the pieces of my life

On September 22, my grandfather will turn 90 years old. However, that’s awfully close to Brown Brown’s due date (which is September 10, for those of you who have forgotten), and obviously Adam and I would not only be unable to fly home, but we’ll have commandeered the Tweedle Twirp as our in-house nanny and my mother will most certainly want to be in the Boston region (no one other than the TT will be permitted to actually stay with us during the first month or so of Brown Brown’s appearance). So, after much family debate about possible dates (a trauma itself, not to be delved into here), this weekend was decided upon for my grandfather’s almost birthday party. Yes, mid-July in Miami Beach is not the most comfortable place to be, but it’s what worked out.

Adam had the ultimate out for this party. Not only was there a mandatory social event for interns at his company on Saturday, but he was going to be flying back from Oslo the very day we were to fly to Miami. But, as he loves to declare, my family is great entertainment for those not actually related to it by blood, and he wasn’t going to miss the show. His flight left Oslo at 7:30 a.m. and he arrived in Boston (via London) at about 2. Our flight was at 6, so figuring in time for customs and needing to be at the airport an hour before our flight, it just didn’t make sense for him to leave Logan Airport. So Friday was airport/airplane day for Adam. That’s a lot of torture for some family entertainment (although, truth be told, my family is more entertaining than most families, however, it’s nothing I can write about here. Some day, a few people will die off, and I’ll write a novel based on the family. It will be made into a prime-time soap opera, and everyone will say, “Oh, please. Like anything like that could ever happen in real life.” But I’ll know. I’m sure you’re thinking, “C’mon, my family’s dysfunctional, too,” but I assure you, mine brings new meaning to the word. [And I am of course referring only to extended family. My immediate family, while immensely weird, is depressingly normal]).

The main party was last night, with a follow-up brunch that will be happening in about another two hours. Dinner for twenty-two at Smith and Wollensky (my grandfather is a steak and potatoes kind of guy. Well, really a steak, potatoes, and Jack Daniels kind of guy, but there’s no Jack Daniels restaurant in town). The room was fantastic–a gorgeous water view of a narrow channel that the cruise ships pass through (right across from Fisher Island).

Getting ready at my parent’s place, I put on my navy blue matronly business-y “Hey, there’s no doubt about it I’m pregnant” dress, complete with the tiny bow on top of my belly and my black flats. I commented to the Tweedle Twirp, “These really aren’t the best shoes for this.” TT said, “They’re fine for a pregnant lady.” I said, somewhat indignantly, “I wore these shoes before I got pregnant.” Barely even looking at me, she said, “Yeah, but I bet they looked a lot better when you still had ankles.” This was after seeing me only half dressed and bursting out with a laugh, TT said, “Ohmygod, are you HUGE!”

The party itself was a tremendous success: the food was delicious (the steaks were gigantic), the skits we put on were a hit with my grandfather (too many in jokes to list them here, although my cousin Oliver and his kids, Milo and Annie, gets a shout-out for best performance of the evening), and he was delighted to have everyone together. My mother did a nice job setting the room up. As party favors/decorations, she scanned in twenty-two different photos of my grandfather over the years and put them all in different frames at each place setting. My grandmother (the one who called me fat on our last visit home) surprised me by raving over how terrific I looked. “You are the model pregnant woman,” she said. I think it was the dress. Some folks got a little loopy. One cousin, who made a point of not kissing me hello because she’s sick, said in the middle of the evening after tripping over her words, “Wow, that Nyquil really packs a punch.” I questioned, “Weren’t you just drinking vodka tonics?” “Well,” she replied, “now I am.” The one failure was my grandfather and the big-screen TV. More than anything in this world, my grandfather wants a big-screen TV. My grandmother won’t let him have one (they’re too ugly or something). My grandfather asked for the rest of the family to put pressure on her for the TV. Didn’t work. I think we only made her more set in my ways.

The cake was yummy and they actually brought one out with ninety candles on it. Milo (a ten year old) announced after the candle-blowing, “I know what you wished for!” It was a beautiful moment, and we all expected Milo, a sensitive boy, to say, “Ninety more years” or “For the family to get together more often.” But what he said was, “I bet you wished for a big-screen TV.” I thought my grandmother was going to strangle him.

There were a few wandering hands on my belly. I was caught off-guard by three different people who felt a need to–unannounced–pounce on my belly and give it a rub. I held my tongue in deference to keeping the family peace, although I definitely was not happy about it. There are only two groups of people allowed to touch my belly without asking first: those under the age of twelve and those I am married to. Everyone else: hands off without asking. I realize that the lump that’s obviously a head that’s sticking out of the side of my stomach is just a hands’ magnet. Restrain yourselves, people.

So now the family is bustling about the condo trying to get ready for the twenty-two people about to descend here for brunch. I should probably be helping, but it’s hard to do anything when you have to excuse yourself every 5.36 minutes to use the bathroom. So instead, I’m sitting at my father’s computer catching all of you up. That’s just the kind of lazy person I am.

Good news. Just because Starbucks doesn’t have their mammoth chocolate chip cookies on display at 9:30 a.m., doesn’t meant they don’t have them. You just have to ask. They keep them in the back. Not that there’s any special reason I know this. Um, no, not at all. I’m finding those carrots and grapes I brought with me to work just as tasty as can be. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Was I just saying that I wish Brown Brown would get the hell out of my ribs? Well, for forty-five minutes starting at 3:07 a.m., he did. He discovered a brand new toy: my internal organs. Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam. He’s finally back at my ribs. And I’m alarmingly grateful.

Do you prefer pop or soda? Me, I’m a soda kind of gal, which is probably why I made my way back to the East Coast.

• I am starving. I mean ravenous. Contemplating going out and getting a burrito. Which would be fine if I hadn’t just half an hour ago polished off a rather large tuna fish sandwich, a bag of chips, and five cookies. I’m supposed to be eating less now that my Brown Brown is pushing my stomach into a tiny ball, not more.
  
• You can now call me the crumb magnet. Of coures, I’ve always been a crumb magnet, but before the crumbs fell delicately into my lap where I could discreetly brush them off before they were seen. Now the crumbs fall to my belly and stick. Which, come to think of it, isn’t that bad because I see a good-sized hunk of cookie on there right now that’s mine for the eatin’.
  
• At 6 a.m., I went for a swim at the Y. Swimming is rapidly becoming my favorite exercise because it just feels so gosh-darn good to float about. For a blissful half hour, I’m weightless. However, I dread that moment when I get out of the pool, when every ounce of my 1XX-pound body bears down on me as if somehow gravity has been turned up a few notches.
  
• The pregnancy hormones do have some positive side effects. Our house is being painted (the exterior) and I haven’t been pleased with the work ethic and quality control of some of the workers. Normally, I tend to get a little shy about these things, and I let Adam deal with the unpleasantries. But with Adam gone and my hormones raging, I had no issues telling the job foreman exactly what I thought of his work. And when I didn’t like the response I got from him, I called the main company. Don’t mess wit’ me now!
  
• In my preparation for transitioning to freelance writer/editor (does everyone know that I will not be returning to an office after the baby is born? Well, I’m not), I’ve started taking on what could actually be seen as excessive amounts of freelance work now, so that I have my contacts in place when I’m ready to go full steam. But it means not a lot of time for anything else (which is good–less time for worrying and panicking as well. Did you know I’ll be having a baby in just 8 1/2 weeks? YIKES!). I have this long list of projects that I want to get done before Brown Brown, and I haven’t made much of a dent. But I’m psyched to know that, yes, I will actually be able to have an income when I quit my job. Hell, at the rate I’m taking work on, I may end up making more.
  
• One of the things I’d like to do is add baby links to this page. I’ve been reading a lot of great blogs lately from other mothers-to-be, especially those of Christine, Roni, Anathea, and Alisa. It’s really reassuring to know that others are having the same feelings I am, although perhaps a tad less psychotically. Okay, more than a tad.
  
• There’s nothing like the validation of a sonogram. I knew Brown Brown was jamming his head into my side (visibly so on many days). But this ultrasound made it clear that he was just parked there, with his head by my rib cage and his arm waving around in front of his face (he’s been really active lately). The doctor said he should be turning himself at any time–the sooner the better, because it can’t be any more uncomfortable than this. Sitting down is painful because he ends up smushed into my ribs. Standing is bad because it makes me have to pee every five minutes. The doctor also assured me that the baby is very well padded, so despite Adam’s dire predictions that the baby will be born bruised from my trying to move him down, the baby should be just fine.
  
• Speaking of moving the baby, I have this bad habit of rubbing the baby’s head without even thinking about it. I mean, wouldn’t you rub a giant lump protruding from the side of your belly? But it’s kind of embarrassing when I realize that I’m petting my baby–aka my belly–in public.
  
• I just had to correct in the above sentence “move it down” to “move him down.” It’s hard to believe that this thing in me will be a real live human being someday. A real live human being who will someday grow up, go to college, meet a woman, move across the country, and never come to visit. How can my son leave me? Why doesn’t he call more often? Excuse me, I need a tissue.
  
• Have I mentioned lately that I’m big? I mean ginormous. Hello world, this is my belly!
  
• How about tired? Have I mentioned how tired I am? I mean extremely. Hello world, this is me falling asleep at my desk.
  
• Things I ponder these days: animal valances with a matching rug from Pottery Barn Kids? Or homemade cheapie curtains and bare carpet? Cord-blood banking: Lifesaving necessity? Major scam? A bowl of strawberries? Or three more mint chocolate cookies. (And in case there was any doubt: the former, the latter, the latter.)
  

As I called Adam in Vienna (he finally got a world cell phone from work) to give him the sad score of the Red Sox-Yankee game (1-2), a horrifying, evil thought occurred to me. This must be a sign of the apocalypse. We’re talking evil of biblical proportion. Old Testament, real wrath-of-God type stuff. Fires and brimstone coming down from the sky, rivers and seas boiling, forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes, the dead rising from the graves! Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria!

What is it that has signaled the end of all that is good, you ask? Well, I realized I can now name more Red Sox players than I can Miami Dolphins. There’s no saving us now.

My pregnancy hormones have been more or less in check except when it comes to Adam and his reading. He’s great about reading to the baby (our favorites are the two Sandra Boynton books we have: But Not the Hippopotamus and Barnyard Dance!, although I personally love reading him Let’s Nosh [a present from Kara] so he’s indoctrinated young about his culture. The culture of eating, that is), but I feel like he’s been less than stellar on reading about the baby. We’ll be taking a weekend intensive childcare/birth class that I don’t think is going to be able to cover all the bases, so I’d like him to be gaining a little knowledge on what to do when the labor pain goes to eleven, how to deal with a psychotic post-partum mom, and how to shut up a screaming newborn (you can tell I’m going into this with rose-colored glasses on). Well, he’s on yet another business trip and this time he brought along the Sears’ The Attachment Parenting Book: A Commonsense Guide to Understanding and Nurturing Your Baby. I’m pleased. Very pleased. But also becoming slightly frightened. He e-mailed me the following while waiting for a connection at Heathrow: “I read a bunch of attachment parenting- pretty interesting- a little vague, but seems to make a lot of sense to me. I’m gonna strap the baby to me and read him cases and numbers. he’ll be doing regressions by the time he’s 2.” Sigh. Brown Brown doesn’t stand a chance of turning out to be a normal, non-geeky kid, does he?

Ok, so now I officially owe Debbie H. an apology. We took a duck tour. Yes, I the anti-duck not only took the duck tour, but it was premeditated duck tour trip (it had to be–those things sell out way in advance!). Pam, Tim, Adam, and I headed to the Museum of Science for a 10:30 drive/boat trip around the city. Ensign X was our captain aboard the tour, and the excursion was more informative than cheesy (although Pam and Tim thought Boston was a wee bit egotistical in its constant boasting of being the “first” and the “best” in everything). It’s really fun to play tourist in your own town. I learned a few new things about the city, and I would tell you what, but I’ve forgotten them already (blame the baby brain!). A great introduction to the city, I’d recommend it to folks coming to Boston for the first time (although I think going on it once was enough for me).

We were lame. Our ambitions for the 4th of July were grand. Our day kicked off with an auspicious start, as we had our house guests Pam and Tim from Seattle staying with us. We began with waffles (the good kind from Mark Bittman‘s recipe that has to let the batter sit overnight to rise) and then began our mini-patriotic tour of the Boston ‘burbs. We spent most of our time in Concord, where we explored Author’s Ridge in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (which I don’t think is related to the Washington Irving story–I think that one is in New York). We pondered how it is that all these famous authors (Nathaniel Hawthorne, Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau) all lived in the same area and all had their family plots right next to each other. The cemetery was beautiful and the day was gorgeous (a tad on the warm side, but that seemed to please our Seattle guests tremendously). Another delightful thing about Concord? Excellent, air-conditioned public restrooms.

We took the long route to Allston where we parked at HBS and said hi to some folks having a barbecue. Then we went off to Cambridge for Mexican food at the Border Cafe, ice cream at Toscanini’s, exploration in Harvard Yard, and a bit o’ shopping at the Harvard Coop (that’s pronounced “coop,” for you foreigners. Never mind that it is a co-op. Call it a coop). We thought we’d retreat home for a quick recuperation and then head back to the Esplanade for fireworks. But then we started to think about it. The Esplanade. For fireworks. Hundreds of thousands of people (later reported to be 700,000) crammed on that little stretch of land by the water. Um, no thanks. So the next on our list was to watch from Arlington, where on a hill in a park they set up a screen and audio so you can see/hear the Pops. Except, why sit on the grass and watch the fireworks appear like tiny dots in the distance when you can see them up close and personal on your own 32-inch television? I told you we were lame. But it was great fun and, really, what’s more all-American that watching TV with your butt parked on the couch and a beer (or an O’Doul’s as the case may be) in hand.

Even though Pregnancy Weekly tells me, “This is day number 211 and you’re 30 weeks pregnant! You have 69 days or 10 weeks left, and are 75% of the way there. Baby’s age since conception is 197 days or 28 weeks,” it still feels like a ways off. I mean September. That’s like, what, ages away. But today, in the mail, I got this packet from Beth Israel that made everything seem just a bit closer to home: “Dear Mom-to-be: This letter should serve to confirm that your physician or nurse-midwife has registered you to deliver here on or near your expected due date.” In this package is a form we need to fill out with our pediatrician’s name (GAG! Have yet to find pediatrician! Have yet to think about finding pediatrician! Can’t even spell pediatrician without spellcheck! Must find pediatrician NOW!) and with information that will be needed for Brown Brown’s birth certificate. Hello? Birth certificate? It just feels too, well, soon!

Of course, you’d think I’d be anxious to have him outta me, as Brown Brown isn’t making me feel any more comfortable these days. He’s apparently gotten too big for his britches–or my womb, as the case may be–and he is just sticking out wherever he feels like with no concern to my comfort, no siree, Bob. My belly is lopsided as he apparently is trying to push his way out through my belly button (I guess the exits either aren’t clearly marked in there or he’s just not a very bright baby). It’s not a happy feeling. In fact, it could be described as downright painful. Adam’s convinced that Brown Brown is going to be born with bruises and marks all over him from my trying to push him back into a more comfortable position (although, in all fairness, sometimes I’m just feeling around to see if I can identify body parts. I can’t. In my right side at this moment is either his head, his butt, his back, or really, for all I know, some limb. I can just tell there’s something there!).

So, we’re looking at ten weeks (from yesterday). That’s actually not so long when you think about it. It’s even shorter when you think that if he can figure out a means of egress in seven weeks (from yesterday), then this sucker is a full-term, honest-to-goodness actual baby. Of course, with my luck, he’ll wait a full twelve weeks, just to keep torturing me. After all, his father was a slow learner (and if you don’t know the story of how Adam and I got together, then you’ll just have to take my word that Adam may be Hah-vahd smart, but he’s rather slow in other areas), and I have a bad hunch it’s going to be like father, like son.