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.

"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.

19 Weeks - So That Was Christmas

A belated Merry Merry to you all!

J and I had a lovely holiday. I have pictures! Which of course I can't upload here, because they are not on this computer. Oh, and I am a lazy sonofabitch. But only for a few more days, y'all. What up 2010?!? It's almost resolution time, lovers. What will you be resolving to do in Ten?

I was very spoiled this year (so spoiled that I think J and I are done with gifts, at least for next year)... I mean, I got the Kindle! Naturally, I am deeply in love. And I got the iPod Touch (though previously owned, long story). And I got this book, which actually has made my love for Sara surpass my love for Oprah, which is quite serious, no? Now I begin sentences, "Well, Sara Snow says..." which doesn't annoy J at all.

Most notably, I received a family heirloom. Immediately before dinner on Christmas day, my uncle Frank presented me with a ring from my great-great Aunt Mary. The ring was fashioned from her mother's mother's mother's most treasured pair of gold and pearl earrings. It's gorgeous and unique. It was also accompanied by a letter written in 1959 (the earrings are now 150 years old) by my Aunt Mary, which Uncle Frankie handed me to read aloud. Good night! I couldn't get one word out without blubbering. Am pregnant puddle. And also: very blessed.

Antique heirlooms aside, perhaps the best present I received this year? J's mustache. It's... stunning. He's been cultivating it since last Saturday, and I know it will grow even more spectacular. I swear: photos to come.

How about y'all? Any great gifts this year?

Today I'm 19 weeks prego, and Ninja is doing some fast and furious pop-and-locks in the old uterus. It's wildly exciting to feel a little person in there. We have our 20-week ultrasound next Monday, and although we are determined NOT to find out the sex, I wouldn't be crushed if the N flashed us some bits. We shall see! Are we really halfway there?

Oh! And the GMATs went well. My overall score was top-notch, but I am concerned with my quantitative score. I toyed with the idea of retesting, but honestly, I have actively forgotten all of the geometry I just crammed into mah brain. Next stop: GREs.

More updates to come. Until then, as Sara Snow says: be well.

17 Weeks. Seriously, My Back Really Hurts You Guys.

Wait a minute; what happened to 16 weeks?

16th week recap: For two consecutive blissful nights, I didn't wake up at 2 AM to pee. The end.

17 weeks? Yes, still with the peeing. And my back is killing me. But I won't bore you with my grievances. Nay, I shall tell you that I had a doc's appointment this week, and Ninja is still glorious. Heart rate is about 155, though the N was very squirmy. The doctor found the heartbeat right away, but then she'd lose it. "The baby is really moving around in there," she said. "You hear that noise?" she asked, referring to a strange, muted, underwatery, sounding motion. (Amazing description! You should be a writer!) "That's a hand or foot moving through the amniotic fluid."

Well, go Ninja, with your stealth kung fu. Bad. Ass. (Or maybe he is a dancer, J!)

(Oh, I said he. I have to stop that, but honestly, I am convinced I am cooking a boy.)

OK, so the ten of you (and my new son or daughter) don't really want to hear about all of this, do you? I mean babies are adorable and chubby and snuggly, but still, I have something BETTER. Oh my. Something, insanely delicious. Are you ready?

You must know that J and I journeyed to my mother's for some eats on Sunday. My stepfather, Bucky (not a pseudonym) mentioned he was cleaning out the basement. "I have a bunch of your stuff down there," he added. "I'm going to throw it out if you don't go through it."

(As if! They have been threatening me like this for ten years.)

But later, Buck came upstairs carrying a ginormous box filled with mother-effing TREASURES.

Where to begin? There were sketches. Sketches of my EIGHT future kids. (Judd says: Oh HAHA! "Victoria Leslie" was born in 2002. Loser.) And there names were awesome and regal. And then I also maybe sketched their rooms. And then maybe some fabulous designer fashions. And maybe I wrote a song entitled "Nice and Naughty." Oh, oh yes I did.

Verse 1
Some say I 'm nice
Some say I'm naughty
Some say I'm perfect
Some say I oughta be PUT AWAY

Verse 2
Some say they like me!
Some say they don't
Some say they'll learn to
Some say they won't

Refrain
OHH! Someday I'll just be me! But for now I'll settle for nice and naughty!
(nice-nice-nice-nice and naughty! HOO!)

(I was going to stop there, but the song actually has one more verse which is just too good not to share.)

Verse 3
Some say they love me
Some say they hate me!
Some say they'll be my boyfriend!
Some say they'll date me!

(REPEAT REFRAIN)

You guys? I was like 17 when I wrote this.

Okay, I kid. I was 11. Back in the days when I was just content to settle for nice and naughty, man.

(David Foster: Call me!)

Oh em gee - there were also all kinds of stories! "The Grandmother's Secret" and "Snow" and "A Mysterious Disappearance."

There was a newspaper, the cover of which bears the headline: "Michael Jackson's Split Personality!" That story?

Michael Jackson, a popular musical singer, and former member of the Jackson 5, was admitted to the psychiatric ward of Newberry Hospital today after it was found by millions of Japanese fans that he does, in fact, have a split personality - a sister, Janet.

It appears that after a long period of loneliness Michael created the woman we know as Janet Jackson. She was also made a star.

"He came out on stage and scared the fans by changing his voice back and forth," says fan Ching Heng.

"We were shocked at Michael's mental instability," says Janet.

"No we weren't, says Michael.

(The Onion: Call me!)

There was a stirring poem:

Melissa
Stubborn and sweet,
Messy and neat.
Funny, crazy,
Sometimes lazy.
Addicted to junk food,
Usually in a good mood.

(Judd says: Oh HAHAHA! Nothing has changed at ALL! At least you were always self-aware.)

(Present-day HomeValley says: Wow. That description is on point. Shit.)

Oh hey, Cuzzy?? Did you think you escaped my biting commentary?

Here is your poem, my love:

Tough; boy-crazy,
sometimes lazy.
Messy, messy, messy!
Always beats up on Jessie.
Usually has a smile on,
Will always be in love with John.

(Who is John, 9 year-old cuzzy?)
(Wait, I just remembered. HA!)

Oh, and amongst various entrepreneurial start-ups (read: The Babysitter's Club), I also found the time to publish a magazine. I give you: Girls, Etc.

October 1992 Cover

Time to Grow Up: Should You Make Your Own Decisions?

Preteen Problems: Junior High Blues

Peer Pressure: How to Deal

Test: Boys Before Books (Are you boy-crazy?)

Joining the Bandwagon: What's In and Out for Fall

(For the love of GOD Oprah: CALL ME!)

I think one thing we've all re-learned today, is that I am awesome. Or, that at one time, I was incredibly creative. It is a damn good thing blogging came about, lest I still be sitting in my room, listening to my Electric Youth album, composing songs about how people say they either hate me, or might possibly LEARN to LIKE me.

I take the GMATs tomorrow, kids. After that, it's on.

If I woke up this morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn't be more surprised than I am now.

My debit card. She is hacked.

Man! Screw you, online shopping. You really haven't made my life easier at all, now have you? Filing police reports is fun, and I can't wait to track down a copy of that report (for a fee), and head over to my local credit union branch, in the hopes that someday, Visa will deign to reimburse me. And canceling cards is super, right around the holidays. And also, Wal-Mart in Richmond, Texas? Maybe next time, you could strive to be less helpful. I doubt you could top yourselves, but at least try.

And you know what, you scum-sucking hacker? You go can straight to hell. Seriously, you robbed me. Shame on you. It's Christmas, you bitch.

So hey! If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like this hacker, who ROBBED me, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there in Richmond, Texas with all the other hackers, and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit!

Where's the Tylenol?

Words That Actually Came Out Of My Mouth.

Last week J and I were in the car, listening to B101's Christmas jams, as you do.

"I don't understand why they always play the same songs, everyday," sayeth J, echoing my thoughts. "I mean, there are so many great Christmas songs - why only these?"

"I know! It's like, the NSync Christmas album was great. Why do they refuse to play it?"

Yes, words that actually came out of my mouth.

In other news, I dashed to CVS this morning to buy a few greeting cards, when it suddenly occurred to me that it is Christmas. And I haven't given one iota of thought to this year's holiday card.

But my God in HEAVEN, how do I top this gem?

Halp. Any ideas?

Norovirus? No Problem!

I had a lovely little Saturday planned to celebrate J's 33rd: New Hope, PA, for some Christmas shopping; then expensive beers, college football, and dinner at a nice sushi restaurant.

Only, the weather? She did not cooperate. And so we stayed home. I studied for those unholy GMATs, and laid around a bit. J cleaned the bathroom. By 4 PM, we were sorely in need of a new plan, and we opted to trek down to Main Street in the snow and have beers (Lord: I wish) and sushi (Man: this sucks) at the Manayunk Brew Pub.

We splurged on some greasy appetizers; then we toasted our good fortune, and J's rapidly advancing age. For our main course, I ordered some veggie rolls, and my husband had the Alaska and Boston rolls (shrimp and salmon, yummmm).

About 12 hour later, the norovirus just about killed him.

Okay, he didn't die. But it wasn't pretty. He was in pain. His stomach was wrecked. He couldn't make it downstairs, so he laid in bed all day (in between trips to the bathroom) and I attempted to keep him hydrated. His back was in spasms, and he had a low-grade fever.

"You'd tell me if you thought you needed to go to the hospital, right?" I asked.

Later, I fed him multigrain English muffins and rubbed his head. I performed a soothing verse of "Soft Kitty" until he croaked: "I love you; but please don't sing."

Later that night I diagnosed him with norovirus. I blame the shrimp. And to think, J offered me many bites of his maki, even coaxing me: "It's just shrimp; you can eat this." (Ninja says: Not on my watch.) Praise Jesus I did not indulge; I am sure norovirus has no business swimming around N's placenta.

Oh, but my man survived, thankfully. And it's a blessing, because yesterday was Nana's funeral.

It was a lovely service. J's mom spoke about Nana's quiet strength; and a recurring theme seemed to be the circle of life: as we grieve Joyce's passing, Ninja is growing stronger, and J's sister E has just gotten engaged! It's a baffling and beautiful juxtaposition of life and death. I am just glad that Joyce had 91 years to enjoy this life. I hope J and I get at least 100, though I tend to be a little greedy.

Finally, thigh highs on pregnant gams, in blustery Columbus, Ohio?

So effing sexy I can't stand it.

The Most EVIL Decade in American History = My Twenties.

Have y'all seen this Time article?

So Time magazine has called the 2000s out as a chump. "Decade from hell," they cry.

I was perusing the article the other day, and I wondered if history would judge these last ten years the same. Then I pictured myself as a refreshingly young-looking octogenerian, at which time my grown grandkids would inquire: "Mom-Mom: what was it like to come of age in that hellacious period in America? Lo, how did you ever survive the plummeting home values?!?"

And I will sign wearily, sit back in my rocker, and tell them a story.

*Cue sunny bustling city scene, upbeat chipper score*

The decade began with an air of impending doom. All of the computers were going to explode, kids, as the date was moving from 9s? To zeroes. We seriously thought the world would end.

But then? It didn't. And I rang in the new year with wonderful friends at a dilapidated West Philly university house that was infested with mice, yet still was one of my favorite places to be in those days. It was magical, kiddies, with Steel Reserve bottles adorning the walls and a pool table. Snoop Dogg was often playing in the background. Just glorious.

Of course, your grandmother was also living in the most fabulous city in the world in those days. Did you know that? Still, there is no place like New York City. I was doing well in college; had a great job, and also an upcoming internship at a news station. Yes, kids, things were looking up.

But then of course, there was that day in September. You've studied it in your history classes. It shocked America to its core. Your old grandmother also had a hard time coming to terms with what she witnessed that morning. But the attacks also united Americans in a way that I'd never known before. We learned many lessons, from that day. In some ways, I think we're still learning, and perhaps always will be. Such is life.

And then, after that? Well, the economy dipped, just a bit, just in time for me to find my first job out of college. I made very little, but I still managed to rent my own apartment, and buy a charming little Hyundai named Emma. Of course, by this time, I'd moved back to Pennsylvania. I wasn't completely happy there. I had some unfinished business in a town 90 miles north of Philadelphia.

So I moved to Queens. And I can tell you, loves, it was one of the happiest times of my life. It's where your grandma's blog was started! You know, the one I still maintain today? Sure, I've still got only eight Google followers, but writing gives me great pleasure. Well, you know. You were there when I accepted that fourth Pulitzer. You heard my speech.

Oops - I digress! Where was I? Ah, Queens. Kids, have I told you about the Bohemian Beer Hall? I don't know how any decade can be described as hell when you've got Czech beers and brats in a European-style garden. But why I am telling you? You were at Grandpa's and my 50th anniversary celebration. It is a magical place, no?

It was when I was living in Queens that I feel in love with your grandfather. We'd only been dating a few weeks when he jetted off to Spain and Portugal. He was away when Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. It certainly was an awful natural disaster. Thankfully, we've not experienced anything like it since.

And what else happened that decade? Why, Grandpa and I saw the world. We visited places we'd only ever dreamed of: the Acropolis in Athens; the Eiffel Tower in Paris. We rode in tuk-tuks in Chiang Mai, and we explored ancient temples in Siem Reap. We beheld the pyramids at Giza, and the ancient city of Petra in Jordan. We snorkled in the Red Sea, and paid homage at Eva Peron's tomb at the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. We tried never to lose sight of how lucky we were in those days. We loved traveling so much, we never stopped. Why, when your mom was still very young, we took her to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. And when your father was just a boy, we climbed Kilimanjaro. People thought we were mad, but we know these trips are what helped your parents become the people they are today: Supreme Court justice and world-renowned archaeologist, respectively.

Amidst all of the traveling, your grandfather and I wed on a gorgeous beach in Punta Cana. Sure, we didn't speak Spanish, or understand the translator very well, but we laughed through the whole endeavor. And we honestly believe our marriage was legal. We've got the Spanish docs to prove it.

We spent time with wonderful friends and family in the 2000s. We were truly blessed to have so many people around who loved us, and whom we loved. Many traveled all the way to the Dominican to attend our wedding! It really was a lovely time.

Unfortunately, by the end of the decade, the economy tanked again. Health care reform was badly needed, and your granddad and I decided there was only one man for the job. The night President Barack Obama was elected was one of the happiest of my life. I had never felt so proud to be an American. Oh, to be sure, there was much work to be done, but your grandma is nothing if not optimistic. That man gave us hope: hope that we didn't need to accept the status quo; hope that we could effect change. I am proud to say, I never lost that feeling. Even the littlest acts can make a huge difference in this world. Remember that.

Oh! And then, in the twilight of my twenties, I learned I was pregnant. And that was equal parts horrendous, humbling, and awe-inspiring. But, you know how that turned out...

To sum up: suck it, Time. It's all about perspective.

Things I Covet.

Okay, so I totally want this tee-shirt. Only because at a girls' dinner eons ago, our waiter told us he owned it. And I was drunk, and thought it was HI-larious.

I also love the way they are selling these bad boys. How about this guy? He's unkempt. His tee is wrinkled. The lesson? These babies sell themselves.


(This reminds me: I hate those new Windows 7 commercials. Have you seen them? They're fairly ubiquitous, and each one features an average-looking person having an epiphany about some feature of the new operating system. But each time they have this brainstorm, they envision themselves as much thinner and better-looking. And that makes me sad. What kind of commentary are you making here, Gates?)


(By the by, Windows 7 was my idea.)


P.S. Are you following me yet, chickens? I love you so much, and yet you do not follow. It's so easy! Try it! You'll see. Perhaps if I get 30 new followers by Christmas, I will auction this tee-shirt! Imagine how awesome you would look in that bad boy. Perhaps as awesome as the model?

I love you all, so very much.

Ninja Will Destroy Us All!

OK, so things are getting serious.

I was a GIGANTIC baby.

Couldn't even fit in an incubator ginormous. Comparisons to linebacker large.

For reals? My nickname was Melissa Monster. (It's cute; let's bring it back!)

And last week? I was all, wah, not showing, where is my belly?

You guys?

Be afraid. The Ninja will not be ignored, y'all.

(Aside: I bought the dress. Did you know Banana made maternity clothes? Yeah, they don't. But I am going to work it!)

33 Reasons to Love on J!

1. Just the other day, I was sitting on the couch, starved, and I mumbled rhetorically, "And where are the candy bars, babe? People need the candy bars." And J quickly got up, went to the kitchen, and pulled a Watchamacallit out of the cupboard. It was a chocolate bar sent straight from the heavens (or one he picked up at the grocery store and hid in case of emergency).
2. He is going to have an MBA in just 6 months. Respect.
3. He often says, "Hey, you want a back massage?" And he's not even kidding.
4. He gets all of his Christmas shopping done early, and really thinks about what to buy every person on his list.
5. He cleans the bathroom.
6. He does the laundry.
7. He vacuums.
8. And he even doesn't yell when he says: "Babe, vacuuming is not a once-a-month job." (He's right.)
9. He cooks the salmon filets for dinner when I have my face stuck in a GMAT prep book.
10. And he doesn't even get that upset when he realizes I paid 22 bucks for the filets at Whole Foods.
11. Oh, and FYI: his salmon is delicious.
12. He takes me to breakfast on Sunday mornings.
13. He will make a late-night McDonald's run. For the baby.
14. He humors me.
15. He can fix things. He's very handy.
16. He's decisive.
17. He lets me make most of the decisions.
18. He plans the vacations.
19. This year alone, he took me to Egpyt, Jordan, Uruguay, and Argentina.
20. He didn't even balk when I mentioned I probably should try to get to England too.
21. He appeases me every time I cry desperately: "Having a baby doesn't mean the travel stops, right? I mean, we are going to travel with this baby. Right?"
22. He tells me it's just my hormones, and yes, it's okay to cry if I need to.
23. He loves his grandfather.
24. He tells "dad" jokes. And then cracks up at himself.
25. He is ambitious.
26. He finishes what he starts.
27. Last weekend, he grew a mustache, just because. It was great fun.
28. He takes me on dates.
29. He didn't divorce me when I (inadvertently) ordered a $19 martini at a bar this summer.
30. He's a great dad, already.
31. The other day, I was singing "Purple Rain" in the car (spontaneously, as you do), and he started singing it with me, and then did this really nerdy orchestra conducter thing with his hand.
32. I am not describing it well, but it seriously made us laugh for 20 years. I kept saying, "Do it again! Do it again!" while trying to catch my breath.
33. He's got excellent taste in women, if I do say so myself.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HIMS! I think you're the bee's knees.

And Now, A Very Special Episode of QITNM.

Gentlemen, I am going to ask you to leave the room. I need to speak to the ladies. In private. We'll wait.

*waiting*

Girls, I want to talk about bikini waxes.

Or, more specifically, French/Brazilian hybrid waxes. Like the one I had today.

I have little patience for many things lately. I long to simplify my life. So I make lists. And I cross of to-do items. And I take care of my business. I also firmly believe that anything I can do, I can hire someone to do better. Like just the other night, I was talking about hiring a doula, to help me with my drug-free, natural childbirth. And J rolled his eyes and said, "Sure. Sounds good. Maybe you can just hire someone to go through the labor for you."

Oh, J. If only that were a real possibility. I am sure there is someone out there in God's green goodness that could labor way better than moi.

So, a few weeks ago, I decided I was done with shaving my lady bits. That's it, I cried to my razor. This is over! Shaving sucks. It's overrated. It's tedious. And the hair? It grows right back. And honestly, if I can't be bothered to shower regularly, how can I be expected to maintain my nether regions?

Surely, I thought, surely someone out there can do this better than me.

And so I hung up the razor for more weeks than I care to admit a few days. And I called the local salon. And yesterday I scoured the Internet for info on waxing etiquette. (I have only ever had one bikini wax ever, right before my wedding.) And I decided on the French Wax, which really is the Brazilian Light. I shan't elaborate. I am a lady.

I was up in the middle of the night, dreading the ordeal.

Dreading a wax, when just a few days ago I decided I was going to have a natural delivery.

(Am. Crazy.)

In lieu of a glass of wine, I resolved to pop a few Tylenol before the appointment. Only, I got a business call just a few minutes before I needed to leave, and I rushed out the door without my pain meds.

And so it seemed, I would have to have this wax naturally. Without drugs.

So it was my fate.

You can do this, I assured myself. You are strong. Breathe. You have taken two prenatal yoga classes; you are a zen goddess. Visualize the end result.

It was: unpleasant. To put it mildly. I did okay at managing the pain at first, but towards the end I got a little squirmy. I might have exclaimed: "Kelly Clarkson!" I dont know. I think I blacked out.

But I survived it. I was exuberant. You see? If I can do natural waxing, I can absolutely handle natural childbirth.

Right?