Do you smell something?

That's what Amos said to me last night, a gleam in his eye, after he had spent some time under the dining room table doing his business.  He isn't fully potty trained yet, and his favorite spot for the big moment is to grunt under the table.  He ran over to me, put his hands purposefully on the side of the couch, and said as if we are playing "Blues Clues", "Do youuuu smell something?"


Indeed.  I did.  I didn't need a paw print over his britches to figure it out.  It was completely hilarious and foul, and this is my kid.

I figured out why he said it.  First, he is awesome and has our senses of humor.  Many times after Amos gets the business out of his body, I am the first to smell it because I have the curse of the pregnant nose.  I can smell what my neighbors are doing with their windows closed.  I know what you ate for breakfast -- in Zimbabwe.  I see people with bad teeth and I recoil at what I suspect will hit my face at any moment, which isn't entirely fair to the dentally-challenged, but it is what it is.  

Going to New York City for a few days was a complete assault on my being.  We would stop at a street corner, and I would grasp Phil's hand and ask, "Are we literally standing inside a tank of human feces right now?"  I couldn't fathom that there was any other explanation for the odors smothering my nasal passages.  Every puddle (which was on every corner) was a sewage fest just waiting for me to take in its acrid delights.  We exited our hotel to walk to breakfast, and I gave Phil a rundown of all odors I encountered every few feet.  "Fish delivery.  Last night's Kim Chi special.  Homeless urine.  Drunk tourist urine.  Yes, there's a difference.  Now there's a scent of rotten fruit stomped by smelly feet.  Oh, because there's a fruit stand with a guy without his shoes.  Dead bird.  Wait, stop!  I smell one blooming gardenia up there on the fifth floor!"

So, really, having me around right now is totally fun if you want to identify mysterious and offensive unpleasantries.

Anyhoo, like I said, I know why Amos said it to me.  When I catch a whiff of his surprise, I tend to yell out, "DO YOU SMELL THAT?!"  Which, I admit, is totally passive-aggressive behavior in which I am attempting to get Phil to change a diaper while I recoil under a blanket.  My son has caught on to this, and now he's decided it will be a fun game to bring the odor closer to me, to help me figure out that, yes, something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.  He's very helpful.

Just another snippet of my life as a pregnant woman.  A very, very pregnant woman.

Reaching DEFCON Cranky

WARNING: These are the words of a very uncomfortable, very pregnant woman. Do not stand within 15 feet of this creature today.

It's not that I want to be cranky, it's just that some things and some people create the crankiness that spews from my innards. For your perusal:

It is a gorgeous day outside, after many days of 90+ degree heat and high humidity. I want to open the windows and have fresh air smelling up my house instead of stale air-conditioned air. Instead, one neighbor after another (at 1pm on a Thursday) are firing up their riding mowers, edgers, leaf blowers and jackhammers that stir up dust and their nasty pesticide-sprayed trimmings. Suburbs and the people you contain, you are not winning my love today.

The worst offender is the 9 year old boy who lives next door. He puts on his shades and rides a giant mower full speed around and around his house. He has a certain attention-deficit situation, so instead of focusing on finishing the task in an orderly way (like the lawn-obsessed retirees across the street), he rides and cuts in a haphazard frenzy that never ends. The father tells me that this means that he must finish the job when he gets home, in order to cut all of the weird areas that the boy left behind after two hours of mowing. You see where this leads me: listening to that gosh-darned mower not once, but TWICE in one day for hour upon hour.

I think that being over 35 weeks pregnant earns me the right to be cranky. I feel like Clint Eastwood in "Gran Torino" (or was it "El Camino"?) yelling at kids to get offa my lawn. Can you imagine if Clint had ever been pregnant? Big trouble for those kids, I tell you what.

I'm also cranky about not having any raspberry danishes in the house. I don't know why this sudden craving appeared in the last two days, but it wants to be satisfied NOW.

I'm cranky that no one else will birth this baby for me. I'm doing all of the hippie-fied stuff like hypnobirthing, water birth, and home birth, but it doesn't mean that I believe for one minute that there will be no pain. I will once again feel like I'm passing a football-sized stool while Phil tries to calmly tell me that I'm doing so well. I had a momentary freak out last week that involved panting, crying, and shaking of fists when it became all too real that the clock is ticking. There is no mystery and beauty of pregnancy this time around. I've already done that. I just want the baby in my arms. Can't I get a pass this time, saying, "Sarah has completed her creation-of-life assignment and is allowed to skip the birth this round."? Eh, blah blah blah.

I'll be even more cranky if one of you even DARES to bring up epidurals and such. I will surely punch you in the tit.

I'm cranky that I had a high blood pressure reading at the midwife's office. She voiced concern and then took it again after five minutes (it was normal then). Now she wants me to monitor my blood pressure at a pharmacy. This will make me cranky, because I don't want to leave my comfy couch while I shake fists at the neighbor boy. I know why I had the high reading. We were made to wait for my appointment, so I went to the restroom. I had things to do, if you know what I mean. Someone roughly pulled on the door while I was in there, which was the only restroom for the practice. I was flustered that someone was going to immediately be exposed to my pregnant odors, so I finished up and sprayed the room with Country Gardens or Flowers in the Mist or Bouquet in a Can. In my frenzy, my spraying aim was a bit off. The spray hit the bathroom mirror. I hoped that it would just disappear on the mirror, but no such luck. So, I grabbed a paper towel and cleaned the mirror. This resulted in a spectacular smear that got worse and worse as I frantically rubbed. All the while, I knew there was another very pregnant woman outside the door waiting to relieve her poor bladder, and I imagined that she would be sitting on the toilet and then see the mirror, wondering, "What the heck was that woman up to in here?" I was beyond flustered by the time I reached the midwife's office, which already had Phil and Amos waiting inside. So, the midwife hoisted me up on the table and started the blood pressure reading. Her first question: "Are you angry about something?"

HA! Am I angry about something. See "Gran Torino" reference, lady.

See, the trouble is, I'm normally a very happy preggie. I'm sunshine and roses and peas and carrots. I think a hot Pennsylvania summer, taking care of a toddler, and still reeling from the year-that-shall-not-be-discussed have taken their toll on my perkiness. Despite having an awesome kid and an even awesomer husband, I have become a woman of endless complaints and needs. I don't like this side of me. Five weeks to go, Cranky Sarah. Five weeks to go.

There is an upside. I think I'll have a day or two in New York City next week to see my beloved man perform there for the first time in his comedy career. I am searching for hotels with comfy beds, because if they don't have one then they will feel my wrath. Every time someone mentions an activity to do or place to go, my question is, "Yes, but is there a pool?" My preggie body is now obsessed with floating weightlessly (while eating raspberry danishes). So, maybe I'll add "pool" to the checklist of necessary New York arrangements.

Time to nap. Time to pee again for the 50th time today. Time to adjust a baby's feet out of my liver.

Parenthood.

Two months later and a belly to show for it

Wow.  I'm spectacularly good at ignoring this blog as of late.  Blame it on the preggie hormones, if ya like.

What's been going on?  A few exciting things here and there, sprinkled with the mundane and the daily whatnot, followed up by basic gestation.

So, randomness, as I tend to be:

• Amos just celebrated his 3rd birthday, and my hooha winced once again at the memory.  He had a great weekend party involving Lightning McQueen (because, as Amos says, he's the fastest race car), Toy Story peeps, a rocketship pinata, an inflatable redneck pool, and a cake with black icing that turned everyone's mouths into the cast from Les Miserables.  So, basically, it was the best birthday party a toddler could want.  He went to the movies for the first time on his official birthday to see Toy Story 3, and it was pretty darn goofy to watch him sit on the edge of his seat and say random things at the screen.  I only cried twice, which is probably not too shabby for a largely pregnant woman at the movies.

• I am now the Philadelphia city editor for The Savvy Source.  Head on over there if you need to find some great stuff to do for families in the Philly region.  If you don't care about family activities, then continue with your porn surfing.

• It wouldn't be an update without talking about the fetus, so here you go.  The wee man Marmot is 5.5 weeks away from the estimate date of arrival.  He is measuring larger than Amos, much larger, actually.  This also makes my hooha wince.  The lil' or large feller is very active and continues to punch me in the gizzard, my book lungs, and other organs I wasn't aware that I had before.

• We are planning a home birth, and I don't care what you think about that.  We'll gather up the necessary supplies this week (I hope), and I'm going to start timing Phil as he practices inflating the birthing pool and filling it with warm water while I yell at him and grunt.  That's a fairly accurate recreation of the day to come, I figure.  I have awesome midwives, and this makes me happy.

• I bought a breast pump because no one wanted to buy it for me.  Come on, why won't you buy a device that tugs at my boobs after asking me what I need for the baby?  That isn't a good substitute for the cute little onesies and bibs you had in mind?  Pffft.  I'm way more excited about my fancy pump than onesies, I'll tell you right now.  We already have just about everything we need for a second boy, except for various boob-related items.  For some craaaaazy reason, people don't want to buy attachments for my fun bags.  Your loss, people.

And that's the news.  At this rate, my next update will happen when the boys are both in college and I'm off playing the bingo.

The good and the bad of prenatal testing

So, it has taken me a few months to be able to write this, this story about my baby and how we thought all was possibly lost.  I think I'm finally in a place to talk about it publicly.

Because I'm over 35, I am immediately labeled as "advanced maternal age" by those who choose to use such names.  This means that various tests are more strongly recommended than they were when I was just a lass of 33 who was having her first child.  A second child at 36 somehow means I'm WAAAY over the hill, and my eggs must in some way be disfigured and hobbling around Ovary Town.  Yes, I tend to exaggerate, but you get my drift on how these labels make women like myself feel.  I opted to have the AFP (alpha fetal protein) prenatal test done, and I didn't give it much thought when my blood was drawn at 12 weeks and then 16 weeks.  The only thing that bothered me was the nurse who jabbed and bruised me while looking for a vein.

We were on our way to Harrisburg, driving a rental truck to pick up furniture from a friend, when the midwife called.  "Now, Sarah, don't get worked up about this, but..." is never a great way to start a conversation.  The test came back as a 1:88 chance that our baby has Trisomy 18.  My heart stopped for a moment.  I wasn't very familiar with Trisomy 18, but as someone with a biology degree and a background in genetics, I know enough to know that having three copies of any chromosome is a bad deal.  Down's Syndrome is a trisomy of chromosome 21, for example.  I couldn't remember my schooling enough to know what Trisomy 18 is, but the answers from my midwife confirmed my suspicions.  The vast majority of these babies die before birth because of many physical issues.  The ones that survive barely make it beyond the first weeks or months of life before dying.  Yes, indeed.  A very bad deal.

I sat in the rental truck in a Wawa parking lot, listening to her voice.  It's a 1:88 chance that something is wrong with the baby.  She recommends we schedule an immediate level II ultrasound, with a possible follow up of amniocentesis.  I hear the words, and I go numb.  I am 16 weeks pregnant.  I'm sitting in the truck in a parking lot with Amos happily chatting in the backseat while Phil retrieves drinks and snacks from the store.  Across from me is a scene full of teen testosterone, two sets of boys showing off their monster trucks and stomping around with bravado.  I'd rather joke with Phil about the peacock plumage of this male display than have to tell him what I had just learned.  Please don't make me repeat what the midwife said...


Just shy of two hours on the road through Amish country gives you time to think.  We passed seven or eight Amish buggies, and we all shouted in glee as we spotted them.  It was a good distraction, and perhaps a good sign.  I said to Phil, "If our baby is just fine, then show us some Amish people."  And lo, there they were.  Not one, but seven or eight buggies in their finest black regalia.  It wasn't a definite test, but it made us feel a little better.

We arrived at our friend's house, and I asked her if she had encountered the same kind of prenatal testing issues, since she is over 40 with two very young children.  Yes, she said.  Both pregnancies had given "false positives" on this test, and both children were fine.  In fact, one of them had been given a 1:5 chance of having a trisomy.  I could see her healthy children in front of me, and the relief washed over me.  A 1:88 chance of trisomy 18 can also mean that there is an 87:88 chance that my kid is perfectly fine.  Those are big chances full of hope.

I spent the next week thinking about my baby A LOT.  I had already felt little movements in my belly, and it's very hard to not become attached to a wee life inside of me who is already moving and becoming someone.  What kind of decisions would we need to make if we were that 1:88 couple?  Would we lose the baby naturally?  How can I tell our families about this?  How will I live past it?  I made the mistake of looking at pictures of Trisomy 18, or Edwards Syndrome, babies.  It tore me up.  I read every possible thing I could about the markers or physical defects that could be found via ultrasound.  I studied ultrasound pictures of normal and Trisomy 18 babies, readying and steeling myself... just in case. I withdrew into myself and the arms of Phil, and I hugged Amos with all my might.  It was a rough week.


The next week, in late February at 17 weeks, we had our ultrasound and a consultation with a genetic counselor.  The ultrasound tech was quiet at times, and I would pose my newly-learned questions upon her:  Do you see clubbed feet?  Are the hands clenched?  Is the cranium deformed?  How does the heart look?  Do you see the three arteries/veins in the umbilical cord?  Is the growth delayed?  I tried not to be annoying, and she always answered in a cheerful voice, "It looks fine!"  And she was right.  I had learned enough to see on the ultrasound screen that she was right.  Not a single marker, or physical defect, was found.  Even better, she told us that we are having a boy.  I think I love that woman.


Phil and I had already discussed that if a marker or more was found, we would have the amnio to definitively tell us about the baby's chances.  But, not a single marker was found.  He was fine, growing and developing his little parts just like he should.  The meeting with the genetic counselor went on forever, but we learned that Trisomy 18 babies normally show some markers during an ultrasound, much more so than Down's Syndrome babies.  This gave us further assurance that we didn't need to have an amnio.  She also told us that the reason that Trisomy 18 is such a fatal condition is because the 18th chromosome is longer than the 21st, giving many more chances for genetic defects in its strand of DNA.  We discussed our family histories and possibilities for other genetic issues in our baby, but Phil and I were all smiles in her office.  We felt fine.  The baby is fine.  We are okay.

To be safe, we followed recommendations that we have another ultrasound at 20 weeks.  That ultrasound also showed that our baby boy is doing very well, and he kicks and squirms so much that the tech must follow him around my belly to get a look.  Most of our pictures turned out blurry because he moves so much.  No markers have ever been found, and we are letting out big sighs of relief each time we go.  The perinatologist recommended that we have ultrasounds every four weeks throughout the pregnancy, just to follow growth and make sure that all is well, even though he and the ultrasound techs have yet to find any reason to believe that our baby is not okay.  It is our decision if we want to continue the ultrasounds, which brings me to yesterday.  We had our 24 week ultrasound, and once again, little Marmot looks just fine.  His growth is in the 65th percentile at 1 lb 11 oz for week 24, and the tech tells me that he is very likely to be bigger than Amos was at 6 lbs 9 oz at birth.


All good news.  All smiles.  Although we have an appointment at 28 weeks for another ultrasound, Phil and I aren't feeling so much that it is necessary to continue the monitoring (although we absolutely love having the chance to see little Marmot so often).  We'll see what we decide when the time comes.  While the ultrasound tech tells me that very rarely a Trisomy 18 baby will be born without having shown markers on earlier ultrasounds, she says that in her 25 years of seeing these babies, she has never found that to be the case.  It made me very sad to think that she has indeed had the misfortune of telling other parents that their baby is showing markers for Trisomy 18.  But, her expertise reassures me that our little guy is doing just fine.


So, on with the happy planning for little Marmot and his welcome into our family.  I don't think sad thoughts anymore when I see a little infant outfit.  I'm just happy and squishy inside, and I see that in Phil's eyes as well.  We're really excited to meet him and to see how our family changes and grows with him.  I know there are the tiniest, slimmest chances that something could be wrong, but I have the confidence to keep up the happy thoughts.  After all, as Phil says, we've never won anything.  Why would we "win" something now that has a 1:88 chance of happening?

My heart hurts for other parents who find themselves in the minority group, the ones who hear an ultrasound tech, perinatologist or genetic counselor tell them that their child is not what they had hoped.  There is just too much to think about, feel, and be torn over with that kind of diagnosis.  I have friends who have lost their babies to such genetic conditions, and I know people who love their children who continue to live and strive in their own ways, despite their syndromes and trisomies and labels.  For some period of time, I was there, waiting to see what our future holds, and I have nothing but love for those who have been there before and will be there in the future.


As for prenatal testing, I see the value in it, and now I've seen the ugly downside of being grouped into "the maybes."  Maybe everything is fine, maybe not.  Let's take this test to scare the hell out of you.  The test looks at proteins in the mother's blood rather than in the womb, and it's the least invasive, and dare I say least informative, way to gauge whether there is a CHANCE that something has occurred.  It would be nice if we had advanced to Star Trek technology and could just wave a wand of some sort to say, "Yup.  Healthy baby."  But, we don't have that yet, and even if a better noninvasive test is available, it hasn't been mass approved by health insurance companies to have a real effect.  The test for assurance involves a needle in the belly or into the vagina to sample amniotic fluid or chorionic villi, and those tests are nowhere near being less invasive.  I understand now why some mothers told me that they opted out of prenatal testing, despite their ages.  Is it worth the worry and tremendous lack of faith a mother and her partner go through when they fall into "the maybes"?


Before having the test, I might have said yes.  Now, my answer is firmly in "the maybes."

My lovely lady lumps and other randomocity

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say.  Pregnancy makes the lady forget that she has a blog, is what I say.

So, here is an update from the Binky Estate. 

• Round Two of child-making is wonderful and all, but slightly less endearing than the wonderment of womenhood that is the first pregnancy.  We've reached almost 24 weeks of baby growing.  My belly seems larger this time.  I don't spend every moment thinking about the baby, except when he mercilessly kicks and gives me the Heimlich manuever from the inside.  It's hard to ignore someone who controls your innards.  This one is a very active boy.  Did I mention that we're having another boy?  Sometimes I get all gooey when I think about who he is.  Does he look like Amos?  Will this one have curly hair like me?  Will the boys grow up to love each other and be just as incredible as their father? 

• I'm annoyed with the size of my boobs.  I have way more than anyone would ever need in a lifetime, no matter what Phil says.  At least porn stars make money with theirs.  I'm keenly aware of when I'm being ogled, by men and women alike.  I apologize to everyone that my cleavage seems to always make an appearance, no matter the cut of my shirt.  I think I'm going to look into Amish dress.  Amish maternity clothing must be quite something to behold. 

• Phil's dad passed away in early March.  It was a sad time for all of us, but I'm glad we were here.  Bill was surrounded by his children and his wife when he slipped away.  Phil delivered the eulogy for his dad, which was sweet, sad, and incredibly funny, just like he did for my own father's funeral.  Later in the month, we went through the second anniversary of my dad's passing.  March, I love ya and all, but I'm glad you are over.

• Pennsylvania in the winter is not something I enjoy.  Pennsylvania is the spring is a joyous place full of flowers and greenery. 

• Interesting observation about our new homeplace:  Phil and I notice that not only are people loud here, they are aggressive and angry.  Not all, mind you, but quite a large crew of them.  In fact, the town we live in felt the need to post signs on the main road that yell BEWARE OF AGGRESSIVE DRIVERS.  I'm not sure which came first:  the aggressive drivers on the stretch of road between these signs, or the signs that instigated people to think, "Hmm, well, if everyone is hellbent on destruction right here, I might as well be, too."  I tend to clutch parts of my seat and the window frame whenever we drive that stretch of Mad Max, PA.  Maybe I should shave my hair into a mohawk and wear my assless chaps to fit in.

• Along with the aggressive people, the animals are trying to keep up their attitude as well.  We've seen bird fights within a few feet of where we were sitting (resulting in an explosion of feathers on the ground) and the rare squirrel-on-bird fight to the death that "Wild America" could only dream of catching on film.  Sometimes, if we have the windows open at night, we are awakened around 5 to 6am by the loudest, most annoying bird chirping, nay, YELLING, that we're ever heard.  I guess it's when the birds wake up and have their coffee before they start the day.  Maybe they are planning the next rumble.  I call dibs on Ponyboy.

• Upon reflection, I seem to be grumbling a bit here.  There are plenty of positives in my life.  We are incredibly happy to have another child arriving soon (August 1 or so).  Amos has grown into the most interesting little human being I've ever witnessed, and we're pretty sure he's some kind of genius.  He's gentle and kind (well, mostly, but especially for a toddler), has manners (Please, sorry, and thank you?  Who IS this kid?!), and he seems to have an almost full command of the English language.  We looked up the various milestones for his age group, and while he may not have completely mastered potty training ("No!  I'm under the table and I poop in my diaper!"), he is above and beyond in his language skills.  The kid uses predicates, nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs.  He doesn't have one sentence; rather, they go on into compound sentences and full-on paragraphs.  He wants to learn about plants, sidewalks (including the grout and how to say grout), cars, airplanes, birds, comedy, cooking, and especially, how to fix things.  I see this incredible need to learn inside of him, and I burst with pride.  This boy is a little nerd chip off the ol' block. 

• And you!  You look fabulous!  What is that garment you are wearing?  You are so fetching in its cut and shape.  Did you change your hair?  My, it's quite a sight.

When gremlins strike

Fifteen weeks of development.  Fifteen weeks.  Something to celebrate?  Not this time.

For the past week, I've been having the dreaded pregnant headaches.  I had a few when Amos was snugged into my belly, but these are more frequent and achy.  It truly feels like Marmot is stabbing me in the skull.  I imagine a little softball-sized baby standing over me with an icepick, not unlike the gremlin in Twilight Zone: The Movie that terrorizes John Lithgow on the wing of the plane. 

Stabby stab stab goes the little softball-sized gremlin, while I stare in horror from seat 13A.

For that reason, I'm a little (okay, a lot) cranky when the headaches strike.  I've missed some great outings because of them.  I drape myself across the couch with a hand over my forehead in very much a "woe is me" kind of way.  Noise, any noise, yes, even that one you are making right now over there SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!, is bothersome.  Daylong headaches:  they should be a defense in murder trials.

A tiny dose of Tylenol and a wee dram of coffee seem to help, but I'm not willing to go beyond that, as I'll be tarred and feathered by the parenting community and pointed at menacingly by the uterus cops for poisoning the gremlin that is stabbing me in the brain.  It's really unfair, this pregnant business.  Napping all day in a comatose manner seems to be the only cure.

So, anyhoo, another one struck me today.  After taking my standard "woe is me" position, Amos decided to go about his usual toddler business with the noise and the movement and the clanging and the banging and the stomping and the general madness.  I wasn't a happy camper.  I said various things that I'm not proud of, such as, "Get off this couch!  Go away!  Leave!  ARGH!"  Phil, being the wondrous man that he is, decided to take Amos down to the basement, where Amos has a carpet-padded dungeon of delights filled with toys and plenty of room to run around like a madman.

I was grateful, mind you, but the gremlin was making me do and say things that were not under my jurisdiction.  Amos was still running around up here and causing me stress, so I said, "Just GO AWAY!"  

I immediately felt bad.  Really bad.

Then Amos said, "Okay, I'm going away now," in just about the cutest, most mother-killing voice I've ever heard.  I died on the spot.

After recovering from my death, I asked Amos to come over.  I apologized and asked for a kiss.  He giggled and whispered, "Heheh, okay," and planted one on me.  "I'm going to the basement!"  And off he went to have fun in the toddler dungeon.

I called after him, "Have fun!"  Then I rolled back into "woe is me" to lament about my bad mothering.  He didn't seem affected at all, but I added one check mark to the imaginary Wall of Parenting Shame that stands beside me.

Perhaps if I confess these times that I take out headaches and aggravations on my son, then I won't progress to Defcon Mommy Dearest stage.  I won't end up in the garden at 3am, slicing the roses off of their stems while Amos watches in horror.  I won't scream, "NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!" or give his gifts to orphans while I smear lopsided lipstick across my face.


He is likely, however, to walk around our home saying, "I know how to make drinks for all my uncles."  That one is NOT my fault.  Blame it on Phil for buying me a gag set of "childrens' books" entitled such things as "Baby Mix Me a Drink."  Amos already knows how to make a gimlet, an old-fashioned, and something he calls a mardardita in da blender.

Somewhere, Joan Crawford is smiling fondly at us.

Epic journeys and breeding

That pretty much sums up what life has been like the past few months.

Oh, hi.  Is that you?  Yeah, I know.  It's been awhile.  You look smashing in that frock.  Oh, stop!  No, YOU stop!

So, um, yeah.  I moved.  About 1,700 miles, give or take.  There's a lot I can say about traveling this great expanse of country we have, but I'll save those sweet ditties for another post.


So, um, yeah.  I did something else.  Well, Phil and I did something.  We got it on, and then something, or someone, is the result.  Yes, we are breeding again.  It is a good thing, Martha.  A very, very good thing.


Say hello to Marmot, Baby Binky #2.

Also, welcome to my uterus.  You're welcome.

This ultrasound was done at 12 weeks.  As the medical establishment was quick to tell me, this was a necessary part of this pregnancy as I am now "advanced maternal age."  Thanks.  Now go away.  My old eggs are watching "Matlock," and they are pissed that you didn't put your tea cups on a doily.  And get offa their lawn!

Ah, where was I?  Yes, back to my uterus.  Isn't it lovely?  Here is Marmot, shaking a fist at you (because you still didn't use that damn doily, now did you?!).  This kid is sassy, just like Mom.

Marmot almost seems to have giant lips in that pic up there, but I'm going to set you straight and tell you that those are teeth.  Although, it would be pretty hilarious to birth a child with adult-sized, Angelina Jolie lips.

Just to be nice, here is Marmot and a little hand wave above the head.  See?  My kid has manners.  But you don't.  If you left a ring on that table, my old eggs will tan your hide.

So, there you go.  You were thinking that, all this time, I was just wasting my days and nights with nothingness and not writing.  Right?  Well, aren't you put back into your place.  I traversed the nation AND made a baby.  I'm a ding dang Dust Bowl pioneer, all knocked up and singing songs of wagons and cholera.

And that's what I did on my holiday vacation.  The end.

Shake it like a Polaroid picture

I don't know about you, but I think I already know how to do this exercise.

*insert other witty dick jokes here*

Eighteen piles and a dozen roses

If you know the song I just bastardized, well, kudos, my friend.  It gets stuck in my head sometimes, much like another bizarre country tune that my childhood pals in East Texas and I would shout out as we were swaying on a tree swing.  

I know.  It will haunt you forever.  You're welcome.

There's a point I was going to make with this.  Let me remind myself.... Um... Ah.  Okay.

So, yes.  We are moving, as mentioned in my previous silly rant.  As of today, I have roughly two months to get my butt in gear and to pack all of our precious collections.  Collections become less precious when you find out just how much it will cost to haul that junk across state lines.  Very much less precious.

We've decided to employ the help of a moving company, a sort of you-pack-it, we-haul-it situation.  Considering we have one child and cat in our inventory, it seems better to stuff all of us in the car and let someone else drag our cargo to the final destination.  We've done the whole rent-a-truck-and-frighten-yourself-to-death routine with the driving and the hauling and the driving and the driving.  I know that driving with a cat while following your husband who is driving a Penske truck (without his CDL or a chaw of tobaccy in his mouth) seems romantic, but adding a child to the mix creates a new dimension of terror and excitement.  Being a trucker just isn't high on my list of priorities these days.  My old bones aren't up to the challenge anymore.

So, this creates a different problem.  We will be charged by the foot in this giant tractor trailer.  Can you look at everything in your house and say, "Hmm... it looks like we have 13 feet of possessions."?  Well, I can't.  I'm trying to learn the process of turning an entire household into a miniature Borg ship of cubic dimensions.  Don't even get me started on how painful it will be when we assimilate and become cybernetic organisms.  I know, I know.  Resistance is futile.

It's much easier to rent a moving truck and start out with good intentions, with the careful packing of items into boxes of the same size.  As you start the process, you congratulate yourself on how nicely you've stacked your items in the back of the truck.  Then, as the hours drag on and the random crap is still rolling around your house, you begin to stuff things haphazardly into baskets and bags and hobo bindles, cursing yourself for every little thing you've ever purchased in your lifetime.  When you're sweaty and throwing garbage bags full of junk into the truck, desperately trying to close the door to your U-Haul, that is when hindsight kicks you right in the balls.

I really don't like that guy, Hindsight.

I think you see my dilemma.  How does a very unorganized person become organized enough to create  X-amount of space in a tractor trailer to minimize the freight charges?  I can rent a moving truck that is 26 feet, and then proceed to shove my garbage bags into it without problem.  But, can I turn that loosely (and probably dangerously) packed 26 feet into a quaint and dainty square of 13 feet or less?  And before you answer, can I do that without having every single item break in transit?  Ha HA!  See?  It's not so easy.

It's one thing to accept this challenge when the distance is only across town.  It's quite another when you cross an entire continent.

I guess what I'm saying is that we are very popular right now with the charity organizations that drive around and pick up clothing and household donations.  Every few days, one of them calls.  We have the Lupus Foundation and the ARC folks battling it out over who gets my legwarmers and acid-washed jeans.  It's not a pretty sight when diseases and the underpriviledged engage in hand-to-hand combat in the streets over "vintage" clothing.  I'm just trying to help, people.  I'm just trying to help. 

So, keep us in your thoughts as we try to pry ourselves free of our possessions.  Perhaps I will try to assemble the 13 foot (or less, please) Borg ship before we slap it into the truck.  I suspect, however, that the whole thing will fall on me in a very disastrous way.  I should leave this to the professionals, me thinks.

Good thing I'll have the Rubber Duck taking care of things in his convoy.

Convoy!  Convoy!

I'm movin' on up, to the east side

Pennsylvania, to be exact. Yes, dear reader whose face I would try to delicately read with my hands but cannot because I would never let you into my house when you're dressed like a tart and smelling of cheese, I am leaving Colorado and my beloved Denver for the literal greener pastures of southeastern Pennsylvania.

Folks who know my exploits on other various things I spout upon are already aware of this, but I figured the world at large should know, since I'm sure my absence of late has been a large worry. Or not.

I've hesitated to talk about this, which caused me to basically seize up and refrain from saying nary a word on this here ol' Binky. I'm like that, you know. All chatty chatty bang bang, and then when craziness smooshes my bits, I clam up that trap of mine and just smile and nod. I know, I know. That's not exactly the hallmark of a blogger who happens to discuss juicy personal deets, but such is the life of this lady. After all, why talk about something when it's only in the decision stages, and get people all worked up about it with delight or pounding their chests with fury? That's what Fox News is for.

Now for the question and answer round of this program.

Why, you ask. Why would you do such a thing? Well, if you've been any sort of reader of mine (and I do love you and pet you and call you my Squishy for being so), then you are quite aware of the Disaster of All Disasters to Ever Strike a Binky. Otherwise known as leaving for Texas to take care of two parents at two separate times during one year, only to have both of them die up on the cabin floor (as Woody Guthrie would say). These events, while sad and tragic and such, caused the adults in this household to reexamine our lives. We realized, well, I realized first and then Phil realized because I told him so, that our son should grow up around family.

And that's how it will be.

Come December, these people of mine will pull up stakes and head east. We'll be north of Philadelphia in the land of Bucks County. No, I won't tell you where, you perv. It dawned on me one day that this decision was made partly because of the loss of my father, who would protest loudly if he were alive and knew I was doing this. You see, it was bad enough that his daughter married a Yankee. Now she's going to BECOME one?! Egads. Or ding dang, if you're Southern. See?! I don't even know who I am anymore! Damn you, dirty apes!

So, what's done is done. The check is in the mail, the lease is signed. Too bad, Dad. My kid needs grandparents. You could have stuck around for the interview.

Would I make this decision if I didn't have Amos? Tricky, tricky. Phil and I have been happy nomads all these years, living out on the high desert plains and supping upon the feasts of the Rocky Mountains. I'd probably pick Istanbul or Prague or some other exotic and probably dangerous location, if one was to poke at me and demand that I leave Denver. As it turns out, the fruit of my loins has more say in this even if he never said a thing at all about it.

Sigh.

Ah, but turn that frown upside down, mon friend. Pennsylvania is a land of many contrasts, I've been told by those who took PA history in school. Indeed, Pennsylvania and Bucks County in particular are quite spectacular. I have always enjoyed visiting there, seeing the lush forests and greenery, and making fun of all of the delis and such that proclaim "Steaks and Hoagies" on their front windows. The first time I saw that, I asked Phil, "Jeez, are these people meat eaters or what with all their steaks?!" Silly silly me. I didn't know that it referred to cheesesteaks.

Ah, cheesesteaks. Pennsylvania's state bird: the cheesesteak. Pennsylvania's state motto: The Cheesesteak State, Land of Many Contrasts and Toppings and Cheese Whiz.

Did I mention how great Phil's relatives are? Yeah. Anyone who causes me to pull roots and travel over 1,700 miles better be darn great. And they are.

In my neurosis, I actually had to sit down and think long and hard over a pro versus con list of why we should go there. It turns out that big changes kinda make me wacky these days, as you might imagine after having all the death and the dying and the croaking and the such. Makes a lady batty, y'know? There were more yeas than nays, but I know I will still have a few problems with the negatives. Maybe that's where you can help me. Let's get all Oprah on this and treat it like a national crisis that I must overcome these obstacles. And then write a book about it.

Cons

1) The accent. I know. I KNOW! It's hideous! (Except for you, of course, dear East Coaster, I'm sure you don't sound as awful as I think...er.). There are many accents that I can take, some that I dare say I find charming, but I tells ya and I tells ya, the southeastern Pennsylvania accent with its ca-ozy instead of cozy and ha-oagie instead of hoagie?! UGH! It makes me shiver and shake and twitch and twitter. Any "oh" sound in that region is mangled into something that inserts an "ah" sound in front of it. It's wrong, Pennsylvania. It's DEAD WRONG what you did to those words.

(No, I will not defend the various Texas accents in this debate since I am from there. I don't sound like that. You, Texan, will have to live with yourself for creating those sounds.)

(See? I'm even-handed here. I don't hate the player, I hate the game.)

2) Hoagies. Yes, I said it. Hah-oagies. I've never disliked a word before as much as I dislike that word. I'm pretty sure it will prevent me from eating one. Maybe that's not so bad, you think, but the little towns around where I will live are cornfed on these sandwiches. Hah-oagies are the bread and butter of that area, and I won't be able to swing a dead whatever around without hitting a hoagie. I'm sure they are tasty, Pennsylvania, but the way you say that word and keep saying it and then keep posting it on every window everywhere to ever exist, which in turn reminds me of the way you say it? Oh, boy.

(Yes, another set of parenthesis. Now, understand that I am somewhat pulling your chain here. Tongue in cheek, my friend. I'm not actually all bent out of shape here, you dig? What else do I have to write about besides random things that may or may not be ridiculous?)

3) The problem that shall not be named. No, don't even ask. I mean it. Stop. I said quit!


So, there you go. Or, there my go, as Amos would say. Eh, I guess that's not so many problems. As you can see, I doth protest too much. I will suck it up and try to plug up my ears whenever the vernacular offenses occur. I will be a Pennsylvanian. I WILL be a Pennsylvanian. I'm not sure if I'll get gussied up in a Quaker outfit or the undergarments of the Amish as part of my initiation, but what the heck. I'll do it, Pennsylvania, for you. And for my kid.

Aw, shucks. And I think you're kinda cute, too. Heheheh. No, YOU stop.