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.)