Ghosts & Goats & Chocolate Milk

With my taste for the eerie and askew, I’m going to have to learn how to tone things down a mite for a tot’s taste.  Especially around Halloween.

Don’t misunderstand me – I draw a broad line between what thrills and what nauseates.  I don’t enjoy entertainment or costumes that are downright grotesque – monsters, spectres and suspense are much more alluring than seeing innards turned outward.  As the wife of a mortuary student, I have to maintain a healthy mindset about these things.

 

…which brings me to this Halloween’s thought of weight: What’s the best way to teach a child about confronting the potentially terrifying things in life?

When I was young, I adored tales involving anything out of the ordinary.  Whether from the pages of a book or the mouth of an uncle gifted in weaving stories, I hungered to be told of netherworlds populated by freaks, aliens, roadside apparitions, vampires, or secret societies.  By the invocation of mere words,  I could safely flesh out these characters in my mind to suit my comfort level.  I could handle these fears within the boundaries of my own capacity to cope because the terror they influenced was controlled by the limits of my imagination.    

 

 

Media images evoked a different reaction altogether.  Growing up in the age of Freddy Krueger and Michael Meyers, a trip down the video store’s horror aisle during their heyday could send me reeling for months.  I don’t know why I felt the curious compulsion to turn those tape cases around and gawk at the violent film scenes they featured, but I could have gone my entire life as a sufficiently well-rounded individual without those images trapped in my impressionable young brain.  I couldn’t understand – and I still don’t – how such gory scenes could be a source of pleasure to anyone.  Maybe I never reached the point where I was desensitized with enough regularity to enable me to stomach such “thrills”.  I’m thankful for that.  Life can provide enough graphic shocks without me having to seek them out for entertainment. 

In a society where children are increasingly expected to be tolerant of such entertainment, I resist accepting this norm.  I can’t do that in good conscience to our daughter.  Growing up around family who work in funeral homes and raise farm animals, she’ll see plenty of death and hopefully grow in the wisdom of how to accept it.  Being raised in the south, she’ll encounter plenty of eccentricity and legend.  I would rather these be her early acquaintances with such things rather than the sensory assault of onscreen violence.    

Besides, if we crave a little horror-induced excitement in our lactose-intolerant household one late October evening, there’s always chocolate milk and homemade ice cream night. 

 Oh.  The terror.

 

 

Freaky Frankenstorm

I’ve been keeping up with the historic storm Hurricane Sandy over the past few days, watching with nauseous horror as images of familiar landmarks in New York City and Bergen County, New Jersey surface on the news. 

I can’t imagine what I’d do if I was caught up in that battle between nature versus infrastructure.  The only natural disaster I have any orientation to are the tornado-producing ripsnorts which regularly tear through Arkansas like a hangnail through a pair of cheap pantyhose.

We’re fortunate to have been spared the normal amount of trips to the ‘fraidy hole over the course of this year.  Thank the good Lord it’s been so, because a first pregnancy is fraught with enough fresh anxieties without having to fret over the possibility of a house falling on your sister.  I’m not sure my nerves could’ve withstood a typical cow-pitchin’, oak-snappin’ weather event -- never mind a full-blown ark-floater like Sandy’s turning out to be.

What in the world would I do if (or, inevitably, when) we’re faced with a dangerous and unpredictable situation like this while a child is in my care?

Will nerves and incontinence take over as they normally do, or will protective instinct overrule my fear of the elements propel me toward an appropriate response?

You don't need a weatherman to know which way the...

The Happiest.

My parents’ generation was advised by their peers not to trust anyone over the age of thirty. 

 

Now that I’ve reached that age myself, I believe I’ve figured out why.  There’s a tendency toward unapologetic honesty that accompanies the epiphany of oh crap, I’m an adult, and I’m sure that can be abrasive to those who haven’t reached that point yet.

 

Since I’ve come to the realization that I am truly, undeniably grown up, I’ve ceased to feel the need to make apologies for myself when I succeed. 

 

I understand that “friend” is a title worthy of being earned, which proves itself when tested by time and circumstance.  It’s lovely to have a circle rich in pleasant acquaintances, but I don’t expect everyone I get along with or spend time around to be my superduperbestfriendforever.  To have an automatic expectation of that kind of relationship is to ask too much.  

 

I can take others’ criticism with a grain of salt before I take it to heart.  I’m learning to consider the motivations behind the source of such words. 

 

Faithful are the wounds of a friend, But deceitful are the kisses of an enemy.  – Proverbs 27:6

 

By the opposite side of the same coin, I’ve learned to accept flattery with an equal measure of wariness. 

 

I’ve realized that fashion and personal style are two distinctly different approaches to presenting oneself.  You can incorporate the former into the latter, but slavishly pursuing only what’s new and popular sends the message that I’m not comfortable with my own judgment.   

 

For the sake of these shifts in attitude, I like being thirty years old.  I was thinking precisely that thought today as I ran errands in my sensible used sedan while listening to the local classical radio station.  I realized that in the midst of that seemingly mundane moment, hey, this is one of those moments that I’m going to long for when I’m old. 

 

 

I can afford a full tank of gas,

I’m responsible for myself financially and that doesn’t frighten me,

I finally stopped dyeing and overchopping my hair,

I don’t give a crap that I have an old phone,

My home is a place I enjoy being at,

And I’m experiencing my first pregnancy within the love and security of a nurturing, functional marriage.

 

I honestly can’t think of any other moment in my life when I’ve been happier.

 

But I’m sure that happiest moment is well on its way.

Angel Daddy

 

I am in love with this image.

 

I captured this picture four years ago in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, next to the stations of the cross outside St. Elizabeth of Hungary Catholic Church.

 

Like a melodic theme, it's floated through my mind all afternoon, influencing my outlook upon this gray October day by recasting my surroundings through its accidental luminosity.

 

I think I captured his true identity....

 

 

 

Give That Poor Baby a REAL Name!

 

From this day forward, she will no longer be Mini Clenney.....

 

 

AVA:  Origin, German.  Meaning, "A bird."

 

LEIGH:  Origin, Hebrew.  Meaning, "Weary."

 

 

Sounds like...



In Good Company.... The October 20, 2012 Baby Shower

Saturday.  Was.  Amazing. 

I woke up at 3:30 a.m. so bursting-full of anticipation, there wasn’t enough sheep in all of Scotland for a sleep-inducing enumeration.  Jason woke up with the same problem, so we resolved to just get up and have breakfast.  Ironically, two bellies full of peanut butter oatmeal put us back into a stupor suitable to the hour, and we slept again.

The sunlight inching its way into the room made its joyful announcement around 8 a.m.: It’s Mini’s baby shower day!!!  I was aghast to discover that Jason not in the woods with every other muzzle-loaded, red-blooded Southern gentleman, but was instead snoozing peacefully by my side.  I made coffee and settled in with a book, and there we remained quite contentedly for a good long while.  Honey Boo Boo Dog then loped into the room, stretched her enormous frame across the foot of our bed, and our picture of weekend tranquility was complete.  

 

We finally surrendered the comforts of home to the clock, and by one o'clock we walked into Ann's house where the shower was staged.  We were absolutely astounded by the presentation that greeted us.

 

 

Mini's Auntie Angela posing with her masterful tablework.

 

Ann's house had been transformed into the most elegant tea parlor I could've wished for.  There were shelves of delicate dishes, cups and teapots, and the refreshments were nearly too beautiful to eat.  With help from our moms, Ann & Angela also took prints of me and Jason's baby pictures and recast them in black and white, then displayed them amongst the chintz-printed china and candy-tinted glass.  

 

 

Jordan almonds compliment my pimpin' baby bonnet.

 

 

The element of the day dearest to my heart was the guest list.  As the doorbell announced one arrival after another, I was increasingly grateful for the effort our hosts put into inviting the gaggle of people we requested invitations for.  The exuberant horde that showed up to celebrate this occasion with us was populated with so many dear, familiar faces -- some we hadn't seen in much too long -- whose presence was an occasion in itself!

 

 



Honorary grandma Pat Lightfoot & my sweet maternal grandmother Aleta Mullins:

the two wildest chicks at the party.

 

 

Sean, Melanie & Layla Rock modeling what a hip young family looks like.

 

 

  Amber Austin Bell & Jessica Oden Lain: the trendsetters every party requires.  They even have three names like real career socialites.  Cool.

 

 

Mommy & Daddy with "Auntie" Kendall Loy... every time we give her happy baby news, she cries!  Bless her tender little heart!

 

 

There is no one with more class than Buddy Johnson.  No one.

 

In the midst of all the h'orderve-fueled hubbub, we managed to wade over to the enormous Mt. Everest of gifts and get to rippin'.  I don't know how our group managed to share a collective mind and generously provide us with so many different items to meet Mini's needs without a single gift being given in duplicate (other than diapers, but who cares?!), but they certainly plugged into each other subconsciously and pulled it off!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To think that this outpouring of thoughfulness was fueled by the love that awaits our dear daughter....

That she will have more "Aunties" and "Uncles" and "Grandparents" than she will be able to keep up with.... 

 

Augh.  There are no words.

 

I thank God for our friends and family, present that day both in body and in spirit....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Most Fabulous, Completely Non-Partisan Tea Party of 2012

I couldn't resist sharing a few images from Mini's baby shower from this past Saturday before I got the chance to properly immortalize the occasion in extensive prose....

 

Our gratitude and wonder is especially due the two ladies who organized, decorated, hosted and herded cats so that we could celebrate this occasion in the company of such an overwhelming number of dear friends and family.

 

Ann Loy and Angela Porterfield, we owe you a huge debt of champagne and pug kisses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wilford Brimley Cleans Up Studio 54

If I begin a post with a cat who looks like Wilford Brimley, then you can safely assume that I'm in a pretty spiffy mood.

We received an encouraging report at our brief checkup yesterday.  Now the good doc requests that I check my blood sugar a mere twice a day instead of four times, as I've been doing for the past month and a half or so.  I couldn't be more enthusiastic to oblige him.  Testing supplies are blasted expensive, and my fingertips are about as calloused as Jimmy Page's after all that constant poking.

He seemed very satisfied with my progress, and reiterated that Mini is still measuring about a week ahead of schedule.  Then he whipped out the heartbeat ultrasound thingamajigger and proceeded to chase her around my belly until he pinned her down low and could make out her 148 BPM.  It makes me deliriously happy hear that sound each time we come in.  I'm no cardiologist, but I know a good ticker when I hear one.  It sounds like Vinnie Colaiuta, not Stewart Copeland.

So here we are.... needles, cats, drummers... how do these updates become so convoluted?  I started off purely with the intention of writing about our 26 week checkup, and now my poor baby's blog sounds like Studio 54 on any given night in 1978.  Yeesh.  Let's have some more Wilford Brimley to wholesome things back up a bit.

 

 

 

The Soapbox

Election years make me nervous. 

 

Not nervous as in first date nervous or about to go onstage nervous. 

 

Nervous like cat-two-inches-above-a-full-bathtub nervous. 

 

On my way home from my everlasting work day yesterday, I tuned in to the second presidential debate on NPR and realized that after listening for 120 brief seconds that I was grinding my teeth and sucking on my hair.  I’m not well-adjusted enough for the vagaries of politics.  Not during pregnancy, anyway.  As the intensity of the candidates’ exchange was ratcheted up, I tossed my intention of be a concerned, informed citizen into the backseat for the time being and smacked the radio dial in favor of blessed silence.

 

Once I’d returned to the old homestead and set all creatures and contraptions there in order, my adrenaline had ebbed low enough for me to try and apply my attention to debate again.  I turned the television on and danced around like a Fraggle with the hi-def antennae box for about ten minutes (no lie!) until I found a pose sufficient to maintain reception, then I stood and stared for ten minutes more.

 

While I won’t divulge my preference toward a specific candidate in this space, I will list a few observations on behalf of the middle class Southern state female pregnant young voter’s point of view as influenced by the past two debates:

 

At this moment in my family’s lives, we are employed full-time, one of us is also a full time student, we are well insured, and are expecting our first child at ages 27 and 30.  We are working hard to build a secure foundation for our financial well-being, even if it’s one small brick at a time.  We’ve made mistakes along the way, but we’ve also realized how important it is to make conservative decisions with our finances even when things are easy and we could just blow money.  I also thank God for family and friends whose  generosity to us has been enabled due to their own good judgment over the years.  We have learned volumes by observing them.   

 

I am not banking on our government to insure our family’s future is consumption-heavy or American-dreamy.  I’m voting for a candidate who will look our economic and national security issues square in the eyes and do what a government can do on its end to set America at a greater advantage and encourage its people to be hard-working and foresighted for their individual good as well as that of the country – not someone who’s full of high hopes and ideologies that lead us into engagements and investments like one tar baby after another.

 

Luke 14:28-30
For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not sit down first and count the cost, whether he may have enough to finish it; lest perhaps, after he has laid the foundation and is not able to finish, all those seeing begin to mock him, saying, This man began to build and was not able to finish.

 

I believe that social issues tie directly into the first two I mentioned, because if we do what’s wise (even if difficult) on the world stage and in our spending and production, choosing what’s best for our population (which doesn’t necessarily mean the most progressive or Hollywood-popular policies) socially will be approached with the same careful wisdom. 

 

I want a president who has a track record of success in various endeavors, and who does not feel the need to make any apology or mea culpa statement for providing well for their family or enabling others to work and provide for theirs.  Why should there be shame in multiply the ‘talents’ you’re given?  Long-term success doesn’t only require skill. 

 

Proverbs 21:5
The thoughts of the diligent tend only to plenty; but the thoughts of everyone who is hasty only to poverty.

 

 It’s just as important to me to know the manner in which they spend their own money.  I know that this isn’t necessarily required for public knowledge, but it surely is telling of what an individual values.

 

Romans 13:7
Render to all what is due them: tax to whom tax is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honor to whom honor.

 

 Proverbs 3:9-10
Honor the Lord from your wealth and from the first of all your produce; so your barns will be filled with plenty and your vats will overflow with new wine.

 

Deuteronomy 15:10
Give generously to him and do so without a grudging heart; then because of this the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in everything you put your hand to.

 

So who am I voting for?  Consider the things I’ve just written and discern for yourself.

 

Now I’m hungry and my brain is drawing to a screeching halt.  I’m going to dismount from my soapbox now.

 

My doctor would frown upon me standing on high things anyway.

A Room of Mini's Own



There is something quite intimate about creating a living space for someone you love. 

 

Whether it's as simple as devising a reading nook or as complex as furnishing and decorating a house, "making" a home-dwelling for someone can be such a compassionate undertaking.  After all, it requires taking into consideration the dweller's daily needs and tastes, as well as encourages them to take pleasure in the graciousness and beauty laid out especially for them.  No matter how penny-tight the household, loveliness and order are always available to those who are resourceful and creative! 

 

I feel very fortunate to have people in both Jason's family and my own who have communicated to me through example that home should be a welcoming, personalized space that can be a stabilizing influence on those who enter.  It encourages those who live there to linger there together, and to bring in others who are in need of comfort.   It can be a little microcosm of one's own to set in order when it seems that the world outside is ruthlessly chaotic.  Best of all, it can be a reminder of the consistent care and concern of those who make it what it is. 

 

In short, the loveliness of your personal space can be a gift to those who live in it.

 

Why do we love certain houses, and why do they seem to love us? It is the warmth of our individual hearts reflected in our surroundings.
~ T. H. Robsjohn-Gibbings

 



 

One more application of  paint, and Mini's nursery room will be wearing its permanent coat!

 

It went without stating from the beginning that Jason and I have wanted our little girl to have a space of her own where each detail will remind her of how much she is cared for.  I'm no Doctor Spock (the child specialist, not the Vulcan/human Starfleet officer), but it's my conviction that a young child's surroundings influence him or her a great deal. 

 

Speaking from personal experience, the thing I remember most clearly about my first home was the color yellow -- sunshine-yellow siding, goldenrod kitchen linoleum, my Winnie the Pooh mobile.  Pleasant memories of the security I felt there probably weighed heavily on my subconscious when it was time to paint the interior of our current home.  That's why most of it is as yeller as a big ol' stick of sweet cream butter. 

 

Apart from that singular preference, I really try to keep from choosing decor in a themey, two-color palette style which seems so popular.  Part of me likes the challenge of choosing a family of tones to work from instead of limiting the decorations to two or three specific colors.  Perhaps this is also the part of me that thrives on spontanaety and likes to wind the toilet paper differently every time I put a new roll on the dispenser.  As Bob Dylan elegantly stated, "Chaos is a friend of mine."

 

I think that this loose, instinctual feel of gathering shades and textures together will result in a truly one-of-a-kind room that our daughter will enjoy once she grows into an awareness of her surroundings.  I can't wait to introduce her to the pleasures of putting her space in order in a manner that pleases her, whether that means giving her a dollar as I'm yard sale shopping and letting her pick out something that speaks to her, or choosing some outrageous color for her walls and teaching her how to paint her room. 

 

As for now, she'll have to depend on us to decorate her small world.   



 

 

Gather ye flowers while ye yard sale...

 



 

A nod to the endearing world of James Herriot.

 

 

A girl's gotta have a little 'faincy", s’il vous plaît!

 

 

Mommy soaking in the ambiance-under-construction.  Please excuse our stardust.

 

Special thanks to Nana & Papa Clenney and Daddy for contributing their blood, sweat & Fresca to this beloved project in my time of roundness!

Some Prego!

I could be wrong,

but I think that my arms and legs are becoming increasingly spindly as my midsection expands.

This makes me feel that

I look like a spider.

 

 

I suppose this is not a bad thing. 

 

Could be worse. 

 

I could feel like another creature from Charlotte's Web.

 

 

 

For some reason, I want to go to the Arkansas State Fair and have a mustard-slathered corn dog now. 

 

 

 

 





In Honor of Her 25th Week

Mini’s Mommy’s Top 25 Niftiest Things About Being Pregnant

25.  I have a great excuse to collect useless cuddly things (for example: Beanie Babies, stuffed kitty cats, Care Bears, etc).

24.  Even if everyone in the room knows that I pooted, no one’s gonna say anything because they think that I can’t help it. 

23.  Stretch pants that don't look like stretch pants.  What an age we live in!

 

22.  Pregnancy is a good excuse to wean myself off of consuming excess amounts of caffeine so my baby doesn't come out of the womb with the ability to see through time.  And hey, my brain kinda works better.  The wheel's a little rusty, but that hamster still runs!

21.  Cherry tomatoes dipped in a dab of ranch tastes like a little blop of heaven.

20.  I've finally read Gone With The Wind for the umpteenth time and given the ending the good cry that it deserves.  ACH!  MELLY!

19.  And speaking of extra reading, it tickles me to death that Mini can kick a novel off of my belly while it's propped up on me when I read in bed.  Now cut that out, kid!

18.  My hair has grown at an astounding rate , and the length (and height!) of it seems to balance out the look of my changing body shape.  A woman's glory, indeed!  Makes a nice facial curtain, too. 

17.  At no other time in my life will I be able to laugh without conviction about peeing myself in public.

16.  People look for excuses to tell pregnant women that they're pretty because, frankly, they're a little scared of them. 

15.  When your feet spread, you get to go shoe shopping.

14.  Everything in the house begins to smell like baby powder.

13.  Instead of mindlessly staring at the television at the end of a long day, Daddy and I sit together and discuss what we imagine our baby will be like.  Will she have red hair or blonde?  Will she have any musical aptitude?  What if she's a biter and she develops a taste for pug fat?!

12.  I receive amazing health care from people who encourage me and are sympathetic to every concern and slight complication I might have.
 
11.  We get to figure out what the baby might call her grandparents and great-grandparents.  In the South, there's a delightful variety of nicknames to choose from:  Granny, Paw-Paw, Poppa, Mee-Maw, Bobo, Nee-Naw....and it can get just as crazy and nonsensical as you want, because we live in Arkansas! 

10.  I can go for a full-on, head-flung-back, slobbering, snoring snooze in public and no one seems to mind. 

9.  Pregnancy is an immediate and undeniable reminder that it's time to name my priorities and consider what I want to direct my children to focus on from the beginning of their lives.

2 Timothy 3:14-15 But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.

8.  Pregnancy is a great excuse to catch up with long-lost chums whom we desire to be in the baby's life from the day that she arrives.  I can't imagine Mini Clenney not knowing her Aunt Colleen or Uncle Sean!  I love you, friends!

 

7.  At least one room in the house gets a fabulous pastel makeover.  In our case, we decided to kill the library in favor of making the baby's room the most insulated room in the house.  It has a teeny, child-size closet, one little window from which we can easily blot out all light, and walls that needed a coat of color anyway!  Great excuse for a DIY project!

 

6.  When you're pregnant, your belly becomes public property.  Being a huggy/kissy/lovey person, I don't mind this.  It makes me feel like a Treasure Troll when someone comes up and rubs my baby belly.  Make a wish next time!

 

5.  It pleases me very much that starting our family seems to be the thing that makes our parents happy above anything else we could accomplish in life.  

 

4.  I get to see the most compassionate side of my husband during one of the busiest times in his life.  I don't know how he does it.  He's like Superman and Cary Grant and Andy Griffith all rolled into one perfect package. 

 

3.  We get the opportunity to name another human being and bestow upon them all of the meaning and associations that name entails.

 

2.  It gives me a greater appreciation for my own mother went through in order to bring my wacky red head into the world. 

 

1.  At the end of it all, we get to meet someone we've been eagerly anticipating the arrival of for the length of our marriage...  our daughter!  We can hardly wait to discover everything about you, little one!

 

 



Posing in the dusky sunset of four years ago, dreaming of Mini...

 

Hob-knobbin' With Bob Robbins!

 

I'm so glad that others are more forgiving then I tend to be. 

 

I had the opportunity at Timberfest this year to right a very embarrassing wrong that's been hanging over my head for a good four years. 

 

In the middle of juggling calculators and soggy paperwork while auditing the Timberfest Lumberjack competition this past Saturday, I had the chance to cut up with Arkansas' favorite radio personality, Bob Robbins.  I admit that I'm terribly envious of him.  I think he has the niftiest job in the world, and every time I see him around our shared hometown, he seems to thrive off of making people feel special.  I sure would like to be like him when I grow up. 

 

Perhaps with a little less facial hair.

 

But people spontaneously bring him corn dogs and funnel cakes, so maybe that's worth a few whiskers.

 



Anywho, when I greeted him that morning in the judging tent, I was determined to start off on a better foot than I had upon the occasion of our first meeting at my workplace four years ago.  I was a shaky twenty-something upstart in Sheridan with virtually no television or Internet access, so it had been a long time since I had witnessed any of his work through media other than radio.  When he walked up to my station as a nondescript fellow in his weekend clothes, I hadn't the foggiest notion of who he was.  This is why I got to introduce myself last weekend in the following fashion:

 

"Hi!  I'm the girl who works at so-and-so who asked you four years ago if anyone had ever told you that you sounded like Bob Robbins!"

 

Well, I'm not sure he knew what to make of that, but he gave it the laugh that it finally deserved, and was kind enough to pose for a picture with Mini (concealed in the jacket) and me while my hair blew unrelentingly into his mouth.

 

Sweet lil' feller!

 

   

 

 

Mini's KSSN!

Seven (and a half) Pounds

Mini had her twenty-four week checkup yesterday morning at Cornestone Women's Clinic. I love that place. The staff is especially congenial, you can't get a bad physician there, and there are always plenty of magazines available for when you're nervous and you have to occupy yourself instead of gnawing your cuticles.

 

My sweet mother-in-law, Rhonda, and her friend Erica had the opportunity to join me, which alleviated my nerves quite a bit.  It can be a little unsettling to sit in the waiting room by yourself and rock back and forth, thinking of all the freaky movie scenes you’ve watched that take place in a doctor’s office.  If I had been alone, it would’ve been my own blasted fault.  I don’t know what I was thinking when I scheduled my appointment on one of Jason’s school days.  Oh, wait… yes I do.

 

“Cupcake.  Cupcake.  Cupcake.”

 

*&#$%*!

 

Anyway, the appointment went well, and all reports were positive.  My weight gain is right on target, which shocked me a little – I’m up six pounds from my pre-preg weight, which I thought would be a little behind, but I guess that’s why I’m not the one wearing the white coat.  I’ve observed while a bit of the chub in my face, wrists and legs has been syphoned out and redistributed into my midsection and thought, well hey, that wasn’t what I expected to happen. 

 

That’s cool.  She can have it. 

 

We got another positive report on our Her-Baby’s heartbeat : 144 BPM.  She’s been very consistent in that department.  She’s always in the one-forties.  She’s a good rhythm keeper.  Oh, Lord… what if that means she’s a drummer?!?!?

 

(This reminds me of a joke from back in my marching band days:

 

Q:  What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?

 

A:  A drummer.

 

Heh.)

 

The only examination result that deviated from a simple checkmark on his clipboard was that my measurements indicated that she’s about a week ahead of schedule.  When I asked him what that meant in terms of a final result, he said, “That’s the difference between a seven and a seven and a half pound baby.”  As long as she’s healthy, that doesn’t disturb me one bit.  I was nearly eight pounds when I was born, and I turned out all right.  Right?

 

Right?

 

Right?!

 

*crickets chirping*

On the left, a former five pound baby.

On the right, a former eight pounder.

Which of these former fetuses would you trust?



Crazy, But That's How It Goes....

The first thing I usually do when I wake up these days (other than the unmentionable necessaries) is to turn on the old-fashioned radio on the bathroom counter and try to drown out any unladylike morning noises. A pregnant body can be bursting with such surprises at dawn.  Ahem.

As per my ritual this morning, I flicked the volume knob up to a audible level and hopped in the shower, paying little mind to what variety of noise issued from the little wooden box.  I relaxed and let my ears fill with shampoo.

And then Tom FM betrayed me. 

"BWAHAHAHAHAHA!" Ozzy Ozbourne screeched from the quaint antique speakers.

Crazy Train.  Before 6 a.m..  Mother. Of. Pearl.

If Mini had already been born, she would've jumped outta her bassinet.

Fortunately, she's fairly well soundproofed for now.  I, however, was not immune.  If you could have seen me in the shower at that precise moment (with black censorship bars intact, of course), you would've thought I looked an awful lot like Bill the Cat.

 

 

This kind of reaction is becoming somewhat of the norm.

 

Guess you could say I'm a little unhinged these days.

 

Maybe it's a first time parent thing.  Things that never concerned me before have become HUGE FREAKING DEALS.  For example, should I start putting my heavy dishes on the top shelf instead of the bottom, or should I just put leave them on the bottom shelf so they won't have as far to fall if they do get bopped? And should I go ahead and start using baby detergent on things, just in case the baby happens to come in contact with them much later?!  OR SHOULD I START GETTING RID OF ALL OF THE CAUSTIC CLEANERS IN THE HOUSE, BECAUSE WHAT IF SHE LIKES THE TASTE OF LYSOL WITH A BLEACH CHASER?!?! 

 

nnnnnnnnaargh.

 

Along the same vein, I've noticed that I've been a lot less tolerant of people-generated noise.

 

Don't get me wrong.  Direct conversations can be delightful.  But those who talk just to see how long they can keep their jaw working without checking to make sure their brain is still in play.... they make me cry.  Literally.  Things that used to simply annoy me just shatter my nerves.  At the end of the day, my car often looks like a movie theater in the aftermath of Steel Magnolias.  Soggy lipstick-smeared tissues EVERYWHERE. 

 

These reactions may be exacerbated by sheer exhaustion.  That's very likely.  Or by the sheer annoyance of being distracted as I'm trying so very hard to corral what few brain cells I have left and direct them toward whatever deserves my attention.  I figure that the final straw that might be pushing me to the edge of tears is the double dose of hormones in play.  I can hardly laugh without bursting into tears these days, which is great for the comedian in front of me who needs validation.  Also great for the Kleenex corporation, and Maybelline.  Not so much for my professional demeanor.

 

And while I'm a strong proponent for handling anger in one of two ways -- prayer or fleeing the scene -- I find it increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to rent my maternity shirt in twain and turn into The Incredible Mulk (that's Mommy/Hulk, by the way) when someone treats me disrespectfully.

 

I think I came very close to punching a dude square in the nose on Monday.

 

Remind me that this will pass.  Encourage me to breathe when you see me turning chartreuse.  

 

And pray for the well-being of the noses of those who surround me.

 

NAAAAAARGHIWILLEATYOURPANTS!!!!!!!