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.

"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.

23 Weeks - And the Ninja Finally Kicks the Dad

Picture time!

So there was a time in my life (er, pregnancy) where I only wanted to be showing. I whined about it; I fretted about it. Man, look at this tiny hint of a bump:


I remember abs!

And then J and I didn't take any photos for nine weeks, apparently. Because all of a sudden, we have a large baby swimming around in there:

And still it grows and mutates!

So no, I suppose I no longer worry about showing. Now, I worry about gaining too much weight. The life of a pregnant woman is fraught with worry and anxiety. Ah, the wondrous miracle of life.

No stretch marks yet, but we're still early. I have 17 more weeks to grow this kid. Save yourselves from the giant super-fetus!

I spent most of yesterday on the couch, fairly incapacitated with a head cold. As I lay on my side (and now that I can only lay on my side, all I want to do is lay on my back. Glorious back-laying!), I felt Ninja's kicks and wiggles. I feel Ninja movements fairly regularly now, which is so comforting: my tiny constant companion. Each time I feel a swift punch, I yell for J.

"Can you feel that?!?" I typically ask happily.

"No," J always replies, morosely.

"You must just have a very calming influence on the baby," I assure him daily.

It goes on like this, day after day, until finally, last night, the Ninj went and punched his dad. Hard.

"I felt it!"

It was a moment.

J was also able to feel more kicks at 4 AM, as I woke for the thousandth time and practiced my 3-point turns (lord, I miss the days when I could simply roll over in bed).

And so J finally gets to connect with Ninj, and it makes it that much more exciting. It also makes the discomfort (the side-sleeping, the peeing, the PIMPLES) bearable.

17 weeks.

* Edited to add: There used to be line-spacing in this piece, but Blogger is angered when you attempt to incorporate photos. Boo.

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.

22 Weeks, and Coakley Wins! Oh, Wait.

Good morning, world! Melissa P. HomeValley Ft. Lauderdale here, coming to you live from Peabody, MA. Apparently there was some election here yesterday, and now all of the conservatives are gloating and sticking it to us liberals. Take that Obama! Though I haven't fact-checked this yet, last night a coworker told me that Massachusetts is 12% registered Republicans... So, yeah. Take that, "Obamacare." You would think that the idea of affordable healthcare for all would not be such a visceral, polarizing issue, but this is America. You'd be wrong.

Shit, I've gone all political again. Please do follow, Republicans! I still love you. Wanna talk about Sicko?

Of course I am pressed for time, and I am the owner of a Dell laptop that cannot be disconnected from a power cable, lest the battery dies IMMEDIATELY. I am also likely coming down with a bit of a cold, but I shan't speak of it again as I refuse to let it in... healthy thoughts. What am I rambling about this AM? Don't you wanna hear about my awesome healthy baby?

I finally bit the damn bullet and got the genetic bloodwork done two weeks ago. Last Friday I got the call that everything was normal. NORMAL! I danced in the kitchen. Healthy! What more can we ask for? (please don't be 10 pounds please don't be 10 pounds please don't be 10 pounds)

I pray that I am able to write a proper update later, but I'll be heading up to Manchester, NH to hop a flight to LaGuardia (home sweet Queens, y'all).

You all look so pretty today, by the way.

20 Weeks, and the Ninja Won't be IGNORED, y'all

Squee! Ultrasound pictures!

I just created a photo album on Facebook entitled: "The Mighty Ninja." I included only the 4D image of the Ninj. I tagged J. Someone promptly "liked" my new album.

Then I quickly deleted the whole she-bang.

I don't know why. It just felt too personal. Like maybe 400 Facebook friends shouldn't see my uterus. And my baby's shoulder. And the giant HomeValley head.

I save that for you guys. My real friends. That space is Ninja's, and I suppose I decided that that space will remain his/her. Until birth.

So, the Ninja emerged with a vengeance this week. I hopped on the scale at Friday's prenatal still high on receiving the single greatest compliment any prego can hope to receive: "My, you are so cute! You look like you swallowed a basketball!"

Quite.

So imagine all hints of smugness and hubris being sucked from the room when the numbers kept going up.

And up.

And TEN pounds in 3.5 weeks later, the Ninja let his/her presence be felt. The Ninja is starting to resemble a young Chuck Norris.

Since I had only gained an adorable six pounds since learning I was with blessed child, the doctor assured me that ten pounds in a month was okay. She did warn me, however, that if I packed on another ten in one month, that we'd have to chat.

Thus, my love affair with the gym begins again in earnest. Because it's not like I can deny Ninj his/her Snickers bars. What kind of mother would I be?

Also of note? I am in Syracuse, preparing to watch Julie and Julia. This frightens me, as I fear the film will make me ravenous.

Also? I just turned off Baby Boom, as I got so annoyed with the entire premise of it. Let me recap: J.C. is a career woman. She graduated first in her class at Yale, and has a Harvard MBA. But alas, she is married to her job. The narrator WARNS us at the film's onset NOT TO BE FOOLED BY APPEARANCES OF GIANT SHOULDER PADS AND CAREER SATISFACTION. (Even J.C.'s moniker hasn't a scant trace of femininity. She may even have a penis. All she cares about is WORK.)

You see, J.C. is terribly unfulfilled, and she doesn't even know it. Not until a baby is dropped in her lap and she has to quit her job because she can't hang with the big dogs anymore. Really, what she has always wanted to do is make baby food from a quiet house in the country anyway. The end.

And that is why the 80s was a hot fucking mess for women. Hey now, I've read Backlash.

What say you, women and men alike? I want to qualify my statements: there is nothing wrong with birthing babies (you know I'm into it). There is nothing wrong with staying home to raise your babies. But on the other hand, there is nothing wrong with NOT birthing babies. Moreover, there is nothing wrong with birthing babies AND continuing to work to provide for them. Happiness is personal. Do you hear that, 1980s filmmakers? Enough with the scare tactics and blatant agenda-pushing. (I'm lookin' at you, Fatal Attraction director Adrian Lyne.)

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find some chocolate bars with almonds. For the baby.

Night.

Resolutionary

So I am in Dallas, living the dream. I'm at a conference here, and I have to tell you, I am completely committed to my work in 2010. It's strange; Ninja will be here in less than 5 months, and my only instinct is to be better at EVERYTHING. To be a fantastic, calm mom, of course; but also to rock standardized tests. To get into a good Master's program. To be amazing at my job; so damn phenomenal that I kill it around bonus time. I figure, that way my company has every reason to accommodate me when I am just too madly in love with mah baby to board a plane come late August.


I confess: I sneak up to my room during breaks to take a peak at baby photos. I only brought two of the 7839 ulrasound pictures our tech was kind enough to provide us, but these shots are exquisite. Have you seen my baby's ears? His/her shoulder? It's all so real now. Ninj is no longer just a tiny little bean with a microscopic beating heart. Miraculously (and holy shit, this is the most spectacular miracle), Ninja has functioning kidneys. And a big old heart with four whole chambers. Eyes. Lungs. A perfect spine. I wanted to kiss the doctor when she came in to thoroughly examine the ultrasound screen.


"Looks great, guys!" She said, and was on her way.


"We're so lucky," I said to J as we hustled back to the parking garage. "How did we get so lucky?"


The second ultrasound pic I have tucked in my planner is a regular 2D (3D?) profile shot of the entire baby. I promise I'll scan it tomorrow night when I get home, because y'all have to see this. Ninj has the most precious chin; a tiny mouth that is upturned in the slightest smile; and a miniature button nose. It's surreal, but the baby looks like J, which makes me imagine I have a little boy dancing around my placenta. But either sex is fine by me. A cliche, yes, but all I want is a healthy child.


So, so lucky.


Now, I will stop staring at Ninj for three minutes to recap my resolutions for 2010. I have never felt more equipped to handle all that is on this list, which I almost hate to admit. I worry that if I gush to much about how wonderful life is, some horrible malady will inevitably befall me. So:



1. LESS WORRYING. In my book, 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself, the author contends that once you become an adult, the only time you engage your imagination is to concoct worst-case scenarios. Ha! That's, like, the most true statement ever in the history of the world. I suspect this only gets worse as you become a parent. So I have decided to tell my worst-case scenario imagination to fuck off this year. Every time a bad thought creeps in (Oh man, my ankle hurts. I am obviously dying of cancer.) I am going to think something positive and life-affirming instead. That's right: fuck off, imagination. I shall now only use you for good.



2. MORE EXERCISING. Oh, original. But also: I been lazy. Time to be a truly hot mama. Rawr.



3. LESS PHONE SCREENING. I keep trying, guys. We shall overcome.



4. MORE GREEN-ING OF ENVIRONMENT. I am starting small: organic cottons for Ninj. A reusable coffee mug for Dunkin' Donuts. A reusable water bottle for the gym. More water and energy conservation. Plants. Also, maybe vacuum and dust a tad more.



5. MORE SEX. Apologize if you are blushing, gentle readers, but the H and I are still young, and we're having a baby. I am preemptively putting this high on the priority list for 2010. (J: You're welcome.)



6. LESS ROAD RAGE.



7. NO TEXTING WHILE DRIVING.



8. MORE STANDARDIZED TESTS. Setting a date for the GREs ASAP.



9. MORE WRITING. Ugh, I hate listing that one. But year after year, I need to make writing a higher priority. I mean, I love you guys. And I probably should write a novel one of these days.



10. MORE HEALTHY COOKING. Mmm, organics.



11. LESS PROCESSED FOODS. I won't go on a diatribe here. In summary: processed foods are evil and so delicious. Cutting back.



12. MORE QUALITY READING. I thoroughly enjoyed Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy, but I don't think it made me any smarter.



13. LESS TELEVISION. Shut up, talking picture box.



14. MORE AWESOME. Just that. Bringing the awesome.



15. MORE GRATITUDE. To everyone. For everything. It is ultimately a lovely world.



16. MORE WATER. I totally don't drink enough of it. J thinks Ninja's home will dry up or something.



17. LESS TECHNOLOGY. Says the girl with the new Kindle and iPod Touch. But still.



18. MORE COMMENTING. I read so many amazing blogs, and then get shy when it comes to joining the discussion. That ends now.



19. MORE CALLS. To friends and family. Maybe even some enemies. I just need to stop communicating solely on Facebook. Real interaction is neat.



20. MORE (okay, first) BlogHer convention.

And there you have it, kids: a nice, round number of things that will make a better HomeValley. Pray tell, what will you do differently in 2010?

Come. On.

Right now, despite my best efforts, I cannot write about my New Year's resolutions, though they are - as always - plentiful. No, today I can do but one thing: gape at amazing 4D image of child all day.

I am seriously in love.