Adriana's birth story, part 2: The birth center

Contractions in the car were hard, but it became easier to manage them because I knew we were on our way. Somehow the fact that they were coming three minutes apart hadn't convinced me that I was really in labor. I breathed through one as we sat at the traffic light near the Washington Masonic Memorial, and then told Brian, "It just feels weird in my low back. We're going to get there, and Marsha's going to tell me I'm just constipated and to go home." But when we arrived at the birth center, Marsha called Pam and said, "They're here. I haven't checked her yet, but she looks like she's in labor. You should come." I told her I still wasn't sure. She had me undress and lie down on the big bed in the birthing suite, while she checked me. "You're five centimeters," she said, laughing. "Now do you believe you're in labor?" She called Pam back with an update, and Brian called our friend Marisa, who was planning on joining us at the birth center, to provide support to both Brian and me. We listened to the baby's heartbeat on the Doppler, and then Brian began to bring things in from the car, while Marsha set me up on the exercise ball to labor. After awhile I got back into the shower, since that had helped before.

When Marisa and Pam arrived I was back to laboring on the bed. It was mid-afternoon, and I was handling the contractions well. When Brian needed to get up, Pam took his place at my side, applying pressure to my back as contractions hit. The rest of the time, Brian knelt on a stool at my side, massaging my low back, while Marisa lay beside me on the bed, stroking my hand during contractions, so that I wouldn't hold tension there, and Pam stroked my calves and squeezed my feet. In between contractions, I was able to talk with them and enjoy their company. After some contractions, I felt strange for being the center of attention; it didn't quite make sense to have three people so focused on me. I mentioned this and everyone laughed at me. Periodically, Marsha or Pam would get out the Doppler to listen to the baby, who seemed to be doing well. They encouraged me to eat and drink, and I managed to drink a bottle of water, which Brian then refilled with some of my sports drink. I nibbled on a couple of pieces of dried fruit, but refused everything else Brian offered. I just didn't think I could handle it. Eventually I participated less in the conversation between contractions, letting my mind float as the soft voices surrounded me. Contractions came and went, as did nausea. I had been good about trying to stay hydrated, and Marisa would hand me my drink after each contraction, but once or twice I had to throw up. It didn't occur to me, though, how little I had been able to keep down since the night before.

I think it was starting to get dark outside when I decided I wanted to try laboring in the jacuzzi. Pam or Marsha went to begin it filling for me. It seemed to take forever to fill, but finally it was ready. I let myself float around in it a bit. Brian put on trunks and got in the tub with me, holding me through contractions. Being weightless helped at first: the pain in my back wasn't so intense, and if I turned onto my hands and knees it seemed easier to breathe. Plus, when I was on my hands and knees, I could finally feel the contractions in my belly a bit. I'd been able to feel my belly tighten with my hand, but this was the first time I'd actually felt the tightening--low and strong across my abdomen. As we labored in the tub, the contractions intensified. I stretched out in Brian's arms, and felt the contractions lasting longer and coming on stronger. Soon it seemed that they never ended. Instead, the intensity just rose and fell in slow waves. I tried to control my breathing and moaned with each exhale, trying to keep the sounds low and deep. Brian sing-songed to me, telling me to relax, to breathe the baby out, to let the water relax me. My mind was divided at that point into a small part that was still very conscious of what was going on around me and intellectually aware of what it was I was supposed to do to relax, and the larger part that was consumed by contractions. The small, aware part was almost amused by Brian, but also very grateful, because his voice was calming, and the part of my mind that was consumed by contractions needed his calmness. Every now and then, when the seemingly unending contraction would peak again, I would lose control of my breathing and my low-pitched moans would become more shrill. I remember telling Brian that it wasn't fair, that the contractions weren't stopping, that I was afraid, that I hurt to much, that I couldn't do this. Then he would guide me through the pain with his soft voice, and the pain seemed more manageable as I could relax a little bit again. Pam came into the bathroom and during a low point in the contraction, she told me that I was having run-on contractions--one coming right on top of another.

I can't remember what made me decide to get out of the tub. At that point the run-on contractions had eased, and I was able to get at least a few seconds of rest in between each contraction. Brian and Pam wrapped me in a big towel and helped me dry off, as I began shaking uncontrollably with cold. We went back to the bedroom and Pam turned on the space heater to help me stay warm. It was dark outside, and through the blinds I could see the lights in the trees along the street outside. We checked again for the baby's heartbeat, and it was harder to find this time; it wasn't that there was anything wrong with the baby, just that it was getting harder to find a good place on my belly to listen. Pam said she and Marsha thought I might be going through transition, and Marsha offered to check me again.

I lay down on the bed, excited: if I was in transition, I was almost there; I was going to meet my baby soon; I had successfully labored. As a contraction eased, I relaxed so Marsha could check my cervix. I tried to read her face. She looked at me seriously and told me I was at six centimeters. My good mood plummeted. I wasn't in transition. I was still a centimeter away from transition. I had been at the birth center for almost five hours, and had only gained one centimeter. I moaned through another contraction, and then Marsha encouraged me to move around a bit. She wanted me squatting, or on the exercise ball, or walking around--something to help move the baby down. Exhausted and discouraged, I agreed. I tried the ball first, because my legs felt so tired. Brian put a pillow over the footboard of the bed for me to lean into and he continued to apply pressure to my back through contractions. I was getting 30 seconds of rest between each one, and those seconds were blissful; I was surprised when Brian told me how short the breaks were, since I was able to rest so much during them. I suppose in comparison to the run-on contractions, any amount of rest would have felt good. That also gave Pam more time between contractions to try to listen to the baby's heartbeat. I was restless, though. I couldn't just stay on the ball. We got up, and I walked up and down in the hallway with Brian. He would lean on a wall and support my weight when a contraction would hit. He kept trying to get me to eat something, and I agreed to try some lentil soup. Marisa heated the soup for me, while Brian helped me walk up and down stairs. That wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, but I was still restless and discouraged, so it was hard for me to focus on doing one thing. We went back into the birthing suite and I ate a few bites of soup and drank some water. I got onto my hands and knees on the bed for awhile, but that position was getting more and more difficult to sustain. I threw up again, and then got back up to pace the hallway some more.

Regina, the midwife I had seen the day before, was at the birth center and came up to the suite. "Some people will do anything to get out of going for an ultrasound," she joked. It was nice to have another person there to talk with when I felt up to talking. Marisa had to leave at some point. Shortly after that, my water broke. I alternated between walking the hallway and lying on the bed. My throat was getting sore from moaning out contractions. I admitted to Pam that thoughts of an epidural were crossing my mind. She didn't make me feel guilty for that, but encouraged me to go on laboring. I think there was a decision around this time that the baby had definitely turned into a posterior position, which was why it was becoming more and more difficult to find the heartbeat.

I got sick again, and I could see concern in Marsha's face. She said she was worried about my energy level. She suggested a shot of Nubain, which wouldn't really help with the pain, but would help me get some sleep. But Nubain is a narcotic, and after experience with similar drugs for migraines when I was a teenager, I declined, explaining that I didn't react well to narcotics. Someone suggested I get back in the tub, and Pam began adding hot water to it. Brian didn't get in the tub with me this time, and I didn't ask him to. I could see worry in his eyes, worry that was probably reflected in my own, although I tried not to show it. I eased myself around in the water between contractions, trying different positions. I hoped that if I spent more time on my hands and knees that the baby would turn, and being in the water made it easier to support my body that way.

After a fairly short time in the tub, Pam and Marsha joined us in the bathroom. There was talk of a hospital transfer, so I could get an epidural and a bit of rest. The idea certainly appealed to me at this point. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep almost more than I wanted to meet my baby. But I was still worried about going to the hospital, and I felt self-conscious about giving up on my natural birth. In my mind I saw the sheet of statistics from the birth center, with the number one reason for transfer to the hospital: maternal exhaustion. I saw myself getting closer and closer to being a part of that category.

Adriana's birth story: Laboring at home

As brevity is apparently not my strong suit, I'll be posting this in several pieces.


On January 9th, I went for my 41-week appointment with the midwife. We had a non-stress test, where the midwife, Regina, strapped an external fetal monitor around my belly. That tracked the baby's heart rate on a strip of paper, and I pressed a button every time I felt the baby move, which made a made a mark on the paper to show whether the baby's heart rate increased in response to movements. After about 20 minutes, we could see that the baby was indeed "reactive" and doing fine, but I got a referral for an ultrasound on Friday to check to make sure I still had adequate amniotic fluid. During the test we talked about inducing labor. The practice would only allow me to go two weeks past my due date before referring me to their back-up physician for induction and a hospital birth.

I didn't want a hospital birth, but I had spent the day before thinking a lot about the possibility. I knew that when I went through the doors of the hospital to give birth, I was putting myself at higher risk for interventions that I didn't want--Pitocin, episiotomy, c-section. Those interventions wouldn't be the end of the world, I knew, but I hated the idea of giving up our plans for a peaceful birth at the center with few or no interventions. I talked with a friend about my worries, and she pointed out that just because I was more likely to face those things in a hospital setting, I wasn't necessarily going to experience them, as I had educated myself and was making an effort not to have to go through them. Somehow, those words helped. I went to yoga that night to help me relax and by the time of my visit I was feeling better. I hadn't exactly come to terms with the idea of a hospital induction, but I felt calmer about it.

We looked at the calendar with Regina and decided that the induction would probably have to be scheduled for the 15th or 16th, depending on whether the hospital would do a scheduled induction on the Monday holiday. I crossed my fingers that I would have until at least the 16th, and Regina said she would talk with the other midwives about letting me go that long--42 weeks and 2 days--but that she thought it would be fine. I could tell she didn't like the idea of the hospital induction either. We discussed more "natural" methods of induction as well, such as castor oil, evening primrose oil, and "stretch and sweep." Regina offered to do the stretch and sweep during that office visit, and I agreed. I didn't think it would actually work, but I figured it was worth a try. Regina said that it seemed most effective when done repeatedly, so I could come back in Friday after my ultrasound for a second try.

I expected the S&S to hurt, but it wasn't too bad. It was difficult at first for Regina to reach my cervix. The baby's head was low, and my cervix was still back behind it. I was about 50% effaced, and when Regina said that laughed to myself. At my 36-week visit, I had been 50% effaced, and Brian and I had become certain that meant the baby wouldn't be late after all. Regina also said I was only one centimeter dilated, but that was enough. She used a finger to pull the edge of the cervix back and try to separate the bag of waters from the cervix. I felt a bit of cramping in my low back, but not the kind of pain I had expected.

We headed home, stopping at Whole Foods on the way for a bottle of evening primrose oil capsules and some Ben & Jerry's. (What? Cookie dough ice cream totally helps induce labor. I'm sure I read that somewhere.) After dinner, I took two capsules and ate some ice cream. The cramping I had felt during the exam was mild, feeling mostly like PMS, but I had felt that way a lot over the past couple of weeks. By the time we went to bed around 11 that night, the feeling was getting stronger. I lay in bed trying to sleep as the cramping came and went. Eventually I felt a wave of nausea and got up to be sick.

I spent the next few hours back and forth between bed and the bathroom. I went downstairs and got out a bottle of the sports drink I had bought to take to the birth center for during labor. Water tasted funny and I thought I would have a better chance of keeping that down than actual fruit juice. I drank a few ounces and went back to bed, but soon needed to throw up again. I finally woke up Brian to tell him that I was sick. He got up with me for a little while and sat in the bathroom with me while I tried to throw up. We went back to bed so we could try to sleep, but my cramps kept coming. I started to wonder if this was labor, but the pain was all in my low back. Nevertheless, I started looking at the clock: five minutes between, then 30, then twelve. There was no regularity. Brian slept, and when I had a 30-minute break, I think I was able to doze too. When the cramps were particularly strong I would wake Brian and he would press on my back while I took long, slow, deep breaths.

Around four o'clock, I started to think about calling a midwife. I wondered who was on call; we had forgotten to pick up the January call schedule. Not that it mattered--I like all the midwives, and if I needed someone, it wasn't as though I had a choice of who I got. At 4:45, after getting sick one more time, I woke Brian and told him I was going to call.

When the answering service picked up, I said that I needed to speak with a midwife. "Are you in labor?" the woman asked. I told her that I didn't know. I was starting to think that I might be, but I still hadn't felt any pain in my belly, just the normal tightening of Braxton-Hicks contractions that I had been feeling for several weeks. Within 15 minutes, one of the midwives, Marsha, returned my call. I described what was going on. She asked whether my belly was tightening and whether there was any regularity to the cramps or the Braxton-Hicks contractions. I told her there wasn't, but she told me that it could still be labor. She wanted me to try to drink a little something and get some rest. I hung up the phone and went back to what I'd spent the rest of the night doing.

I did manage to get some sleep here and there. Brian applied pressure to my back and kept encouraging me to eat or drink something. The sun came up, and I know Brian was on the phone with Marsha again at some point, while I rested in bed, breathing through what I still thought were cramps, although Brian and Marsha had decided it was labor. At one point I decided a hot shower would help me relax. I was having trouble standing and breathing when the cramps would hit, so I pulled a towel into the shower and knelt on it, letting the hot water hit my low back. Finally, I found some relief.

While I was in the shower, Marsha suggested to Brian that we come into the birth center. She could give me some Ambien to help me rest up so that I would have energy for labor. But after my shower I was able to relax and doze a bit more, so we decided to stay at home. We called our birth assistant, Pam, to tell her what was going on. Brian described everything to her, and then I spoke to her, telling her that I didn't really think I was in labor, as the pain was all in my back. She suggested getting onto my hands and knees to try to ease the pain of the cramps, and to lean over pillows in that position to get some rest in between. I did what I could to relax, and eased myself through contractions with deep breaths, beginning to vocalize with low moans when I exhaled.

Finally, conceding that this might be labor and that I was too uncomfortable to stay home any longer, I told Brian to call Marsha and tell her we would be coming in. Brian began throwing the last minute items into our bags, and to move things to the car, while I breathed through contractions on my own the best I could.

I hadn't realized how much being calm and breathing carefully helped manage the pain until one hit me really hard. I didn't realize that Brian had taken a bag out to the car, and I called out for him. When he didn't respond I called again and began to panic. The pain grew worse and my breathing became more erratic. I called for him over and over until he was there, apologizing, trying to calm me down. "Where are you? Why didn't you come?" I asked him, when the pain finally subsided. He explained, and then began timing his trips outside so that he was always back for contractions, sprinting to the car with my duffel bag, returning to help me with a contraction, then sprinting back out to put my exercise ball in the back of the car. At last he helped me out to the car and we were on our way.

Unimaginable

Adriana Ruth
January 11, 2007
9:10 AM
9 pounds, 11 ounces
22 inches






i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e.e. cummings

Book review: Pregnancy books

I had been reading online articles for months when I got pregnant, but I am a reader and a researcher and once I really was pregnant, I started building something of a library of pregnancy books. I never picked up a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting, as I was told that a lot of the book would just terrify me. Instead I asked friends for recommendations and ended up with a half dozen books to occupy me over the past nine months (and one week!).


Your Pregnancy Week by Week (5th Edition)
Glade B Curtis, and Judith Schuler

This was one of the first pregnancy books I bought. A friend had it during her pregnancy a few years ago, and I began calling it "the fruit book" at that time, because when I would call her to ask how she was doing, she would always tell me "This week the baby is the size of a grape" (or a strawberry, or a plum, or a peach), because each week the book gives you something to compare the size of your baby to. My favorite thing about this book is explained in its title: "week by week." This book gives you something new to read with each week of your pregnancy. Most other books only give you an update every month, which I found frustrating, especially early in pregnancy, when I knew things were changing constantly. Not that reading about it really makes a difference--I was still anxious no matter how much I read--but at least it gave me something to do.

My least favorite thing about this book is that it takes a very medical view of pregnancy and childbirth. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised by that. After all, the cover does bill it as "the only best-selling guide written by a doctor." But other books I've read (including the Mayo Clinic guide listed below) take a more balanced view of out-of-hospital births. Is home birth safe? the authors ask in a text box on the subject. "By any doctor's standards, the answer is a resounding "No!" I am planning birth center birth, attending by a midwife, rather than a home birth, but I was still put off by this. The authors don't offer specific citations for the studies they mention that found home births risky. They also point out that risk of serious complications increases when a woman suffers from gestational diabetes or high blood pressure. They do not, in this section, mention that these women are at higher risk of complications in any birth setting, nor do they discuss whether home birth or birth center midwives will refer their clients to back-up physicians because of these higher risks. I do hope that in a future edition of the book, the authors will consider other research, including a 2005 study of low-risk women with planned home births, that found that the women had fewer interventions than similar women birthing in hospital settings and experienced similar outcomes.

Maybe it's strange of me to spend so much time thinking about half a page in a book, but this particular half page really stood out to me. Still, I found the book helpful overall, and I have recommended it to other pregnant women.


The Pregnancy Book
William Sears and Martha Sears

I confess that I have drunk the Dr. Sears Kool-Aid. And while I haven't yet had my baby, so I can't attest to his parenting advice, I have enjoyed the Kool-Aid so far. The Sears' philosophy of attachment parenting appeals to me, and I found their pregnancy book offered a more balanced perspective on pregnancy and birth options. I did not feel that they were pushing readers toward natural childbirth or judging those who opt for other alternatives. This book does only offer monthly snapshots, which I found frustrating at times. I do think it has a good index and makes a good reference book, though, so that even if you're experiencing something that's not discussed in your current month, it is easy to find what you're looking for.

This is another book that cites studies without actually citing the studies. The authors offer some numbers from studies to offer support for some of their claims, but they don't tell me where to go find the studies to read them for myself. As someone who really likes research and numbers, it hurts my heart to not have access to some of the details of the statistics they are quoting. I mean, at least give me the z-scores or something.


The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy
Vicki Iovine

This book was perhaps the least practical, in most senses, of all the books I read, but I did find it helpful. It's not helpful if you are having some concerns about something medical going on. It's great, though, if you want to laugh about pregnancy and hear some practical advice about what other women have experienced. And I didn't have the issue with wanting something more of a bibliography, because it's not the kind of book to offer up many studies to begin with.


The Expectant Father
Armin A. Brott and Jennifer Ash

I bought this book for Brian after reading some reviews on Amazon. He had been asking our midwife about books on becoming a father. He apparently meant actual parenting books, but I was unclear on what he was talking about at the time. Both of us did end up reading and liking this book. It doesn't go into a lot of detail on more medical aspects of pregnancy, but that was fine. They begin each chapter (one for each month) with lists of what your partner is experiencing physically and emotionally, a section on what's happening with the baby, and then a discussion on what's going on for the father. I found the sections on what the partner (that's me!) is experience to be fairly accurate, and what it listed for what the father was experiencing seemed reasonable to me. But the book also included more practical advice that isn't in the books targeted to women, such as a discussion of different types of life insurance and some information on various college savings accounts. I suppose these sections are in this book because it is aimed at men, and these are traditionally things that men deal with. Plus, it could give expectant fathers something to do while their partners gestate (that's a fancy word for nap and eat). But in our house I'm the one that generally handles that, so I found the information helpful in getting me thinking about what we needed to do (once I got over my momentary outrage that these people seemed to think it was my husband's responsiblity to deal with these things). And it got my mind of the gestating for a while.

As for the book's balance between "medical" and "alternative" practices during pregnancy and childbirth, I felt the authors did a fairly good job. Their discussion of issues such as out-of-hospital birth and natural childbirth methods didn't strike me as at all judgemental. It's also not a book that's heavy on the statistics and research, so I don't think it would help anyone make a decision about this sort of thing, but it does offer a way to start thinking about what you want to do.


Complete Book of Pregnancy and Baby's First Year
Mayo Clinic

A friend sent me a link to a State Farm website where you could send in your name and address and get a free copy of this book (unfortunately, I have lost the link), so I think it was totally worth what I paid for it. And I think if I'd paid actual money for it, it would have been worth it too. I would weigh this heavy book on my kitchen scale, but that only goes up to five pounds, and I think this book is heavier than that. When the book arrived, I did start to read it through, but I found some sections too difficult to read--in the early days of pregnancy, I really was not emotionally prepared to read about birth defects and chromosomal abnormalities. But it was my reference book for any concerns I had about medical aspects of pregnancy, and when we were weighing whether to go ahead with theAFP (triple screen), this book had the best discussion of what the test would actually be able to tell us.


Husband-Coached Childbirth
Robert A. Bradley

Bradley's book isn't a traditional pregnancy book as the ones above are, but it's on my shelf and I thought I would include it here, since I washed down my Dr. SearsKool-Aid with a glass of Dr. Bradley's Kool -Aid. Not having been through birth yet, I can't attest to his method of childbirth, although I can say that I feel more confident going into this because of reading his book and taking his class. Bradley was one of the first doctors to advocate for the presence of fathers in the delivery room, something that I take for granted at this point. His book isn't really balanced. While he does recognize that some women really need an epidural or other interventions during birth, his goal is to have women get through birth drug-free. The book offers helpful tips for parents-to-be on exercises to help prepare the body for labor and details at what to expect during labor.

I would also like to note here that the workbook that you are given when you sign up for a Bradley course could use some serious editing. The typos in there made me twitch.

Lions and tigers and bears

I have a confession to make: as cute as Tai Shan is, I prefer the tigers to the pandas at the National Zoo. I worried that admitting something less than absolute devotion to Butterstick would mean that I could no longer be a Washingtonian, but then I remembered that I live in Virginia anyhow.

I've made it my goal to get out of the house every day. If I sit at home, I just worry too much about when the baby's going to come. So we made it outdoors for walks on both Saturday and Sunday, but I fell down on meeting the goal on Monday and Tuesday. Yesterday I overcompensated by spending three hours walking around the zoo. I must say that a weekday in early January (especially one that is 60 degrees and mostly sunny) is a much better day to be at the zoo than Memorial Day, which was the last time I went. That day it was completely crowded and miserably hot. Yesterday it was fairly empty, so I had lots of chats with the docents, and it was so nice that I could have even walked around with no coat. I kept the coat on, because it is longer than my maternity sweaters, which I am apparently outgrowing, as they keep riding up and exposing my belly.

The tigers were my favorite part of the trip. Yes, Tai Shan is adorable, but he just sits in the tree or lies around eating bamboo. Cute, but not quite the same as the tiger cubs. The cubs were too new to be on exhibit back in May, so this was the first time I got to see them. They are no longer the cute, squishy, kissable little kitty cats that I saw pictures of over the summer. Now they mostly look like smaller versions of their parents. Still, they are fun to watch play, especially when they are pouncing on their mom.









Oh, and there are also gorillas and sloth bears and lions. And a lot of other critters that I didn't get photos of, because three hours on my feet got to be a bit much. I needed to concentrate on keeping myself moving, not taking pictures.

Hawk

We've been spotting what Brian was sure was a hawk of some sort, and thought might be a bald eagle, out our windows over the past couple of weeks. We've taken a couple of walks around the neighborhood and down near Four Mile Run in hopes of getting a better glimpse, but we never found anything.

But this morning some loud noise from just outside our windows got Brian's attention. The hawk (not an eagle) was in our magnolia tree. He got a great view through our upstairs window, and then when the bird moved to the next magnolia over to eat its prey, he went outside to take some more pictures.

***

On Sunday as we walked through Four Mile Run park looking into the bare trees for signs of an eagle nesting, we spotted a heron by the water. I didn't have the camera out and wasn't moving very quickly, so thought I had missed it, so I was pleasantly surprised to see this picture when I was downloading Brian's hawk images.

Mason Neck

Back in June, Brian and I ventured out to Mason Neck State Park for a nature walk. It was a beautiful, warm day, and the some of the wetlands we walked through on the Bay View trail were fascinating. Everything was so lush and bright.




We went back this past Saturday after I read that this was a good time of year to see bald eagles in the area. It seemed like a good chance to play with my spiffy new camera. (I was also hoping that a good walk would encourage Sticky to enter the world.) We went in the late afternoon, mostly because we were lazy about getting out of the house, but we rationalized that sunset would probably be a good time to check out some birds. I was amazed at how the wetlands had changed in six months.



It was a good walk, albeit a bit chilly, and it was fun to experiment with the optical zoom on the camera. I also need to play with all the different shooting modes on my camera. I have a feeling I can do a lot more to adjust the lighting on some shots.










We saw a few herons, although I was never quick enough with my camera to really catch one. And at the end of the walk we did finally glimpse an eagle, perched high in the trees at some distance from us.

New Year's Eve

I don't quite remember how old I was when I stayed up all night at a slumber party with girlfriends to celebrate the New Year, but at the time I was pretty sure it was the best New Year's Eve ever.

Other New Year's Eve celebrations sort of blend together in my head until one when I was in college when I went out to dinner in San Francisco with a guy I had a huge crush on, and then met up with a group of his friends for one of the big hotel parties. I was pretty sure that was the best New Year's Eve ever.

After college, Brian and I were living together, and we invited friends over for New Year's Eve. We had a spaghetti dinner at our house, walked along West Cliff, then went down to First Night Santa Cruz to count down to midnight at the clock tower. In the morning, eating breakfast with Brian and our friends, I felt content, pretty sure it was the best New Year's eve ever.

In 2001, Brian and I decided to get married on New Year's Eve. We planned a small wedding at his parents' house, with just family and a few close friends. The ceremony began just after midnight. In the morning when I woke up beside him at a hotel in Marina del Rey, I knew I'd just had the best New Year's Eve ever.

When we told people our wedding plans, many warned us that we would never be able to celebrate our anniversary properly because of the New Year's celebrations. I informed them that our anniversary was actually going to be on January 1, so it wasn't really an issue. But for the most part we have spent New Year's Eve celebrating our anniversary. Neither one of us is a big partier, so we generally just fix a nice dinner at home and drink a bottle of champagne. Sometimes we don't even make it until midnight. Then, sometime in the days just after New Year's Eve, we go out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate again. It's exactly the way I enjoy spending New Year's Eve and my anniversary.

Today is my due date. The baby seems uninclined to make an appearance any time soon. I've done even less to plan out a nice dinner for tonight than usual. (We did go to Rasika last weekend to celebrate in advance, in case the baby did deign to grace us with her presence in a timely manner.) We don't have gifts to exchange--no wood, nor silverware, or anything else--because it didn't even really occur to us. The odds of me staying awake until midnight are slimmer than usual. All we care about is spending all the time we can together while we eagerly wait for our new family member.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be the best New Year's Eve ever. And an even better year lies ahead.

I'm a cranky commuter, but a happy walker

This morning I walked to the Luna Grill and Diner to meet a friend for brunch. My walk took me along a route frequented by many cyclists, and when I was halfway there, I heard a bicycle bell ring loudly, close behind me. I was already pretty far to the right, but I moved over a bit more. The ringing was so insistent that I started to wonder if it was someone I knew. I looked over my shoulder and saw two men in windbreakers and bike helmets, neither of whom I'd ever seen before.

"On your left," the first man called out, ringing his bell again. He glanced back as he passed me and then braked quickly. "Why, you're pregnant with expectation!" he exclaimed, as his companion coasted slowly past both of us.

"Yes, I am," I grinned back, as I approached him.

"You know what's the busiest day of the year in the maternity ward?" he asked. I stopped and asked him which day that would be. "Labor Day!"

He laughed at his own joke, informed me that he worked for Planned Parenthood, and pedaled away.

Cranky commuter: Hormonal edition

I could have walked to the Metro from my office last night. I probably should have. But even though that's under two miles, I decided to save my energy (I don't have much left these days), so that I could fix enchiladas for dinner when I got home and then could go walking with Brian.

I should have started walking when I waited for the bus for 20 minutes and none came. But by then I'd waited 20 minutes, so one had to be coming soon. Right? Well, only if you count 25 minutes after that as soon.

I should have waited for the next bus when I saw how crowded the first one is. They usually come in packs when they're that far apart, so there was probably another not too far behind. But I couldn't see one coming, so I boarded the crowded one. I wasn't too offended when no one offered me a seat. I wish they would, especially on the bus where I feel less stable than on the train, but it's not the end of the world to have to stand. I'm just confused because people were offering me a seat when I was 5 months pregnant and I thought one might just think I had a bit of belly pudge. Now I'm quickly approaching my due date, and it's rare that I'm offered a seat. A seat on the bus did finally open up near me part way down Wisconsin Avenue and I grabbed it.

I started wishing I had walked (I would have been there so much faster!) as traffic crept along and the bus remained jammed full. A man who I would judge to be about in his 40s ended up standing near me as the bus made its way down M Street. He was casually dressed and carrying a heavy leather bag, sort of a cross between a brief case and a duffel bag, if that makes any sense, slung over his shoulder. I moved my head out of his way as he came by so it wouldn't hit me, just as I had avoided a college student's backpack earlier in the ride. But this man stopped right by me, and I had to keep my head out of the way. Not that that helped. As the man swayed with the turns of the bus, his bag kept hitting me in the shoulder. I tried to move out of the way, but unless I wanted to sit on the lap of the man beside me, I didn't have many options.

"Excuse me!" I finally exclaimed when the man turned for some reason and his bag hit me sharply in the ear. "Could you please be careful with your bag?"

"It's a crowded bus, lady. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. When I'm on a crowded bus with a big bag I usually hold it it's handle so it's down towards the floor, not whacking other passengers in the head."

"You wouldn't be having the problem if you would be respectful and give up your seat to someone older than you," he told me.

I thought about ignoring him, but I was cranky and annoyed. Plus, traffic was moving slowly enough with the lights approaching Washington Circle that I knew I could make it to the Metro faster than the bus by walking. So I stood up.

The man with the bag promptly sat down as a woman across the aisle protested that I was pregnant and shouldn't give up my seat.

"Ain't my problem," the man said. "Ain't my fault." The woman protested again and began to offer me her seat, but I shook my head and told her I was getting off soon, as the man muttered something about "Bitches always gettin' pregnant, wantin' special attention for it."

I got off the bus and walked toward the Metro feeling angry and overwhelmed, and wondering how much of it was just hormones. It was 7 pm and I had left work at 5:45, which was ridiculous, and I was exhausted. Nine minutes until the next train, I saw, once I was down on the platform. I sat down on a empty bench to wait, thinking that at least it was late enough that the train wouldn't be too crowded.

There were a few open seats on the car that I boarded. I was at the front of the car, and turned toward the very front of it, where I saw two open seats. A woman ahead of me took one. When I got to the other, I saw that the man sitting next to it had his bag there.

"Excuse me," I said, quietly, the way you do when you need someone to move their bag a little so you can sit down.

He just looked at me. "There are open seats over there," he said after a moment, nodding toward the center of the car. He was right, and as the train pulled out of the station, I turned and went to take one of them.

***

I don't know why people are suddenly so rude. Perhaps it's the stress of the holiday season? I am used to a certain amount of indifference among commuters here, but yesterday seemed exceptional. It was a relief to get on my last bus home, with the driver that a classmate and I nicknamed "Speedy" four years ago, because we knew if we didn't make it onto his bus at Braddock Road by 8:40 PM, we weren't going to make that bus at all because he is always so prompt and will drive faster than seems smart in order to stay on schedule. The bus driver smiled when he greeted me. When I sat down, a neighbor whose name I don't know asked me how I was feeling these days. Another man got on the bus, handing over his transfer and then putting two dollars in the fare box. When Speedy stopped him to ask him what he was doing, the man explained that in the past couple of weeks drivers had let him ride a few times when he didn't have the 35 cents with him to pay the transfer fare, so he was just trying to make up for that. It only took a few little things to improve my mood and make me start thinking that the Metrobus and Metro parts of my commute had been almost funny.

I'm not feeling creative enough to write much these days, so I just stole this from Mary.

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate? Hot chocolate, especially if it has peppermint or cinnamon in it. And it should definitely have whipped cream on top.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? He wraps them unless they are too big.

3. Colored lights or white lights on tree/house? Colored on the tree. But they can't blink or be those big bubble lights.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? No. I'm certain the cat would find some way to get a hold of it and poison herself.

5. When do you put up your decorations? First or second weekend in December.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? Probably mashed sweet potatoes...which are suspiciously like dessert.

7. Favorite childhood holiday memory. Being up early with my brother and sister to check out the presents when it was still to early to get our parents out of bed.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I was probably around 8, and I think I figured it out at Easter. The Easter Bunny seemed less realistic than Santa.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Yes.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? We did the lights first starting at the bottom, then the ornaments.

11. Snow: love it or dread it? Love it. If it's going to be that cold, it damn well better be snowing.

12. Can you ice skate? Sort of. I don't fall over, but I don't think I look particularly graceful doing it.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? Not one in particular.

14. What's the most important thing to you about the holidays? Getting to see family and friends.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Anything with apples.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? Baking goodies while listening to Christmas music. I'd also like to start a tradition of doing a Christmas walk like last year . I'll have to work on Brian to go with me next weekend.

17. What tops your tree? Right now, a stuffed monkey named Weed.

18. Which do you prefer: giving or receiving gifts? Giving. I love picking out presents for people. Not that I have any complaints about receiving gifts.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song? I love "Silent Night." I think that's because just hearing it makes me think of the end of the Christmas Eve service with everyone singing by candlelight. Although I've also been enjoying the tunes on the Brian Setzer Orchestra's Christmas albums this year, especially their version of The Nutcracker.

If I saw me coming down the street, I'd probably be tempted to make a comment, too

According to all my pregnancy books and the websites I read, I should be tired by now of having people make comments about my body. I've actually been pretty impressed with how well these authors can describe exactly how I'm feeling throughout the pregnancy, but on this one they're wrong. I have yet to received a comment that has bothered me. Well, there was the time, back when I was five months pregnant, when a woman at work asked me if I was sure I was only having one baby, given how much I was showing for that point in the pregnancy. That had me more worried than offended, though, and my ultrasound a week later cleared up the concern.

Maybe it's because most of the comments haven't seemed offensive at all. Some even make me smile:

"Lookin' good," my bus driver on my evening commute greeted me one day.

"Not much longer now, sister," said the Post Express man outside the Foggy Bottom metro as he handed me a paper.

"Looks like you're getting close," said my bus driver on my morning commute said, after lowering the bus to make it easier for me to get on.

"If I'm facing my door, I can tell it's you coming, because I see your belly first," a coworker teased me.

And my favorite, from a hobo on M Street last Friday night: "Jingle belly, jingle belly, baby's on the way!" (I actually laughed at that one, and then I gave him the change I had in my coat pocket.)

Now I can worry about people googling to find out how to get tickets and emailing me for information

Since I started my current job a couple of years ago, I have on occasion received phone calls from people who want to buy Georgetown basketball tickets. When I get these phone calls, I explain that they've called the wrong number and give them the correct one. That number doesn't resemble my extension in the slightest, nor do any of the other athletic department numbers, so I began asking people where they got my number, thinking that perhaps the university had run an advertisement with the wrong number in it. Every single person I've asked has told me they got my number from 411. The university seems to think there is nothing they can do to help me with the problem.

It's been an ongoing issue, but one that hasn't bothered me particularly. Until a couple of weeks ago when I came in on a Monday morning to 14 messages on my voice mail requesting basketball tickets. I returned calls from people who had left messages that I could understand to give them the correct number.

I am amazed at how rude people are. I don't have to return calls when someone dials the wrong number, but I do it to be helpful (and because I'm afraid they'll call again). I explain who I am and why I'm calling and give them the correct number. Then they hang up on me. Either that or they just don't get it and can't figure out why I'm calling them back if I can't sell them basketball tickets.

The calls continue to come, and the callers always ask me "Is this Georgetown?" When I confirm that they've reached someone at Georgetown, they ask about basketball tickets. I give them the correct number, and then many of them hang up on me immediately without thanks. If I do catch them in time to ask where they got my number in the first place, they sound impatient as they tell me that they got it from Information. I'm not sure if they're bothered that Information gave them the wrong number, if they're annoyed that they have to take the time to answer my question, or if they think I ought to know where they got my number.

Others just seem amazingly dense. If they get my voice mail, which now explains that if they are trying to get basketball tickets they need to dial this other number, they leave a message anyhow. And if they reach me (or if I'm a sucker and call them back), they don't understand why I can't sell them basketball tickets. After all, I am at Georgetown, right? There must be something too complicated about dialing this other number I am trying to give them and something too complex about the idea that there are academic offices at a university that have absolutely nothing to do with the athletic teams. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you with getting tickets. You need to call this other number," I explain.

"But aren't you at Georgetown?"

"Yes, but I'm at a research institute. I have nothing to do with the athletic department."

"Well, who do I need to talk to?" I give them the number again.

I just had a new experience, which was more on the rude side of things than the dense side. I gave the correct number to someone who called. She hung up on me, and I guess called the correct number. I'm thinking she was told she had to mail something in, because she called me back a few minutes later. "Is this Georgetown?" she asked again. I confirmed that it was and started to explain again, but she interrupted me: "What's your zip code?" I gave it to her and she hung up on me again.

It would be wrong of me to try to sell tickets to the next caller, wouldn't it? I imagine taking their credit card info, telling them where their seats are, and giving them an imaginary confirmation number to take to the will-call office. I would only do it to the people who keep insisting that I help them after I give them the right number. I wish I could think of a way to do it to the people who hang up without saying thank you.

Just a little update

Some people are blogging every day in November (which I really love, because I like knowing there will be something new to read every day. This is only the third time I've managed to come up with anything to say. I'm afraid I just haven't thought of much worth saying.

Brian and I spent a quiet Thanksgiving day at home together. When I was growing up, Thanksgiving dinner always took place at my family's house, and I loved it. I think mostly I loved that my cousins were coming over, and we could all sit at the kids' table and have a grand time. I remember the house being full and hectic and warm and happy, and I love that feeling and miss it. But I was also thankful to have this quiet holiday at home this year: to spend the morning lying in bed Brian and the cat, all snuggled up together, while the baby stirred and kicked inside me; to call a pregnant friend to see how she was doing and hear that she had given birth to a little girl the night before; to spend the day in the kitchen with Brian, cooking some of our favorite foods, listening to music (thanks, Lauren!), drinking sparkling pear cider, and just enjoying each others' company.

Friday was a beautiful day--sunny, with temperatures in the 60s--so we ventured out for a nature walk (well, waddle) from River Bend to Great Falls. I discovered that even an easy, 3.5-mile, mostly flat trail can be a bit much when you're eight months pregnant. But it felt so good to be outside in the fresh air, actually getting to move my body. The falls seemed full after the recent rain. I'll post pictures soon.

Saturday I think we were mostly pretty lazy. I don't remember Saturday, to be honest, which is actually a pretty good sign it was a pleasant, lazy day. We spent the evening at a leftovers party with friends, visiting with some people we hadn't seen in awhile, some we had, and some we'd never met before. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, and I managed to stay awake until midnight.

At the leftovers party, one of my friends mentioned wanting to go see "The Nutcracker" at the Kennedy Center. The Post had given the performance an excellent review earlier in the week and I was eager to see the Joffrey Ballet, but it was only in town through the weekend, which Brian and I wanted to take easy, and I knew Brian wouldn't be that into the idea of the ballet, so I hadn't said anything about it to him. Suddenly I had a date for the ballet. We bought tickets for the following night.

I think it may have been the most amazing performance of "The Nutcracker" I've ever seen (the only other two productions I've seen have been the Oakland and San Francisco Ballets'), although that could have been because it had been so long since I'd seen it. But everything about it seemed perfect, from the moment the orchestra began to play the familiar music and Dr.Drosselmeyer in his dark cape made his way across the stage, to the sparkling costume and exquisite dancing of the Snow Queen and the slow grace of the Coffee from Arabia.

It was hard to come back in to the office on Monday morning. I got out of bed at a reasonable hour and made it in by nine (and even settled straight into work, thanks to having made a list on Wednesday afternoon in order to avoid my usual post-vacation work routine--a morning spent puttering around the office wondering what on earth it is they pay me to do here), but I thought good thoughts about the time between my last day of work and the arrival of Sticky.

***

A nice little exercise

On Sunday, the Post ran an article about happiness. It began by describing an exercise in which you end each day by thinking of three good things that happened that day and why they happened. I've been trying to do that ever since.

Last night as I settled down to sleep I ran over the days' events in my head and quickly came up with three things to be happy about:

• I visited with a neighbor I hadn't seen in a while on the bus and train on the way to work.
• At work, I had to learn how to do something new in SAS, and I figured it out on my own and it actually worked.
• I got home from work to discover Brian in the kitchen preparing what turned out to be a fantastic minestrone.

All I've really done is think of the good things that happened--I haven't really bothered to worry about the why. I don't know if doing this will increase my overall happiness, but I think it will make me more conscious of the good things in my life and aware of little things that are pleasing, and that can't be a bad idea.

Perhaps I need some retail therapy to help me recover from my retail therapy

I bought a car seat yesterday.

That may not seem like a big deal. Today it doesn't even seem like a big deal to me.* But yesterday as my mouse hovered over the button to submit my order, I worried: What if it wasn't the right car seat? What if buying the car seat now jinxes things? Then: What if the baby comes early** and I don't have a car seat? CLICK.

Hi, my name is Elizabeth and I am experiencing pregnancy-induced insanity.

I am finding that I am a strange mix of ready and not ready to have a baby. In spite of all the aches and pains I've complained of over the past seven months, I think this has been a pretty easy pregnancy, and I've truly enjoyed being pregnant. As recently as a few weeks ago I was saying to someone that I wouldn't mind being pregnant forever: I love my round belly; my skin is clearer than it has been in years; when the baby moves, it's like she and I have our own secret; everyone is nice to me; and I nearly always get a seat on the Metro. What's not to love? (I mean, besides the sciatica, the waking up to go to the bathroom every 3 hours, no wine with dinner, the fetal foot wedged uncomfortably against my liver***...) Over the past week or so, though, I've felt that begin to change. I still love being pregnant, but I no longer want to be this way forever. I want to meet this little girl. I'm ready to me a mom.

Except, oh. my. god. Me? A mom? What the hell was I thinking?

So in an attempt to control the uncontrollable, I am spending money (carseat, bassinet, wee clothing) and scheduling things (hospital tour, infant cpr class, breastfeeding class,**** the cat's checkup so I can talk to the vet about helping her adjust to the baby). I suppose it's a kind of "retail therapy." I have no idea whether any of these things will help. Well, I expect the things I'm buying will, as I'm told that I can't bring Sticky home without a carseat, and letting her go around in just a diaper in December and January would probably be frowned upon. I think all the classes are just the Type A side of my personality coming out. All of these things are things I planned to do awhile back, things that I've been researching for months. But now that it's time to put those plans into action, I'm suddenly anxious. Planning I like; decisions are still scary.

All I can say is that it's a good thing the baby will come when she's ready. If we had to wait for me to make up my mind, we'd all be in trouble.


*Okay, I might be lying about that a little. I still think it's a big deal. It's just that I've managed to lower my freak-out level to something more manageable.

**By the end of the week I will be 50 days from my due date. Not that I'm counting or anything. Or expecting her to show up promptly.

***Actually, that foot there is probably one of my favorite bits of this whole thing. The whole pregnancy thing, I mean. Not of the baby. I don't have any sort of weird attachments to particular parts of the baby. Although I would like her to have all of the required parts. Not that Sticky's feet aren't wonderful; I saw them in August on the ultrasound. Very wee and perfect.

****Dude, did you know there were entire classes on how to breastfeed? Or that anyone needed such a thing?

Travel journal: California

Brian and I just got back on Sunday from a week-long vacation in California where we visited our families. Since I'll be far enough along by Thanksgiving and Christmas that the airlines won't let me on the planes (and I suspect my midwife would also think it a bad idea), we thought we'd get a trip in now.

Our flights to California were smooth and uneventful. We flew through Dallas, and only had to move down a few gates to get our next plane. Our Christmas trip last year was much better: after landing in Dallas, we boarded the little train to go on to our next terminal. We were in the first car, by ourselves, and we stood up at the very front, watching out the windows, leaning into the turns to pretend we were driving, and making sound effects. When we finally got off the train at the gate that our next flight would be departing from, we realized that at some point a few other people had boarded that car--mostly men in business suits. Oops. We laughed and ran away. No, seriously, we're totally grown ups who are ready to have a child.

Town on a wide open shore

We spent a good portion of our first full day with friends in Playa del Rey. At first the plan had been for them to come out to brunch with us nearer where The In-laws live, but when we arrived last Saturday and to clear skies and temperatures in the 80s, I called my friend Aly and invited myself over to her house instead.

Sunday was a little cooler than Saturday, but I was actually glad of that. We walked from Aly's house through some wetlands (which were rather dry) down to a bistro near the beach for a big brunch, then went from there for a walk down along the beach.

The weather was great, the beach beautiful, and the opportunity to hang out with Aly was wonderful. But the best part was Brian getting a chance to talk with Aly's husband. The last time we'd seen Aly was at Christmas, a few weeks before the birth of her son. Aaron talked with Brian about fatherhood and babies, and I could see Brian's relief that Aly and Aaron were having a normal life with their baby.

Surgery

Awhile back I asked The Mother-in-law, a surgeon, if it would be possible for me to view an operation at her hospital. I've never had any desire to be a doctor, but I'm interested in health and health care and thought it would be interesting. Plus, ever since I met The Mother-in-law seven or eight years ago, I've been intrigued by surgeons: I mean, here is a normal person who opens up a living human body as part of her daily life; that's pretty impressive to me. I've seen a video of a breast lumpectomy without much squeamishness, so I thought I would be able to handle it, and she agreed to try to work something out.

When she first told me that she had arranged to take us with her to the hospital on this trip, though, I started to worry. I was worried that seeing an operation would make me even more afraid of having to have a c-section, or that I would become squeamish and faint (I've never fainted at the sight of blood before, and even watch the needle go in when I have to have blood drawn). By the time we were there, though I was looking forward to it.

At the hospital, Dr. Mother-in-law picked an operation that seemed to her like a good one to view: the removal of tumors from a bladder for biopsy. We put on scrubs and booties and caps over our hair, and were led into an operating room where the surgery was already in progress. The surgeon and resident showed us the endoscope they were using, and we watched on the television screen as one of them removed a piece of tissue and cauterized the place where it had been. They kindly explained to us what they were doing. I was absolutely fascinated.

As a bonus, we also got to go down to pathology, where they showed us how they made slides of the samples that were sent down, and sat with us at a microscope to show us the different layers of tissue and what they look for to determine theinvasiveness of the cancer. As the pathologist pointed to different parts of the cells we were looking at, I was surprised at how much I remembered from my high school biology class--it wasn't a lot, but I knew what he was talking about.

Halloween

The trip was timed as it was so that we could spend Halloween in southern California with The In-laws. Halloween is a big deal in their neighborhood, and I'd never seen it for myself, and Brian hadn't been since 2000. (That year, when I told my mom that Brian was away to spend Halloween with his family, she asked, "What's his last name? Addams?")

I just don't get that excited about Halloween. I love Christmas and Thanksgiving and my birthday (what? It's like a holiday for me. And less than two weeks away now.), but Halloween just doesn't hold my interest, much to Brian's disappointment. After seeing a South Pasadena Halloween, though, I can see how one might be excited.

Nearly all the houses on the two blocks I saw were quite well decorated. Brian and his dad strung a dummy up through a tree, so that it could be dropped in front of people as they came up the driveway. A coffin that was lit up opened and closed as a mechanical skeleton hand pushed on it. Other families had put up orange lights on their houses and bushes the way some people put up Christmas lights. I saw one house that had the windows all glowing orange, which I thought was a nice effect. Another had a creepy looking monster in the window, and at one a woman dressed as a white witch sat beneath a spotlight on the walk up to the front door.

For me, the best part was accompanying my best friend and her son trick-or-treating up and down the street. James (aka Mr. Incredible, at least last Tuesday) is four now, and was shy at first, but opened up over the course of the evening. I guess sugar has the same effect on him that wine has on me. He was a little wary of some of the houses' creepier decorations, but he seemed to have fun. At most houses he would run eagerly up the walk to the front door (although he did take interesting routes to avoid monsters on lawns or bats hanging from trees) and join the other kids there in collecting some sugary loot. Whenever possible he would take the candy in his hand, rather than let the adult put it into his bag. If it did end up in his bag, he would crouch down and dig it out when he returned to where we were waiting, so he could hold it up and say "I got this kind!" and ask what it was called.

We went up two blocks, and as we worked our way back on the opposite side of the street, the crowds began to pick up. Swarms of parents waited at the foot of each driveway, and children lined up outside doors. When we returned to the In-laws' house, we had to wait in line in order to approach the front door.

By the end of the night, The Father-in-law and Brian had tallied over 1700 little beggars, and at one point they had been coming at a rate of 12 a minute.


A cloud shifts, the plane lifts

The next morning, Brian and I flew up to spend the rest of the week visiting family and friends in the Bay Area. We had planned on driving up the coast, but after I discovered the week before that just sitting in a movie theater for two hours left me stiff and in pain, I booked us on a cheap Southwest flight. I hadn't flown Southwest since Christmas, and I always forget that the whole thing is a little less formal than other airlines, what with the flight attendants singing over the speakers and all. This time we were also told that it was the pilot's last flight: after 32 years of flying, he had reached mandatory retirement age. The flight attendant asked us to wait around after we landed and give him a round of applause when he exited the cockpit, which seemed like a reasonable request to me.

As we were approaching Oakland, she came over the speakers again, reiterating her request and also informing us that Southwest likes to make a big deal of a pilot's retirement, so the airport fire department would be meeting our flight and spraying water over the plane from either side. I thought that was a nice touch, but mostly I was just glad we had been informed in advance. No matter how smooth the flight and gentle the landing, I would have freaked out a bit, I think, if I'd been surprised by firetrucks hosing down the plane.

Taking pregnancy brain to a whole new level

On Wednesday I meant to double check which company I'd ended up renting a car from, but when I logged into my email, I forgot. As we approached Burbank airport, The Father-in-law asked me about it again.

"I forgot to check, but I'm sure it was Enterprise," I said. I did remember being on the Enterprise website. And I remembered that it hadn't been Alamo or National that I rented from, although I have used them in the past.

Brian hauled our suitcases onto the rental car shuttle in Oakland. On the ride to the cars, I listened to a woman talk about an Assembly race and felt comfortably at home. We waited in line at the Enterprise counter, while I glanced over at the National counter from time to time: both companies have green logos. Enterprise had no reservation under my name and no more cars. National didn't either, but they did have a Cadillac we could rent for $140/day.

We sat down on a bench to think. There was pay wireless, so I could check my email that way, but I decided to call The Sister instead. (That makes her sound like a nun, doesn't it?) She kindly logged into my Gmail account and searched for "rental car," "car," and "Enterprise."

Nothing. Except that I had rented from National back in July.

I went back inside the building where Brian was waiting and told him what The Sister had found. He patiently went up to each of the rental counters that didn't have a long line to confirm that we didn't have a reservation with them and ask about the prices of their available cars. The cheapest was $39.95/day. I was pretty sure I had reserved a car for $25/day, so he pulled out his computer and I did a quick search. I discovered that Dollar (which had a long line, so he hadn't checked there) had $29.95/day. I made the reservation, wrote down the confirmation number, and went to wait in line, fingers crossed that the reservation made it into their system promptly. While we waited, I thanked Brian for not being cranky at me about my mistake.

"And at least this makes a good story," I told him.

"I'd be too embarrassed to tell anyone," he said.

Yeah, well.

Where we came from

When we moved from Santa Cruz to the DC area four years ago, we were lucky that Brian's company was willing to allow him to telecommute. The arrangement has worked out pretty well, but I know he likes to get back to see his coworkers live and in person, so we headed down to Santa Cruz for the day to have lunch with them and to visit with another friend.

It was a drizzly, gloomy day when we arrived at the office. Brian requested Mexican food for lunch, and rather than taking us to one of our usual Santa Cruztaquerias , one of his coworkers suggested La Costa, a casual place in Davenport. Eight of us headed up the coast, and we seemed to be the restaurant's lunchtime rush, although the man that had picked the restaurant assured us that during the summer they do better business with people driving along Highway 1. The food was good. I had my usual, simple bean burrito, but they were able to make vegetarian enchiladas at Brian's request, and he raved about the mole sauce on them. I had fun listening to everyone joke around, and just enjoyed the appearance of the people we were sitting around the table with: nearly everyone was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and ahoody . I miss the casual atmosphere of Santa Cruz (although when I was temping there I always managed to end up placed in offices that were formal enough that women who wore skirts needed to wear nylons; I didn't wear skirts much). I know that I could wear jeans and ahoody to work if I wanted (provided there weren't meetings that day), but I think I would feel too out of place.

The drive up the coast those few miles was wonderful. We had been at the beach only a few days before with Aly, walking along and looking out at the sparkling water, but somehow thegrey , choppy water here was even better. Maybe it was more familiar. We stopped at the home of one of the coworkers on the way back to the office. Or, more precisely, we stopped at the site where he and his wife are building a new house. He led us into the house, point out where different rooms would be, and we climbed up to the second story. While the others investigated what the construction workers were doing and admired the craftsmanship that was going into the building, I stood in what will be the master bedroom, looking through the window over the cypress trees and the farmland to where the cliffs drop off to the ocean.

After lunch Brian and I headed downtown by way of West Cliff Drive, and I thought about the countless times we'd walked there when we were living in The Circles. Everything seemed the same. I thought about how much I wanted to move back to the area. Then I thought about lack of jobs in public policy and the cost of homes.

We met up with my former writing professor at Caffe Bene downtown, just around the corner from his former haunt, Jahva House, which is now a brew pub. I had been disappointed to see that Jahva House was gone when I was there last December, but I enjoyed Caffe Bene, which I'd never been in before. After a nice visit, we said good-bye and headed up to campus, in search of some cute slug gear for Sticky.

It was nearly dark when we reached the main entrance, and as we drove up the hill, the fog was setting in. We were lucky enough to find a metered spot in the Bay Tree lot, and I thought that I was glad to have worked on campus for a couple of years after graduation; otherwise I would have been completely shocked by the changes around campus. (I was surprised to see that the apartments across the street from the bookstore had been completed, although that probably happened some time ago.) I picked out a Fiat Slug tee for Sticky to wear next spring, and Brian vetoed the $20 slug slippers I had my eye on. We also bought a poster of Natural Bridges that we saw near the register, since that was our favorite beach when we lived there, and because it was done in a style we both liked instantly.

We were tired and ready to go home, but we wanted to wait out the rush hour traffic, so we went back downtown. We wandered up and down Pacific Avenue, going into Chefworks, Bookshop, Logos, Streetlight, and the hat store, noting the new stores--both chains and shops that proclaim that they are locally owned--that have opened since the last time we were there. Finally we grabbed slices of pizza at Pizza My Heart and sat in a booth, just like we used to do back when we were in college and then when we were living in town afterward. On other visits to the area, we've both been a bit disappointed, perhaps because we've idealized the town in some ways. But on Thursday night we were both content and thought that this was a place we wouldn't mind living in again.

The next day we headed off to Berkeley to visit friends. We spent the afternoon at the home of some friends, eating a delicious lunch of spicy black bean soup andchiles rellenos on their patio, and then met up with another friend when he was finished with work for dinner (Indian) and a stroll down Solano Avenue. It just felt good to be around people I've known forever. And to eat spicy food without getting heartburn (although a banana I ate the next day just about killed me with the heartburn).

I lived in Martinez my entire life until college, but I rarely ventured across the bridge to Benicia. Not that that's surprising: Benicia isn't exactly full of tourist attractions. But on Saturday, Brian and I met up with some friends for lunch there, and spent some time walking around the downtown area. We walked down onto the pier for views of the water and the surrounding hills (and the smokestacks of the refinery back in Martinez), and strolled back up First Street past antique shops and the old state capitol. I still don't think of it as a tourist destination or some place I'll be hanging out a lot, but it was cute and not a bad way to spend breezy afternoon.

Older than I once was, and younger than I'll be

I'm going to be 28 in a couple of weeks. I've got a master's degree and a salaried job. I've been married for almost five years now. I am about two months away from having a baby. Most of the time I don't feel very grown up, though.

Saturday night I sat at the dinner table in the house I grew up in. My dad was there. My sister and her fiance (she's getting married! That sounds much less nun-like) were to my right. Brian was to my left. And my brother and his live-in girlfriend sat across the table from me. It seemed a little surreal. I suddenly felt old. When did we all grow up?

Where my thoughts escape

I experienced homesickness on this trip, which surprised me. By the end of a week away, I am usually glad to be back in my own house, but this was different. Our first night in California I laid down beside Brian in his parents' guest room and began to cry because I wanted to go home. "I want to be in my bed and see my cat and have my pillows," I whimpered, knowing I was sounding ridiculous, but totally unable to help myself. I was tired and hormonal, and Brian was very patient, and comforted me each night as I went through the same thing.

Sunday night when we got out of our cab, I felt a surge of energy, in spite of the long day spent traveling (we left Martinez at 5:45 that morning) (the fact that I slept for nearly all of the flight from Dallas to Washington probably helped). After spending 10 minutes on the couch letting the cat jump back and forth from my lap to Brian's as she rubbed her face against ours and tried to groom us, I got to work: I unpacked, started the laundry, sorted the mail that arrived while we were away, paid some bills, and made a list of things to do this week. I even did the dishes after dinner without complaining. It was all very boring and felt very good.

The time difference kept me up for a long time, and the cat woke me up frequently, having returned somewhat to her natural nocturnal ways while we were gone. But I was back at home in my own bed.

I was going to wait to post this until I had sorted and uploaded photos. But then this would never get posted, and The Sister informs me that opening this page to see "More Squashy Goodness" every day is getting old. So for her sake, photos will have to wait. Halloween pictures are posted here; my jack-o-lantern is the one with the spider.

More squashy goodness

A couple of people asked me for this recipe after Brian and I made it when we had friends over last month, so I thought I'd post it here. It comes (with a few minor changes) from Peter Berley's Fresh Food Fast, which I picked up in Cody's a couple of years ago. It's another seasonal, vegetarian cookbook that we've had good luck with. The recipes are usually pretty easy to follow, and he's combined everything into menus. He even offers a shopping list and a "game plan" for getting everything ready at the same time.

Braised Pinto Beans with Delicata Squash, Red Wine, and Tomatoes

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cups thinly sliced onion
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 pound delicata squash, halved, seeded, and cut into 1/2-inch-thick slices*
3 garlic cloves, crushed
1 15-ounce can pinto beans, drained and rinsed
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes with their juice
1/2 cup dry red wine
1 chipotle in adobo sauce, minced
1 tablespoon fresh sage, chopped
freshly ground black pepper
salt

*You can use butternut squash as well, with good results, but you have to peel it first. Actually, I usually peel the delicata, too, because I like the softer texture you get without the skin.

1. Melt the butter in a large pan over high heat with the oil. Add the onion and salt and saute until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat, add the squash and garlic, and saute for 1 minute.

2. Stir in the pinto beans and the tomatoes, along with the wine, chipotle, and sage. Raise the heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, until the squash is tender but not falling apart--about 15 minutes.

3. Uncover the pan and cook for 1-2 minutes to thicken the sauce. Season with salt and pepper.

Berley suggests serving this over cheese-filled arepas (pupusas). As a lazy cook, I often just serve it with rice or tortillas. I also had good luck with an alternative version I prepared a couple of weeks ago: I used half the amount of onion, left out the beans, added an extra can of diced tomatoes, and tossed it with pasta.

Dimensions

I have always been adamantly pro-choice. Depending on the discussion at hand, I will argue in favor of Judith Jarvis Thompson's violinist perspective, take the position that even if it is a life, it’s okay to terminate a pregnancy, and support the legalization of late-term abortions. I attended to March to Save Women's Lives on the Mall a couple of years ago, and I always write cranky letters to my conservative senators whenever NARAL or NOW sends me an email alert.

But while in some debates on social issues I find it nearly impossible to see the other side of the issue (How does letting gay people get married threaten the quality of others’ marriages exactly?), when it comes to the abortion debate I can see where the other side is coming from. After all, if I truly believed that abortion was murder of a human being, I would feel a moral obligation to work to make it illegal, too. I think it was my ability to see the other side of the abortion debate that made me briefly question my beliefs last year after I miscarried.

I’m not sure what brought the idea to mind initially. I was lying in bed in the middle of the day, looking out the window and listening to the hum of the air conditioner while I let my mind drift. Suddenly I found myself wondering: if I am grieving like this for a nine-week-old fetus, how can I argue that it wasn’t a life? How can I believe that it’s okay to end a pregnancy on purpose if I’m this sad to see this one end for no apparent reason?

It didn’t take long for the answer to occur to me. I knew that I wasn’t grieving the loss of a life. Not yet. I was grieving for the loss of the hopes that I had attached to my pregnancy. For the plans I had made for my baby's arrival in April. For the transformation of my life and my self that I had looked forward to so eagerly. I wasn't grieving for "Elvis" (um, I'm apparently into the stupid fetal nicknames), but for the baby I had hoped Elvis would one day become.

Reading Sundry's post earlier this week about how having a child has tranformed her thoughts on abortion made me realize that I am still thinking about these things. It comes to mind on occasion when I feel Sticky kick my liver or shift so that I can feel her back through my belly with my hand. And once I give birth and hold her for the first time, my perspective may change again. I don't believe I will change my position on the legalization of abortion. I simply believe that it will add another dimension to the way I think about it.

Winter squash risotto

I love winter squash. Along with honeycrisp apples, it helps make up for the lack of nectarines and fresh corn when the weather starts to change. I eat a lot of butternut and acorn squash during the winter months, and I was excited last week when I went into Whole Foods and saw that the delicata squash had arrived (I maybe need to get out more). It's a yellow-and-green-speckled, sort of cucumber-shaped winter squash that I had no idea existed until a couple of years ago. It's sweet like other winter squashes, roasts nicely, and has skin thin enough that you can actually eat it (although I usually peel it anyhow, because I like the smoother texture). It seems to have a very short season, so Brian and I cook with it a couple of times a week while it's around.

I made my favorite risotto with it on Sunday night, and after seeing a couple of squash recipe posts, I thought I'd post my own. Well, it's not really my own: this comes pretty much straight from Jack Bishop's A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen. We love Jack Bishop in our house. Brian even wrote him a fan email one time (and was very excited when he got a response).

Winter Squash Risotto

2 T olive oil
6 T butter
4 cups broth
1 onion, diced small
1.5 cups arborio rice
1 cup white wine
2.5 pounds winter squash*
1 T sage, minced**
freshly grated nutmeg***
salt
1/2 cup grated parmesan, plus extra for the table

*I like delicata, butternut, and acorn squash, in that order.
**I actually used rosemary the other night because it was what I had. It was fine, but sage is better.
***You don't need much. I did 3 turns of my nutmeg grinder. If you don't have whole nutmeg, a dash of ground would probably do.

1. Preparing the squash: Preheat the oven to 450. Melt 3 T butter. Slice squash in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds and strings (reserve the seeds and strings). Place the squash on a baking sheet, brush with the melted butter, and sprinkle with salt. Roast the squash in the middle of the oven until they are soft. (It took me about 45 minutes to roast delicatas the other night.) When the squash are cool enough to handle, scoop the flesh from the skin, mash with a fork, and set aside.

2. Preparing the broth: Place the broth and the reserved squash innards in a sauce pan. Bring to a boil and let simmer for about 20 minutes. Strain the broth into a measuring cup and discard the the seeds and strings. Return the broth to the pan along with about 2 cups of water (you'll need about 6 cups of liquid total). Cover and keep warm.

3. Preparing the rice: Melt 2T butter in a large, heavy pot, along with the olive oil. Saute the onion until it is translucent and soft, but don't let it brown. Add the rice and saute for a minute or two, coating the rice in the oil. Pour in the wine and stir until most of it is evaporated or absorbed. Begin adding the broth, about 1/2 to 1 cup at a time, stirring often and waiting for each cup to be mostly absorbed before adding more. After adding about 5 cups, taste the rice to see if it's soft enough. If not continue adding broth until it is.

4. Putting it all together: Add the rest of the butter, the cheese, the squash, the sage, and the nutmeg to the pan. Stir until the butter and the cheese are melted in and the squash is thoroughly mixed in.

5. Serve, sprinkled with more parmesan, and enjoy the praise of the people you are feeding.

Travel journal: Chicago

When we were in New York back in April, Brian wondered out loud what it would take for us to have a relaxing vacation. He had a point: most of the time when we go places, we are constantly on the move, trying to fit as much in as possible, because we are usually only in a given city for a couple of days. But last weekend we figured out a solution: I am much less likely to crack the "we are going to have fun and see everything or else" whip when I'm knocked up.

We arrived in Chicago a little later than planned, as our flight was delayed for nearly three hours. We studied the farecard machine at the Midway El station for just a few seconds before a young woman offered us instructions. She assured us that we could share a farecard, which made no sense to me, given that everyone needs his or her own on Metro and BART, but we took her at her word, and found that she was right. I guess she hasn't figured out yet that it's fun to lie to tourists. (Not that I actually tell tourists lies. I at least try to be nice and helpful.)

Since we were late getting in, we checked into our hotel and decided to walk around in Millenium Park, which was nearby. I was fascinated by the "bean" and the Frank Gehry-designed amphitheatre and bridge.

We stopped in Grant Park to rest for a short while, and then headed back toward the El to go to Giordano's, for what a friend had assured me was some of the best pizza in Chicago. We wandered around feeling a little lost until we figured out that the El is actually a subway on the red line, and looking in the air for tracks wasn't going to help. The pizza was indeed excellent, especially because we had to wait 90 minutes for a table. Watching the guys behind the counter assemble pizzas for that long helped build up our appetites. After dinner, we headed back to the hotel, having given up any hope of keeping me awake enough to enjoy going out and listening to jazz.

The next morning we checked out the Art Institute. I have been somewhat afraid of art museums ever since Brian and I spent a day in Madrid trying to take in the entire Prado. Now I know I need to have an agenda, so we did a self-guided tour outlined in a tour book someone at work had given me, which made the museum much more manageable. The tour gave us the highlights, taking us first through the impressionists, and then into the surrealists. I've always thought Dali was pretty creepy, but I discovered that Tanguay is even more so. My favorite of his was "The Rapidity of Sleep"--not because I liked the work itself, but because the card beside the painting's only description beyond the artist, title, and date read, "The relationship to the title of the painting is unknown." I liked the work of Joseph Cornell, and an exhibit that used a lot of text, by a modern artist whose name I've forgotten. The tour book led us to a dead end, which turned out to be a good thing. If it had led us directly to Georgia O'Keeffe, as it was supposed to, we would have missed the Picasso rooms and the Jose Guadalupe Posada exhibit. There was definitely more that I wanted to see, but museum fatigue was setting in.

The Art Institute was supposed to be followed up by lunch and then a self-guided historic architecture tour. Instead, it was followed by lunch and a nap back at the hotel. After I'd recovered some of my energy, we walked around the Magnificent Mile area and then headed up to the Hancock Center for drinks in the lounge at sunset. The views from the 96th floor were amazing. We watched the sky and lake fade through colors more lovely than anything we'd seen at the museum that morning, as lights began to twinkle below us and night took over the city. Finally we headed out, venturing up to Devon Avenue for curry, which involved taking a bus that we didn't have a schedule for--just the tour book's word that it would get us to the right place. It actually worked out quite well (better than their suggestion for finding the O'Keeffe paintings), with the bus arriving after only a short wait, and a large group of Indians or Pakistanis who we followed when they all got off at the same stop. We picked Udupi Palace, because it was all vegetarian and had the same name as a restaurant we like in Takoma Park. It turned out that the two are actually owned by the same people. At least that meant we knew we would like the food. (It was very spicy and good, and totally and completely worth the heartburn it gave me.) Brian took pity on his poor, pregnant wife, and we took a cab back downtown to the hotel.

We spent the next day in more museums. The plan for our trip had been to do one museum per day, but since the delayed flight on Saturday had messed with that, we decided to go to two on Monday, since Monday was supposed to be cool and gloomy. It actually turned out to be cool and sunny, but plans can only be changed so many times, and I was not going to go all the way to Chicago and not see Sue, and Brian wasn't going to miss out on the museum of the Chicago Historical Society.

It actually turned out to be good to go to the Field Museum on a Monday. I knew it was a discount day, but I didn't know that "discount" meant "free." After four years in Washington, I find myself rather appalled to have to spend actual money to get into a museum, so the discount was a nice surprise. We checked out Sue, and then wandered through case after case of birds. Because it was free, I didn't feel bad about giving up after those two exhibits, but we did spend a little bit of time checking out the mammals.

For lunch we went to Gino's East, which was another friend's favorite pizza place when she lived in Chicago. I actually liked their pizza a little bit better than Giordano's--I think the crust was a little crisper, which was nice. And every available surface was covered in graffiti. That was fun to look at for a little while, but I really thought people should have been more creative than just writing their names. I was relieved that the bus ride up to Gino's from the museum was so long and that it took 40 minutes to make the pizza. I was exhausted.

The tour book failed us one more time on the trip. It assured us that on Mondays the Chicago Historical Society museum was free and open until eight. Well, it was free, but it apparently closes at 4:30. We learned that at about 4:25, when the staff started clearing us out. I wish we'd had more time to see other exhibits, but just the sections we saw about the Chicago Board of Trade, the fire, the Haymarket Riots, the race riots, and the Democratic National Convention were interesting.

Leaving earlier than we planned meant we had time to stop and sit down for a bit before a brisk walk back to the train, so we could get our bags from the hotel and head back to the airport. Where our plane was, fortunately, on time.

Pictures from the trip are online here.

Sugar rush

I was warned that the glucose tolerance test wasn't fun. Most of my friends complained about the sweet drink that they were required to drink. No one, though, thought to warn me about the sugar high you can get from gulping down 50 grams of glucose in about 2 minutes. More specifically, they didn't warn me about how it feels to have all that sugar wear off 45 minutes later.

So the routine test for gestational diabetes at my prenatal appointment on Tuesday was a bit of a surprise. I actually liked the drink: it just tasted like flat orange pop...or flat orange pop with a couple extra teaspoons of sugar mixed in. Then I had to wait for an hour to have my blood drawn. The first part of the hour went quickly because I was called upstairs for my check-up. But when I returned to the waiting room to sit, I realized I couldn't concentrate on my book at all. I was tired, hungry, queasy, dizzy. At least I got to make the office staff laugh by being (apparently) the only woman in the history of the practice to ask for another glucose drink. (I was sure that more sugar was the only thing that would make me feel better ever again.) They denied me, but the PBJ I'd brought along with me for after the blood draw did the trick.

Other than that, the appointment was good and easy. I am measuring about 29 weeks, which at 28 weeks is just fine with me. Sticky apparently had an early growth spurt, because at 22 weeks I was measuring 26 weeks. She's leveled off since then:at 24 weeks I was at 28. I guess we're leveling off now, and I'm not actually going to have an 18-pound baby. My blood pressure is lower than it was when I first got pregnant and I've gained less weight than I thought (when I started outgrowing some of my maternity clothes, I was worried), but still a healthy amount. As of now, I will have visits every two weeks instead of every four. That will be reassuring: I like to go in as often as possible to hear the fast little heartbeat.

Grandma Ruth's birthday

When I wrote the date, I realized that today would be my Grandma Ruth's birthday. I'm glad I remembered, because it brought back such good memories of a wonderful grandma.

The way I always describe Grandma Ruth to people is to explain what happened the day after my birthday when I turned 9 or 10. I received a new scooter for my birthday that year. It was lavender and had hand brakes. I don't know if my parents gave it to me or if Grandma did. But I remember that after school on my birthday, Grandma Ruth came over for birthday dinner and we took turns riding my scooter up and down the sidewalk up front. But the real memory is from the next day, when someone at school asked if I had had a party for my birthday. I told them that we'd had dinner and cake and ice cream, and that Grandma Ruth and I had played on my new scooter. "Your grandma? Rode a scooter? Grandmas don't ride scooters," someone said. And I was baffled, because of course grandmas could ride scooters. What kind of boring grandmas did this person have?

Grandma Ruth was our main babysitter growing up. She played with us, read us stories, and tucked us into bed. More than once I got out of bed and went to tell her I had a bad dream or I was scared, even if I wasn't, because I knew that she would come into my bedroom and rub my back until I fell asleep.

She made apple pie with lots of cinnamon for Thanksgiving, and ham with scalloped potatoes for dinner on Christmas Eve. I have a memory of standing on a chair in her kitchen helping to make cookies.

She played golf and liked the color red. She collected giraffes--everything from stuffed toys to jewelry to prints to dish towels. When we were little, my brother and sister and I made a game of counting how many giraffes were in Grandma's house. The number was well into the hundreds. When I was in Buenos Aires last year, I bought a wooden carving of a giraffe, thinking of it as a gift for Grandma.

She worked at the police station in our town. Sometimes my mom would take us down to visit her there after school. She always had lemon drops on her desk. I can't eat a lemon drop without remembering her.

When I was in middle school and my mom went back to work, I spent the afternoons at Grandma's house doing homework and watching television until my mom could pick me up. Grandma was working (right down the street), so most days I didn't see her. Until she got sick and had to stop working. Then she would be there in the afternoons. We would have Reese's peanut butter cups and A&W root beer for a snack. I remember that we would sit and talk, but I don't remember any of our conversations.

I remember that she got sicker and sicker. That instead of being in the rocking chair or at the kitchen table, she would be in bed when I got there. That eventually we would go visit her, but I wasn't spending afternoons there. That the house was full of people--relatives, friends, hospice workers. That I took home a stuffed giraffe a few weeks before she died.

She died just after Valentine's Day in 1992.

I wish Brian could have met her. I wish I could see her holding my baby this winter.

Hero worship

I saw Pete Seeger last night.

A couple of months ago I was looking at the Birchmere's fall lineup and saw "Woody Guthrie Tribute" on the list for October with Pete Seeger first on the list of performers. I didn't stop to see if I recognized any of the other artists. I just bought tickets. Pete Seeger. I mean, like, really: PETE SEEGER.

I suppose it could have been a let down. After all, after all the years of listening to his music and reading about him, my expectations might have been inflated beyond what any reality could live up to. I mean, his voice could have been shaky. He could have seemed small. He could have been somethng other than what I had imagined. But I think what amazed me most was how familiar everything seemed. There was Pete Seeger up on stage in a green shirt, looking tall and healthy, his banjo hanging from his right shoulder. His voice sounded just like it does on the records. After the intermission when he was answering questions about Woody Guthrie posed to him by Joe Uehlein, I knew his voice and his speech patterns.

The other artists were good too. Even though I'd never heard most of them before, some of their names were familiar. They were all talented musicians, and I will probably pick up an album by Sarah Lee Guthrie and Johnny Irions at some point. And because it was a Guthrie tribute I knew most of the songs. But, like most people in the audience, I was there to see Pete. I'd never seen him live before, and since he's 87 and not touring much, I figured this was my chance. It really was the perfect way to see him--surrounded by other singers who complemented his singing and playing style.

And then at the end everyone on stage and in the audience sang "This Land is Your Land," with Pete calling out the words to the verses in front of the song. Absolutely perfect.

***

We're off to Chicago for a weekend of pizza and dinosaurs!