Motherhood. Monologuing.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wow's swallows
There is an ongoing, heated debate plaguing this house. It is in regards to the name of our unborn son.
LD wants to name him Wolfgang Oscar, so that his initials will be WOW. He tells me we would be fulfilling the earnest wishes of his mother, who yearned to name him Wolfgang, but was overruled by his father. I have no idea whether this is true, my MIL has never said anything of the sort.
And, as an added bonus, he could go by "Wolfie" or - on more serious occasions - just "Wolf".
I am not in favor. I would, however, concede to getting a dog and naming the dog Wolfgang. Now that is a great idea.
I like the name Hendrix, although given LD's last name is rather long and difficult to enunciate properly, I think Hendrix is not a good fit. It will have to be something easy and monosyllabic.
And, if you are curious at all, we are not going to announce it before he is born because my family is waaayyy too opinionated. (Only minutes old, LD handed Munch over to her my mom and said her name for the first time. A loud "WHAT?" was the response. Not "what" as in could-you-kindly-repeat-that-again-for-my-sensorineural-hearing-loss-is-acting-up-again, but "what" as in "what-kind-of-ridiculous-hippie-name-did-you-give-my-granddaughter").
So, for now he can just be our little Wow.
LD wants to name him Wolfgang Oscar, so that his initials will be WOW. He tells me we would be fulfilling the earnest wishes of his mother, who yearned to name him Wolfgang, but was overruled by his father. I have no idea whether this is true, my MIL has never said anything of the sort.
And, as an added bonus, he could go by "Wolfie" or - on more serious occasions - just "Wolf".
I am not in favor. I would, however, concede to getting a dog and naming the dog Wolfgang. Now that is a great idea.
I like the name Hendrix, although given LD's last name is rather long and difficult to enunciate properly, I think Hendrix is not a good fit. It will have to be something easy and monosyllabic.
And, if you are curious at all, we are not going to announce it before he is born because my family is waaayyy too opinionated. (Only minutes old, LD handed Munch over to her my mom and said her name for the first time. A loud "WHAT?" was the response. Not "what" as in could-you-kindly-repeat-that-again-for-my-sensorineural-hearing-loss-is-acting-up-again, but "what" as in "what-kind-of-ridiculous-hippie-name-did-you-give-my-granddaughter").
So, for now he can just be our little Wow.
Wow's swallows
(our room will be the nursery for at least the first few months)
Munch preparing to paint a picture for her little brother.
Actually, she is happy to be doing anything she sees her daddy doing as well.
Daddy's little girl
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
trying to change the subject
I had expected the first difficult conversation I would have with my daughter would be regarding sex. In preparation I mentally constructed a mind-numbingly boring lecture on the subject that would be sure to knead out any interest she might have in the subject for a good decade or two.
She isn't asking about sex. At two and a half, she has started asking about death.
Last week she blurted out "THE BABY IS GOING TO DIE" while the three of us were sitting around the dinner table. At first, LD and I could only stare at her, searching for any sign she understood the enormity of what she had just said. She laughed and smiled and it was obvious she did not. We continued to stare in silence, not knowing how to explain how disturbing those words were.
In retrospect, we should have just changed the subject. Instead, we lowered our voices and grappled through half-formed admonishments such as "that hurts our feelings" or "that's naughty" or "that isn't true, don't say it", etc. She burst into tears, not because she grasped the magnitude of what she had said, but because she had clearly upset us.
And since then she keeps asking about death. She wants to know who dies and why, then wants assurance that we will not be dying. After one such painful conversation, she said it made her sad when we left for work in the morning. I made the mistake of discussing a friend's dad's illness in front of her, and she showered me with questions as to who exactly was this person that could die. I tried to divert the issue with vagaries about old people. Later, when she heard me tell LD that my plant had died, she asked if it was a grandfather.
I think she first became acquainted with the concept of death when she and my mom were going through old family albums. In the stories of the people in the black and white photos, she must have realized that people come and go and that life is followed by death. She probably didn't understand the significance of that transition until we reacted as we did to her statement at the dinner table.
And now we are stuck with a child who is too young to hear the truth but old enough to know we are skirting something big.
As I am not a religious person and have no idea what happens after death, at first I felt that telling her people go to heaven was a larger deceit than my continued evasions of the truth. Now that the questions have persisted and the topic seems to cause her increasing distress, I have rethought this position.
Perhaps it is more important that she feel that death holds no finality and that there exists no mechanism by which she could be separated from her parents. It was, after all, our discomfort with the subject, not hers, that lead has lead to this anxiety in the first place.
When she is older we can discuss the meaning of heaven. And maybe by that time I will have some idea myself.
She isn't asking about sex. At two and a half, she has started asking about death.
Last week she blurted out "THE BABY IS GOING TO DIE" while the three of us were sitting around the dinner table. At first, LD and I could only stare at her, searching for any sign she understood the enormity of what she had just said. She laughed and smiled and it was obvious she did not. We continued to stare in silence, not knowing how to explain how disturbing those words were.
In retrospect, we should have just changed the subject. Instead, we lowered our voices and grappled through half-formed admonishments such as "that hurts our feelings" or "that's naughty" or "that isn't true, don't say it", etc. She burst into tears, not because she grasped the magnitude of what she had said, but because she had clearly upset us.
And since then she keeps asking about death. She wants to know who dies and why, then wants assurance that we will not be dying. After one such painful conversation, she said it made her sad when we left for work in the morning. I made the mistake of discussing a friend's dad's illness in front of her, and she showered me with questions as to who exactly was this person that could die. I tried to divert the issue with vagaries about old people. Later, when she heard me tell LD that my plant had died, she asked if it was a grandfather.
I think she first became acquainted with the concept of death when she and my mom were going through old family albums. In the stories of the people in the black and white photos, she must have realized that people come and go and that life is followed by death. She probably didn't understand the significance of that transition until we reacted as we did to her statement at the dinner table.
And now we are stuck with a child who is too young to hear the truth but old enough to know we are skirting something big.
As I am not a religious person and have no idea what happens after death, at first I felt that telling her people go to heaven was a larger deceit than my continued evasions of the truth. Now that the questions have persisted and the topic seems to cause her increasing distress, I have rethought this position.
Perhaps it is more important that she feel that death holds no finality and that there exists no mechanism by which she could be separated from her parents. It was, after all, our discomfort with the subject, not hers, that lead has lead to this anxiety in the first place.
When she is older we can discuss the meaning of heaven. And maybe by that time I will have some idea myself.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
"Congratulations
on having a very small penis in you!"
Was the return text message I received from the chronically unpredictable Ms Ab in response to the news we are expecting a boy.
I know it's silly to be shocked by the gender of an unborn child, an outcome with only two possibilities that are equally uncontrollable as unknowable (ancient Chinese gender predictor no-thank-you). But I really thought this was a girl. I have a daughter. I have a sister. Sisters make sense to me. Little boys do not.
So I am. Shocked that is.
And very very excited.
Munch is having more difficulty with the news, and keeps insisting on a "brother-girl".
Was the return text message I received from the chronically unpredictable Ms Ab in response to the news we are expecting a boy.
I know it's silly to be shocked by the gender of an unborn child, an outcome with only two possibilities that are equally uncontrollable as unknowable (ancient Chinese gender predictor no-thank-you). But I really thought this was a girl. I have a daughter. I have a sister. Sisters make sense to me. Little boys do not.
So I am. Shocked that is.
And very very excited.
Munch is having more difficulty with the news, and keeps insisting on a "brother-girl".
Sunday, September 11, 2011
a quiet day
Munch woke up at six this morning, seeking an early settlement on last night's promise that we would bake banana bread today. I put on coffee while she mashed the bananas.
Lincoln and I needed a quiet day to put both our personal and mutual houses in order. The vacation unpacking had yet to be finished, there were two or three loads of clean laundry on the floor, and mail to be sorted. He wanted to work on the murals for the bun, I wanted to make jam with the last of the season's fruit and finally see Munch swim.
Not much else to report. It was a satisfying day and start to what will likely be a busy week.
Lincoln and I needed a quiet day to put both our personal and mutual houses in order. The vacation unpacking had yet to be finished, there were two or three loads of clean laundry on the floor, and mail to be sorted. He wanted to work on the murals for the bun, I wanted to make jam with the last of the season's fruit and finally see Munch swim.
Munch's banana bread
The bun's swallows - in progress.
The swallows will hang opposite Munch's Koi when the two (eventually) share a room together.
She can swim!
I'd like to say this is the best fruit market in Yolo county (is Dixon in Yolo county? I don't know), but truthfully it's that Lincoln is obsessed with the pistachio nuts so we drive a few miles out of our way.
Not much else to report. It was a satisfying day and start to what will likely be a busy week.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Whoa
In general terms, "whoa" is not something you want to hear your healthcare provider say, as it is almost never followed by "you are totally normal and healthy".
Unfortunately, "whoa" was my OB's reaction to a 9lb weight gain in the last four weeks. And that reaction was followed by the helpful advise to "watch the second portions" and "try walking".
I nibbled on the tumbler of nuts and dried fruit I keep in my purse and thought about second portions. After some reflection, I decided that wasn't the problem. The problem was more likely the third and fourth portions with variable contributions from the first and second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, supper, and dinner. I have tried limiting desserts, which is like a panda not eating bamboo.
And as far as exercise was concerned, did walk-rounds count? Multiple daily trips between the Cancer Center, the ER, and the oncology ward? Long family meetings? Managing new interns? No. It was unlikely these activities summed to any meaningful caloric expenditure.
It's not that I am hungry. It's that I am starving, and I want you to stop talking until I can find something to eat.
And it isn't that I don't have time to exercise. It's that it's prohibitively hot until the sun goes down, and when it does, I am already collapsed in bed next to Munch. I could exercise, but I would rather sleep.
I rummaged through the tumbler, selected out the salted cashews and then the chocolate chips, and reviewed my options. I came to no actual decision and have decided to defer further deliberation until I can get a decent night's rest.
Unfortunately, "whoa" was my OB's reaction to a 9lb weight gain in the last four weeks. And that reaction was followed by the helpful advise to "watch the second portions" and "try walking".
I nibbled on the tumbler of nuts and dried fruit I keep in my purse and thought about second portions. After some reflection, I decided that wasn't the problem. The problem was more likely the third and fourth portions with variable contributions from the first and second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, supper, and dinner. I have tried limiting desserts, which is like a panda not eating bamboo.
And as far as exercise was concerned, did walk-rounds count? Multiple daily trips between the Cancer Center, the ER, and the oncology ward? Long family meetings? Managing new interns? No. It was unlikely these activities summed to any meaningful caloric expenditure.
It's not that I am hungry. It's that I am starving, and I want you to stop talking until I can find something to eat.
And it isn't that I don't have time to exercise. It's that it's prohibitively hot until the sun goes down, and when it does, I am already collapsed in bed next to Munch. I could exercise, but I would rather sleep.
I rummaged through the tumbler, selected out the salted cashews and then the chocolate chips, and reviewed my options. I came to no actual decision and have decided to defer further deliberation until I can get a decent night's rest.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Is Organic the new Low-Fat?
I was in the grocery store when the baby suddenly wanted potato chips. I found a bag of chips, verified that every listed ingredient was preceded by the word "organic", and for the second time during my pregnancy got to play the part of the semi-crazed female eating in the store aisle. Despite polishing off more of the bag than I care to admit, I could feel no guilt as all the ingredients were that magical word "organic".
The first fad diet that I remember was the low-fat craze of the early nineties, heralded by the arrival of Snackwells and their signature "moist sponge" consistency. It didn't matter that they were terrible because they were low-fat, and we were all under the logical impression that in order to be low-fat, one must eat low-fat. The popularity of Snackwells rose in proportion with our collective waistlines and we moved on.
Then came Atkins, and everyone started running around with baggies (remember when it was ok to eat food out of a baggie? Oh, still ok by you? You don't live here. Here we use Lunchskins or risk having the Prius keyed) of almonds and hard boiled eggs.
Then came celiac disease and gluten-free. Don't think this is a diet fad? Ok, I actually agree, celiac is a serious medical disease, however I think I could make a strong argument that the proportion of people invoking "celiac" in order to lend medical legitimacy to their bizarre eating requirements exceeds the prevalence of the actual disease.
Now we senescent beings eat "organic".
I am not sure what the over arching point of this post is, except to wonder how it is I got to a place in my life where I could feel that eating a bag of potato chips isn't that bad for me. It occurred later that I hadn't actually read the ingredients and if "organic benzene" had been on the list I might not even have noticed. And one could argue that Benzene, a known teratogen and carcinogen, is actually organic (albeit not in the spirit of the organic food movement) and could have very well been listed on the bag next to "potato, oil, salt, hypertension, and cellulite".
The first fad diet that I remember was the low-fat craze of the early nineties, heralded by the arrival of Snackwells and their signature "moist sponge" consistency. It didn't matter that they were terrible because they were low-fat, and we were all under the logical impression that in order to be low-fat, one must eat low-fat. The popularity of Snackwells rose in proportion with our collective waistlines and we moved on.
Then came Atkins, and everyone started running around with baggies (remember when it was ok to eat food out of a baggie? Oh, still ok by you? You don't live here. Here we use Lunchskins or risk having the Prius keyed) of almonds and hard boiled eggs.
Then came celiac disease and gluten-free. Don't think this is a diet fad? Ok, I actually agree, celiac is a serious medical disease, however I think I could make a strong argument that the proportion of people invoking "celiac" in order to lend medical legitimacy to their bizarre eating requirements exceeds the prevalence of the actual disease.
Now we senescent beings eat "organic".
I am not sure what the over arching point of this post is, except to wonder how it is I got to a place in my life where I could feel that eating a bag of potato chips isn't that bad for me. It occurred later that I hadn't actually read the ingredients and if "organic benzene" had been on the list I might not even have noticed. And one could argue that Benzene, a known teratogen and carcinogen, is actually organic (albeit not in the spirit of the organic food movement) and could have very well been listed on the bag next to "potato, oil, salt, hypertension, and cellulite".
Organic, yo.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
One year and a thousand miles
We have just passed up the one year mark of living here. Munch and LD are spending the Labor Day weekend with my parents on the Oregon coast.
I realize the exclamation "OMG SHE'S GROWING" is not the most profound of observations, but I'm not sure how else to gauge the significance of the coming and going of a year, except as it relates to the development of the only child whose growth we watch in staggered shock.
These pictures were taken by our talented friend Ariana on one of the last weekends in Pacific Beach.
And here she is again, one year later and approximately a thousand miles north on the same coastline, this time in Pacific City, Oregon.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Happy birthday to me..... Happy birthday to me....
Now a mom and pregnant for the second time, I am less willing to spend significant money on clothes, and far more willing spend money on skin care products. Or maybe I am just getting old, and truthfully, don't have many places to wear much in the way of finery.
So, after the saleslady promised me that La Mer "does it all darling - evens out the tone, prevents collagen loss, eliminates fine lines and wrinkles, helps rosacea...." (I think she also said something about the worldwide eradication of HIV and The Jersey Shore, then added the promise of higher cheekbones and renewable biofeuls).... I slapped my gift card on the counter in satisfied relief that this was even better than money-well-spent. It was an investment.
And yes, I fully expect to look like Nicole Kidman by the end of the week.
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