smoke monster. (Perhaps just burn the toasting pita?)
6. Borrow a polar bear.
7. Hide the numbers all over the living room, pretend to have no knowledge when I discover them. ("That's weird, J, why am I getting a call from 4 8 15 16 23 42?")
8. Recreate hatch door under living room carpet. (What the...?)
9. Buy bear treats for h'ors doeuvres.
10. Crap! Do you think they can rush deliver an OFFICIAL Dharma jumpsuit?

Time to get cracking!

30. Eff.

So I thought I was handling my 30th rather gracefully. But as we all know, you can't have just a little grace.

I woke up this morning at 5:20, J's alarm blaring, and plodded to the bathroom.

Then I got back in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and cried.

Because I am 30. Thirty! I just... Thirty. Fuck, that sounds old, y'all. And it's not like I sobbed. I just shed a few tears for my youth. I'm all adult now. And that's interesting. And frightening. And exciting. And mundane. Ya dig?

Then I took a deep breath, and promptly got over it. Thirty year-old adults have little time to be self-indulgent and introspective! Nay, we must toil. We must work at our jobs. And prepare for babies. And get six-month pregnant driver's license photos. And shop at Whole Foods and feel guilty about not buying local (I am coming, CSA!). And get bikini waxes. And Swiffer, yo. When you get older, you must Swiffer, almost daily.

As most of you know, Mr. HomeValley - J - is amazing, and threw me a fantabulous birthday party on Saturday night at Mango Moon in Manayunk. I have photos! And yes, I will post them. Because I am thirty. And fucking responsible.

Oh! And I shall provide you a resolution update. And also add some things I will not be doing this decade. Like, listening to assvice. From now on, HomeValley knows best, bitches.

See? 30 is fun. It's liberating and I have no stretch marks and very few wrinkles and a Ninja super-fetus and amazing friends and family and a Kindle.

Suck it, 20s.