Back to waiting

I had December 29th all set up in my mind. I was making my peace with the idea of surgery, and getting excited at the idea of actually knowing what day my son would be born. Letting go? Allowing life to take its course? That stuff's for losers.

As I arrived at my doctor's appointment this week, I was informed that the date had been changed to December 28th. One day earlier even! One less day to wait! Okay, I could do this. If breech was our fate, and I was potentially destined to deliver all my children via C-section ("normal" birth after a C-section is apparently not so common)... at least I'd get a date to circle on the calendar. And I wouldn't have to worry about wasting two weeks of my maternity leave just sitting around my apartment, staring up at the ceiling.

Oh, silly Allison. You should know better than to get too attached to any idea of how birth will be. As it turns out, Little Steff Man pulled a dramatic, last-minute maneuver and turned head down for me. My own "mother's intuition" being somewhat underdeveloped (ahem), it took a sonogram to tell me this. I should have known, really. I had stopped getting quick, stabbing kick pains in my lowest parts. I had started feeling movement higher up and waaay to the right, something completely new. Etc. etc. I guess I was just so eager to have a definitive plan that I ignored the actual signs as they presented themselves to me.

It's back to waiting, then. This is good. I want to do this the way women have been doing it for thousands of years. I want to know what labor is like. I've managed to switch gears now, from researching C-section recovery to reading up on how to tell false labor from the real thing. It's all good... but I still kind of hate the uncertainty. When will it all go down? In four days? In four weeks? Guess I'll just have to let go. Let life take its course. Gol.

22 / 16 / Really, who knows?

 

This is it.

Okay, not really. It's not it yet, though I feel like I'm constantly on pins and needles. Just about time, right? Any day, right? Ooh, is that a cramp? The earliest sign of labor?

Tomorrow, Tuesday, marks the day that our little one is officially considered "full term." 37 weeks. He could be born tomorrow and not be considered premature. That means he's more or less ready to come out, right? Any time now, right? Ooh, is that another cramp?

Doing the math then, there are 22 days to go. Only, there might not be. More accurately - according to my doctor - there probably aren't. Little Steff Man, determined to do things his own way, is breech. Butt down actually, with his legs folded up close to his face. There is, apparently, not a doctor on the East Coast who will deliver a breech baby. I've done acupuncture, I've tried moxibustion, I've layed at home with my face in the ground and my backside high in the air. No success. In the face of all this, and as the window of "he can still turn" has just about passed, I've been scheduled for a C-Section. December 29th. 16 days from now. 16 days! That's just a little more than two weeks! Is that possible? Honestly, I kind of thought I would just be pregnant forever; never actually have the child.

There are about a million different thoughts going through my head. Sadness at the thought of missing out on labor. Nervousness about the possibility of surgery (I've never even sprained an ankle before). Certainty that there must be something I'm forgetting to research. Uncertainty: has it finally become too much to walk to work? Above all these though, is the one thought that comes to me strongly and regularly during the course of each day: my lord, I can't wait. I can't wait to meet him, to look into his eyes for the first time, to be his mother. I'm glad this thought trumps everything else, because it's helping me get past the details and just focus on that one important thing.

Ooh, is that a cramp?

A final bit: nicknames we've been using these last months:

*Milk-fed piglet

*Sweetmeat

*Chubba the Hut (after a recent ultrasound picture seemed to show an enormous set of cheeks and a weird, Jabba The Hut-like eye)

*Little Monkey

*Chen (won't try to explain the pronunciation; this is the German suffix that makes something a diminutive. It's basically like calling him "Little.")

*Scrumchkin (scrumptious munchkin)

Just a couple more weeks and we can use his real name...

Yup. Capricorn.

It happened for the hundredth time this past Sunday. I was out, this time at an organic cafe. After I had finished my almond-honey-date smoothie (and man, was it good) and the bill had been paid, my friendly, dreadlocked waiter looked at me and smiled. "When is your baby due?"

"January. Early January."

"Ah. A Capricorn."

This has been the biggest surprise for me. I can't tell you how many times people have said this to me. Cashiers, waiters, people waiting in line with me at the pharmacy, etc. Just about any time a stranger asks me about my due date, I know that a short discussion of astrology will probably follow. Who knew?

Am I the only person who doesn't put much stock in astrology? Am I also the only person who hasn't memorized the date ranges of each of the signs? I couldn't tell you the signs of anyone I know, even though I know their birthdays. The only reason I even know he'll be a Capricorn is that it's my sign too. What comes after Capricorn? Danged if I know. Who's compatible with Capricorn? No clue. And anyhow, really? Everyone who was born in June is compatible with everyone who was born in February? I find that hard to believe.

Not to sound dismissive or skeptical. I don't disbelieve all this - it's just never been something I've been interested in learning about. And I guess I assumed that much of the world felt the way I did. So much for that belief!

When all is said and done though, I kind of enjoy hearing the "ooh, he'll be a Capricorn!" comments. You know how strangers are always approaching pregnant women and touching their bellies? This has never happened to me, thank goodness. Instead, I've had a different sort of intimate interaction. These lovely people have been reaching out to me for just a minute, excited about a little portion of my son's identity. And even if it's in a way that I can't completely relate to, I appreciate it.

Yes, he will be a Capricorn. And yes, I agree. Capricorns are good people.

Things I am thankful for today

Happy Thanksgiving! Or more likely, hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving! I woke up feeling grateful today, and decided to give some thanks electronically. In no particular order then (other than the order in which things came to mind):

A lively little boy who, although he still refuses to turn head down, constantly reassures me of his presence by kicking, stomping, stretching, and hiccuping. He's a big'un too; at my last appointment he already weighed 5 pounds, 5 ounces. Eat up, little piglet!

A sweet, supportive husband who gets nervous when I walk down stairs, and regularly sidles up to me to slip a hand over my belly. 

Good, supportive friends who give me insight, build me up, and are excited to share in my experiences.

An amazing family that does the same.

A warm, inviting little home that I have no fear of losing or being kicked out of any time soon.

A profession that I truly enjoy. Good co-workers, interesting work, and the ability to do that interesting work on a part-time basis after the baby comes. (Have I ever mentioned that? My plan to work part-time next year?)

Brooklyn! I am thankful for the beautiful, diverse borough that I live in. I discover new corners every week, see all sorts of interesting people all the time, and can't imagine living in any other part of New York.

Good health, both physical and mental. I know there are many who don't enjoy these things, and I give thanks every day that I do.

A past full of amazing experiences, and a future full of possibilities. We have so many ideas of the things we want to do, and places we want to go. And I don't see a baby as limiting us; I see him making things that much better.

The country

    

 Went to Pennsylvania's Amish Country last weekend. Inexpensive fabric stores, bags of apples for less than a third of what I would pay in my own neighborhood, restaurants that close at 7pm, quiet country roads, cherry apple cider, well-behaved little boys in straw hats. Good stuff. Except for the restaurant hours. 7pm? Really?

Marathon Sunday

Things tend to happen all around me - cool, New York things - and I'm either unaware of them or unmotivated to participate. I blame New York. There's way too much going on here. Festivals, readings, West Indian parades, concerts, shows, indie craft fairs, etc. It's overwhelming, and when faced with all these options I tend to throw my hands up in the air and go back to my normal, you-can-do-this-stuff-in-any-town-in-America activities.

Once in awhile though, I'm able to focus in on something and be a part of it. This past Sunday for example, I rolled out of bed, walked three blocks down the street, and watched the best runners in the world glide past me. The New York Marathon. Very cool.

The course runs through my neighborhood, and thanks to the helpful marathon website I was able to time my arrival on the sidelines to match the arrival of the first male runners. Olympians, world record holders; I stood on 4th Avenue for a good 15 minutes waiting for them, and they flashed past me on a wave of "wooo!"s from the crowd. I got the chills. I wondered if the great Haile Gebrselassie would win (he wouldn't).

Behind the pack of leaders came a steady trickle of great-but-not-the-greatest runners. Show's over, right? Funny, it turned out not to be. I loved watching the non-elites. Many had their native flags stamped on their racing pinnys. Lots of Brits, Norwegians, Frenchmen and Italians. Really?, I thought while Oliver sipped his McDonald's coffee next to me. These people came here all the way from Europe? Just for this race? Tall Germans with square jaws ran past in pairs. A man wore shorts made of the South African flag.

A number of runners had their names written on their shirts. Handwritten; they had done this themselves. I was confused, but only until the woman next to me started yelling "Go John! Vive le France, Phillippe! Keep it up Paco!" Ah. Hey, everyone needs a boost now and then.

Some hours later, we happened to be up near Central Park, where the marathon finishes. "The race is still going... should we go watch for a bit?" I asked. We hemmed and hawed, then found ourselves up on a hill overlooking the flood of finishing-somewhere-in-the-middle-or-maybe-towards-the-back runners. It was mile 24, and some of these people looked like they were just barely hanging on. One man made his way over to the sidelines and stopped, clearly hobbled by a leg injury. He was so close! But he clearly couldn't go on. He let out a frustrated cry and struck the fence in anger. He bent over for a few seconds, then started to walk forward.

One man ran by in a head-to-toe orange spandex bodysuit. Another wore a hot dog costume. Two runners - an older father and his 30something daughter perhaps? - held hands and seemed to each pull the other along toward the finish.

And the crowds kept cheering. Just as they had back in Park Slope, people yelled out for total strangers. I think this might have been my favorite part of the race, the whole "rooting for the best in all of us" thing. There is such pain and struggle involved in running a race like this... and so much joy and humanity in screaming yourself hoarse to show your support for these struggling, complete strangers.

November

Yesterday was one of those rainy days, and looking out the floor-to-ceiling window I sit next to at work I could see an enormous curtain of mist. It looked almost like snow, although I knew it was too warm for that. Low 40s, Fahrenheit. Not just yet, winter.

For as long as I can remember, there have two months in each year that I hate: February and November. February is gray and slushy, with no immediate hope for spring and no leftover Christmas glow. November is also gray, and leafless and sluggish and not quite cold enough for beautiful, cleansing snow. Blecch. It doesn't help that November comes right after October, my favorite month. The whole month of October seems to be this big, flaming red and orange reminder to enjoy each moment. And November? It always says to me "hope you enjoyed those moments. They're past now."

This year is different, though. This year I'm enjoying November. Pleasantly surprising. I think it's partly due to the fact that I'm STILL excited about not being hot anymore (stop complaining about summer, Allison!), and partly because my current situation has completely upended the way I look at the cycle of the seasons. The end of fall, far from representing endings and darkness, means anticipation now. When winter - the great void - officially starts, I'll be mere days away from new life! A new beginning! Who needs daffodils and sunlight? Give me a snowy day. Howling wind. Wrap me in a blanket and hole me up in my apartment - I don't plan on going outside for longer than 30 minutes at a time.

Honestly, I could probably be spending this month in the flames of Hell and still feel good about it. Just two more months to wait! I'm so excited to see what (and who) he looks like. I can't wait to hear the sounds he makes while he sleeps. I look forward to picking him up while he cries and putting an end to the tears because my presence comforts him.

Little things for the little one

My urge to create continues. With the busy book behind me, I've turned to other things. Little things. Things that I can finish relatively quickly and feel good about, which will hopefully inspire me to make more things. More little things. I've got a half dozen different projects in mind, and am looking forward to an upcoming trip to Amish Country, where I'll meet up with my parents and cruise the reasonably-priced fabric stores with my fabric mentor (Mom).

If I may share:

The first thing I ever made for the little one (resting atop a scarf I made two years ago. Hey-ooo!). A rattle courtesy of Lotta Jansdotter's Simple Sewing for Baby. Lotta is Finnish (Finn power!), and I love the Scandinavian aesthetic a lot of her stuff has to it. Modern, spare, not overly cutsey... but ridiculously cute at the same time. I look at this and I can see the fat little hand that will eventually grab it.

Project number two: simple baby hat. I'm not sure how well it's turning out, but I am insanely proud of myself for finally learning how to knit in the round. I can make more than just scarves now! Oh, the visions I'm having... hats for all of us, sweaters for the baby...

Project number three (in progress): get better lighting for this apartment! Such is the cross I bear.

Maine

I like my life. In the decade or so that I have been an adult, I've had a lot of fun. Going here and there, doing this and that... it's been really nice. I know that's about to change - in a good way of course; I welcome the change - and I've been trying to make the most of these last months as a carefree, possibly somewhat self-centered, childless person.

Last weekend, for example. My last "just for me" adventure for quite some time (I imagine). I drove up to Maine for a long weekend trip with a friend. We spent a rainy day in Portland. We went to Acadia National Park. We ate really good seafood. We had "drinks" in a church-turned-bar. We cracked jokes, discussed the finer points of the greatest juvenile literature series ever written, recalled songs from our elementary music classes, talked about our families, stayed in a motel room that looked like it had been sawed off from a corner of my grandma's house, bought fancy soaps... etc.

Did I mention how much I like my life? And the people in it? Did I also mention how totally cool I am with the fact that it will be very different in a few months? This trip, planned before I was pregnant, was perfect at the perfect time.

A few pictures. I forgot to bring my camera along for half of our excursions... these were all taken in Acadia. Gol, I do love the North Atlantic.

Magic!

        
My favorite from the most recent batch of ultrasound photos. Is he breathing out phosphorescent bees? I knew he was special!    

Full disclosure: those aren't bees. They're fingertips. A little less dramatic, but magic all the same. And I still think he's special.
      

All right, I give up.

I know that "every woman's pregnancy is unique," but there were certain things I assumed would happen to me. You know, because they happen to everyone. I thought I'd have weird cravings. Or cravings at all. I thought I'd suddenly have a more sensitive sense of smell. I imagined a beast-like hunger that could never be satisfied. I pictured morning sickness.

Never in all my idle imaginings did I think I would no longer be able to read.

I mean, I can still read. The letters still come together to form words. My eyes can still scan them and create meaning. It's just that I can't focus.

This is really killing me. It's just so strange. I can't tell you how many books I've started and tossed aside in recent months. Or how many I've sort of limped through, only half present but desperate to hold on. I've tried re-reading old favorites - I think "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" is currently gathering dust under my bed, where I finally chucked it one evening. I've tried reading new (to me) books by some of my favorite authors. Meh. I've tried reading more "candy"-like things - a mystery, a Bill Bryson book about traveling through Europe, "High Fidelity". Eh.

It's sad, because I can't imagine myself doing much reading after the baby gets here. These months, right now, were supposed to be something of a "last hurrah" for me. Who knew?

I'm just going to put it in writing then, and by doing so let it go: no more books for awhile. And that's totally okay.

Thankfully, I'm able to handle The New Yorker. I guess I'll just be reading magazine articles for the next three and a half months.

And maybe I'll get some of those food cravings, too. Anything can happen, right?

Bad pictures / good project

As a 30th birthday gift to myself, I put together a "life list" this past December. One of the items on it was "learn to sew."

My mother has been sewing since she was an adolescent, and she is amazing. She made clothes for me when I was a kid, she quilts, she has a little just-for-fun, very-low-key business of selling American Girl doll clothes, etc. I grew up with a basic knowledge of the craft, and even made a little piece here and there, but I never had the desire to buckle down and really learn it until quite recently.

While this desire to start sewing was building within, I got the news that a set of friends was expecting a baby. Lightbulb moment - I could make them a busy book!

Over the years I've watched my mom make a series of these books for friends, relatives and co-workers. So cute! Educational and fun! Making one would force me to go over the basics of sewing again and again (change the thread, change the stitching, etc.), but the whole thing wouldn't be too complicated for me to handle.

It was settled, then.

Below are some photos of the finished project. I had to use flash on my camera, so the colors look a little washed out... ah well. You get the idea, right?

 (baby ladybugs are inside... in case you were wondering)

 (Rabbit and crocodile finger puppets in the cars.)

As for vacation...

It was wonderful. I don't feel like using so many words to describe it just now - maybe a few photos and captions can fill you in.

Much of our time was spent with Oliver's family - who, because I respect them and any desire they have for privacy - are not pictured here. Oliver's mom's dog though- I can post a picture of him. You don't mind, do you Bodo?

We made our way one day to Bremen (of the Bremen Town Musicians fame). It had a beautiful "old town" section, complete with town hall and rickety cathedral (both pictured). A beautiful place - if you find yourself in northwest Germany at any point, it's worth dropping by.

Silhouetted in the tower of Bremen's cathedral.

Taking leave of Germany after a bit, we made a brief foray into Denmark. Our first stop was Aero Island, a little island in the East Sea. We stayed in a village called Aeroskoebing (pictured). It's a rarity - perfectly preserved 18th century buildings and very little of anything else. No condos, no fast food chains, no malls. The perfect place to go for an escape from the real world. 

Our biggest doing on Aero Island: an epic bike ride. The island itself isn't all that large but the bike route weaves back and forth a hundred times, sucking the strength out of your legs but giving you views like this one over and over again. I could barely pedal come evening, but I wanted to keep going. Every minute was beautiful, and every place I was that day was exactly where I wanted to be. The world needs more bike trails on tiny, quiet islands.

The little guy enjoyed the view - his first of the East Sea.

Oliver also enjoyed the view. 

Copenhagen was our other destination, and it was wonderful too. Canals, bikes, and all those beautiful buildings. We wandered around for a couple days, feeling guilty and nervous about two things we had never bothered to learn: a single word of the Danish language, and the dollar-kroner exchange rate.

My favorite part of Copenhagen - its outdoor cafes and the fleece blankets that hang casually off the backs of their chairs. A fleece blanket in August! Sorry to be the crazy old weather lady again, but I can't help it. This photo captures me at my happiest - wrapped in a blanket, sitting in a cute neighborhood, relaxing. Blankets in August! All right, I'm done now.

Our last stop was Frankfurt, where we spent a couple days with some friends. Frankfurt is mainly shiny tower-like buildings (background) and almost no quaint, old-style "German" buildings (foreground). The old-style buildings are fake-ish anyhow. The city was destroyed at the end of World War II, and all its historical buildings were reduced to rubble. The facades pictured are just replicas of the originals.

And thus it came to an end. We'll be back next year with the little guy in tow. I'm already plotting day trips and North Sea island excursions. Maybe I'll find some more fleece blanketed-sidewalk cafes. I still can't get over that. Fleece blankets! In August!

All right, I'm done now.

How it is this time

Sometimes I come back from vacation feeling energized and enthusiastic. My two weeks of adventure and relaxation have led me to all sorts of new plans and ideas for regular life, and I whistle while I do the post-trip laundry, etc.

This is not one of those times. As our plane approached JFK yesterday afternoon, the pilot announced that the temperature at our destination was 94 degrees. That broke me. I actually shed a few tears on the plane. Dropped a couple f bombs while Oliver tried valiantly to remain patient. I know there was more to my freakout than just the weather - exhaustion, hormones, a fresh reminder that so many of the people we care about live so far from us - but the pilot wasn't making announcements about any of those other things, so the weather bore the brunt of my rage.

I don't mean to be a cranky old lady who always talks about the weather, but after two glorious weeks of sweaters, fleece blankets and chilly evening walks, New York feels horrible. It's going to be 95 degrees again today. I am so tired of not being able to spend time outside. Of coming home from work and feeling listless and cranky. I want to turn on the oven again. I want to go for a bike ride. I thought that by skipping out of town when we did we could cheat the city of its last two weeks of summer hell, and come back renewed and cooled down. September would be a brand new month. Silly me.

Off!

24 hours from now, I'll be on a plane. We'll be spending the next two weeks in Germany, with a little side trip to Denmark thrown in as well. Looking forward to putting my German to use, eating things I can't get here, seeing friends and family, and seeing my first piece of Scandinavia. Norway and Finland... you know you're my true loves. I'll get to you someday soon. Preferably when I have more than 4 days to explore you.

Back in two weeks! With pictures!

The name

I've been thinking about names for a long time. Long before I was pregnant - long before I was even thinking about trying to get pregnant. It started in Beijing, when I was teaching English. One of my students was named something along the lines of Mei Lin... Mei Wa... Lin Mai... the actual name escapes me. She told me the story once of how she had been named. Her parents had been living some distance apart in the early days of their marriage, and her father would fly to visit her mother every few weeks. There was a mountain range between the two parents... the daughter was conceived in the winter... her name meant "Snow bird that flys over the mountain."

I loved the fact that her name really meant something, that it told a story. I've been a little bummed ever since, knowing that my own naming process wouldn't be nearly as poetic.

We've been talking about names quite a bit, trying to both come up with ground rules and make whatever we choose meaningful. Some decisions we've come to:

1. Little Steff man's middle name will be my maiden name. For me, this is a no brainer. I like the idea of using the middle name to honor someone you love - and now we'll be honoring my entire family.

2. Hot on the heels of  heels of this decision, no names beginning with A. I want to be a good mother, and I'm pretty sure good mothers don't give their kids the initials "ASS". Maybe he'd appreciate the humor. But probably not.

3. His name will be a German one. I'm pretty sure about this. It's a way to connect him to his dad's family and culture, since we're going to be raising him in the United States. I don't want him to say "my dad's from Germany." I want him to say "I'm half German."

4. He'll have a German name, but it won't be a weird one (weird by American standards, that is). No Lothar, no Wolfgang, no Joerg.

5. The name can't have two obviously different pronunciations - one in German and one in English. I was in love with the name Bastian for awhile, but realized that my pronunciation (Bah' * schee* ahn) would fly in the face of what most American would want to say (Sebastian minus the "Se"). Nope, not gonna do it. 

We've got a couple contenders right now, and are going to let them roll around on our tongues for awhile to see if either is a keeper. We'll share our choice with the rest of the world as soon as little Steff man is born... I like the idea of having a small surprise for everyone.

Two encounters

I had to go to the post office during my lunch hour one day last week. I don't generally like going to the post office, and I especially don't like losing a lunch hour to do it. Duty called though, and there I stood, eating hummus and pita while shuffling forward spot by spot.

Lucky me, I was called to the window of my favorite post office worker. I've always figured him for a Native American, though I've never asked him any questions about his ethnicity. Let's just say he's Native American. I like picturing him that way. He's got a soft, smooth voice, and he is always so pleasant. 

I asked him for a pen. "For you, the best pen," he said.  I had used the wrong tape to wrap my package. "I'll let it go for now, but make sure never to use this tape again." I promised him I wouldn't. And I won't. Our business concluded, I got ready to walk away. "Have a wonderful day," he said. "Take care of yourself and your family. Stay healthy."

I stopped in my tracks for a second. "Thank you," I said. I felt like he had just given me a blessing.

*          *          *

Later in the week, I had to leave work early to go to the dentist. My root canal was infected, and I needed antibiotics to put an end to the throbbing in my gums. This was actually my fourth visit to the dentist - in as many months - for the same problem. Long story.

In the elevator, I pressed "15." I was tired. I was worried about the infection. I was annoyed with the professional who had told me to wait until January to have anything done. As the car started upwards, I sighed and leaned my head against the wall.

"Are you okay?" 

I came back to reality and looked at the man standing across from me. He was in his 50s, and had a soft Indian / Pakistani accent. "Have you had a bad day? Are you feeling all right?" 

"Oh," I said, smiling. Nothing serious. Just a toothache. Going to the dentist." I pointed to the elevator doors as they opened for me.

"Ah." He laughed softly. "Good luck!"

"Thanks," I replied. I walked into my dentist's office, feeling good.

Blue ribbon day

From the get go, I knew I was having a boy. I knew it. I wasn't happy about it at first (girls are more affectionate! They talk about feelings! Their clothes are cuter and their names are more fun!), but I talked myself into an acceptance of my fate, and that acceptance eventually became excitement. Yesterday, when I woke up for my doctor's appointment - the one that would tell us once and for all just what it was I was building in there - I actually thought "oh no, what if it's a girl? I don't want a girl." Progress.

By the time we got the official word - yes, boy - I was both completely unsurprised and thrilled. "I knew it!" I shouted, jabbing a finger in the direction of the ultrasound tech. Beside me, Oliver nodded wordlessly. We make a lovely couple, don't we?

After the appointment, I skipped along the blocks to the subway station. "Boy! boy! boy!", the running chorus in my head. I passed people on the street, attempting to pierce them down to their souls with my happiness. "Boy! boy! boy!" On a corner of 29th somewhere between Madison Avenue and Broadway, I noticed a church with an installation of some sort along its fence. Big blue and yellow ribbons were tied to the rail, thousands of them. A white tag with a name and number hung from each. Still bouncing, but with my interest piqued, I glanced at them as I passed. I figured out pretty quickly that the numbers were ages, and that the names had military titles attached - private, corporal, sergeant.

Oh.

How many of those boys' mothers skipped along at one point, shouting "boy!" to themselves and making all sorts of plans? How many of them had daily conversations with their unborn little ones, saying things like "I'm always going to be here; you'll never be alone," and "I'll never let anything hurt you"? Who am I to think I can make promises like those? How can I possibly fight against all those forces out there, any one of which can crush me at will?

I can make him a radical pacifist with an affinity for Canada. That's for starters.

Surviving the summer

I'm not an air conditioning sort of person. I don't mind sweating out the occasional hot streak, and I love ceiling fans. I also love open windows, simplicity, and saving money. And so on and so forth.

So yeah, sweat. The last few summers haven't really involved sweat so much as cooler weather, ceiling fans (bless their hearts!), and our lone rotating fan that occasionally swept over me as I went about my business. This summer has been different. It topped 100 a couple weeks ago, and has regularly pushed well past 90 in the days since. The air has occasionally been uncomfortably humid and there have been air quality warnings. We have spent many evenings slouching listlessly on the couch, eating applesauce and bran flakes for dinner (I ain't turning on no stove!), and letting the dishes pile up (I ain't letting no hot water touch my hands!). Our third-floor apartment has little air circulation, and it has been a little bit brutal.

We've made it this far though, and I think we're going to make it all the way. A few things that have made it all possible:


*Pillow in the freezer. Yes, the pillow comes out smelling faintly of damp cardboard. Oh well.

*Wet washcloth in the freezer. Comes out of the freezer NOT smelling like cardboard. Bonus!

*Cold shower after work. This cools me down for a good 30 minutes. Bliss!

*Running ice cubes over my arms and neck. 

*Putting a box fan in the window. It pulls in the cool air at night, letting me sleep peacefully.

*Going to the movies, where there is always air conditioning. Would I have seen Toy Story 3 and the Karate Kid if it weren't a million degrees out? Probably not.

*Sitting on a couch made of ice. Okay, that one's not real. I can't tell you how many times I've wished it was, though.


Only six weeks until September.

A few thoughts on pregnancy

**Warning: if 3-D ultrasound photos creep you out, do not scroll down.**

I have no plans to turn this blog into an all-pregnancy-all-the-time kind of place. Nor do I, for that matter, intend to make it an all-about-my-baby-all-the-time thing, when that point comes. Since both are a pretty big thing in my life though (the first now, the second later), I'll write about each with some regularity. This is Steffblogg, after all. It's not Alliblog. Ugh. Alliblog. What a horrible name. The whole point of it has always been two pronged. First, to give me an outlet to write about things I want to share. Secondly, to give people an idea of what our life here is like. Especially Oliver's mom. He's a man of few words on the phone, and I know he doesn't tell her about 9/10 of what goes on with us. Sorry about that, Konni.

I'm one-third of the way through this pregnancy, and I've been thinking about it a lot (Shocking, I know). It's been really positive so far, and really interesting. Some things that have really gotten me thinking:

1. I don't think I can properly describe in words just how good it has made me feel when people react with real excitement and happiness to the news. I've gotten cards, hugs, promises of handmade gifts, multiple exclamation points (via email), and declarations of "you just made my day!" I know I'm stating the obvious here, but other people sharing my excitement... it's the greatest feeling. It makes me want to go find a friend / relative, hear some good news, and shower that person with well wishes. 

2. I know I'm going to eat these words in a few months... but I'm really impatient to start looking pregnant. I've got a little bump, but it's so small that it's probably mistaken for a regular paunch. The aftermath of a big lunch maybe. I want the cute, medium-sized bump! I even bought a t-shirt for it last week: navy blue with a cute design and the words "two hearts that beat as one". Sappy? Perhaps. Don't judge me!

3. If you go onto Google and type in a symptom - any symptom - and the word "pregnancy", there will be hits. Aside from the obvious ones: bloating, cramps, constipation, backaches, nausea, exhaustion, etc., there are things like "hot feet", "numb fingertips", "nodules on the gums" and "drooling". Drooling? Good lord... Who knew this was such a carnival freakshow of medical issues? And here I was worried about farting in public.

It's all worth it, though. Here's a picture of the little one. It was taken about three weeks ago, so things have probably changed since then. Still:

Weekend in the Quiet Corner

You might remember me saying that we were going to Martha's Vineyard for the 4th of July weekend. Plans changed, as so many plans have changed this year (sometime I'll tell you about the dozen different summer trips we mapped out before actual flights were booked). Unsure how well three months of pregnancy and three nights of tent sleeping would mix, I canceled our campground reservations only to discover that all hotels were already booked. Ah well. Next year, perhaps?

Instead, we found ourselves in Connecticut's "Quiet Corner", a sleepy, somewhat bucolic area in the north of the state. We stayed at a beautiful B & B, wandered down country roads, snuck into a corn field (being careful, of course, not to disturb any of the corn), swam in a pool, saw fireworks. On the actual 4th, we went to Woodstock's annual 4th of July Jamboree. This place was almost unreal in its small-town Americana charm. There was a frog jumping contest for kids(' frogs). There was a pie eating contest (not for frogs). The ladies of the church sold strawberry shortcake with homemade biscuits. A band played in the gazebo - the band meets once a month in the local church basement, and its leader invited members of the general public to come and join anytime.

The festival's high point was the parade - it was the coolest, folksiest, small towniest parade I've ever seen. The elderly veterans marched first, followed by a marching band of local citizens. The town's kids came next - it seemed like every single one was there - on bikes decked out with balloons, red-white-and-blue streamers, and stuffed animals. A string of vintage cars followed, and the local fire trucks closed things out. Short, simple. 

 the view

 the corn (way more than knee high, by the way)

 measuring the frog's jump

fancy bikes in the parade

(And on an unrelated note, Germany lost its game today. I've written about the team a couple times, so I thought I'd complete the story arc with a mention of their demise. A sad day indeed.)

Deutschland Tor!

Germany won another World Cup game this weekend, beating Argentina to move on to the semifinals. We watched it at a local sports bar, and I have to say it was more than a little strange to see Oliver drinking a beer at 10 am. Ah well. That's how it's done, I guess.

The actual strategy/athletics part of the sport still sort of makes my eyes glaze over, but I've found other ways to amuse myself. A couple things I've noticed:

Mesut Oezil. This picture doesn't really show it, but he has the biggest, saddest eyes I've ever seen. He runs around the field looking like an abandoned puppy. And he's 21 - a little baby! I want to take him home - teach him to read, give him a soft toy to play with.

Bastian Schweinsteiger (in black). The literal translation of his last name is "pig climber." Pig climber. Heh heh. Oh, the schoolyard taunts he must have dealt with. Guess he's laughing now, though. All the way to the bank.

And of course, there's Joachim. Looking sharp as always, my friend.

Seriously, this World Cup thing is turning out to be a lot of fun. It helps of course, when the team you're rooting for keeps winning its games. We joke that if it were possible, we'd sneak a tiny Germany jersey and soccer ball into the womb. May as well get the whole family in on the fun, right?