knits & plants

aah, the simple life. almost.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Letters to Someone - Week 15

Dear Little Lentil,

Congratulations baby! You are now big enough to warrant a description that has nothing to do with comparisons to fruit, vegetables or other edibles. You're 4 inches long and your Mama now has a tummy.

Last night, I packed up all my summer pre-pregnancy clothes. It was a little sad. I have about 900 cami/tankini things and they're all looking more like bras now. Or they would, if my bosom fit in them. Thank goodness for Moria Fahey, who donated all her maternity clothes to me. Even though she's inches taller and 20 pounds lighter, I am optimistic. And today, I am wearing bona fide maternity clothes for the first time. The jeans won't exactly stay up, but they're loads more comfortable than my own.

Three more weeks until your ultrasound. Don't know how I'm gonna make it until then. The suspense is killing me. Some people seem to have an idea what they're carrying, but I have no clue. I can't wait to know about you. We're close to deciding on your name. We've got our own list, which we're keeping a secret, but we've also solicited from our nearest and dearest. It's a pretty good list. Without adding in any of our own choices, as of today, you could be named any of the following:

If you're a girl,

If you're a boy,
Liam (3)
Aidan (2)

Quite a mix! One day when you're older, we'll show you this and you can think about how different your life would have been if we'd named you Ashling. I, for one, was almost named Duane in honor of the death of Duane Allman. He's part of the Allman....oh nevermind. Thank god your grandfather sobered up in time.

We've been busy finishing off the basement which will double our living space. It's quite a project and your father has been a trooper. Let's hope that it's finished well before your arrival and that you don't have to know anything about it.

We watched this amazing National Geographic show called "In the Womb." Amazing. It was astounding how much they know now about your development and what it looks like. And even though I can't feel you, I know you're doing the most crazy backflips and rockette kicks right now. You go, baby. Get it all out of your system now before you come in contact with my ribcage. Your dad was really interested in the whole thing. Well, except for the birth part. We're watching the delivery sequence, and the poor mother is howling, and your father says, "It can't hurt that bad, can it?" It's an awfully good thing that he was sitting far away from me, and that my reaction times are slowed. In retaliation, he gets diaper duty for the first month straight. Make 'em stinky.

I hope you're growing well and dreaming well too. And moving those little baby limbs! I'm trying to get you outside as much as possible before it gets cold. We picked blackberries last Saturday and made a pie. Hope you liked it.


Your mama


Thursday, August 03, 2006

losing my convictions

I've more than willing to acknowledge that one of my biggest character flaws is a tendency to apply equal weight to all of my beliefs, from the silly to the substantial. In daily life, this often means that I will defend my love of all-things-Mac/Apple with the same fervor that I will expound upon my opposition to the Bush Administration and other Masters of War. Wearing socks with sandals? Putting relish in your tuna fish? Country music? Clearly as heinous as those sickos (sic?) that set their pets on fire. I am not kidding. I just seem to have been born without the little importance-o-meter that all people should have implanted in their brains somewhere.

I mention this because I want to convey to you the full meaning of my distress when I say that I have given up, caved in to what were some of my most closely-held beliefs. I have sold-out, and put aside my convictions for sheer peace of mind and comfort of body. I am so ashamed.

So, what have I done to bring on this remorse, this true disappointment in myself? Here are the cardinal Murphy/Ferriot rules which I have violated:

I. Thou shalt not watch television.
How, oh how did I let this happen? I have lived happily, blissfully free of American Idol, Cops, The OC, and even Buffy for the last six years. I have not seen a single commercial or music video. I haven't seen South Park since Season One. I have never seen The Daily Show. And you know what? I never missed it.

Okay, that's a lie. I miss the Sopranos. I hate having to wait until shows that actually have some redeeming quality get to DVD before I can see them. I hate having to avoid all media that discusses what's already happened until I can catch up. (As in, I found out Adriana gets whacked by lowering my vigilance and reading a feature on Drea in Vogue. Vogue! Why the hell do they care about her character? Don't they just care about her legs??)

But on the good side, I wasted a lot less time watching things that might be good, but turn out to be complete drivel. Once a show is to DVD, the verdict is pretty much in. I can live with that. We had Netflix. I mean, we're not completely off the grid. So I learned patience and the art of bulking up a sizable queue.

So what happened? The DH happened. I couldn't take the whinging anymore. About how I am depriving him of his basic human rights and such. And my entire family sided with him when the subject came up at the reunion. So I caved. Got a satellite (with a DVR, natch.)

Sadness. So, so sad. Especially when I learned that there are not one, but two channels entirely devoted to game hunting and the idiots who film themselves game hunting. From what I can discern, God is very happy with his devotees and their animal sacrifices in his name in central Missouri. The DH is delighted.

Okay, so there is always the balm of neverending reruns of Law & Order. But still, the sting of my failure will rankle for a long, long time.

I. Thou shalt not own or operate an air conditioner north of the Mason-Dixon line.
If I can live in extreme southern Maryland for four years, sandwiched between two humid waterways in a house that had to be 98% water, all through the summer, without mechanical coolant of any kind, I can damn well live out a few sweltering weeks in Vermont. Vermont! for chrissakes. BZZZZT! Wrong again!

Reader, I bought an a/c unit.

I'm sorrreeee, I am such a wus! It's just, what with the digital indoor thermometer that mocks me with its 91 degree heat inside and 86% relative humidity, and the fact that I've had to wear my hair shellacked to my head for the past three weeks in order not to frighten the co-workers, I just couldn't take it anymore!! I haven't slept in DAYS. It's bad enough that my bladder is the size of a walnut and I'm getting up to pee every hour, but when the sheets come with you to the bathroom because they're glued to your back? Just, ew.

I live in Vermont because for 9 months out of the year, you can go ice skating on your driveway. Because snow is never a reason not to get in your car and go somewhere. NOT BECAUSE IT REMINDS ME OF A TROPICAL PARADISE. I swear, I'm going to hock the damn air conditioner and move to Newfoundland. I hear they make good yarn there.

ps- i have no idea what is wrong with the font sizes in this post. they won't do what I tell them to.