Things I Will Tell my Children

The last Christmas my father was with us, he was recovering from a stroke. It had happened just a few weeks prior to Christmas, and at first we were unsure that he would be discharged from the hospital in time for the holidays. A few days before Christmas Eve, the doctors let him come home. As is tradition in our family, my mom went to work for half a day before we went out for Christmas Eve dinner--something my parents had been doing since before I was born.
Even though my Dad was recovering, he couldn't be left alone, so I spent my morning with him. I stood at the island in my parent's kitchen, making apple pies from scratch: one for them, and one to bring to my in-laws house the next day. It was a cold, clear day, and the sun shone in as I stood cutting apples while my father sat in his wheelchair across from me, watching and talking to me.

I chattered to him and kept the conversation light, and we fell into comfortable silences every now and then. I cut the apples into little pieces, letting them drop into the sweet, sugary mixture that would eventually be the filling for the pies. My father was eating the apples out of the mixture as fast as I was cutting them, and I knew I should have chided him--he was diabetic and was on a strict diet--but instead, I just cut more apples.

His speech was garbled from the stroke, and it took him a few moments to form the question that I have remembered since that moment.

"What will you tell your children about me?"

I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but it was something to the tune of, "don't be silly--my kids are going to know you themselves." I'm sure I laughed and changed the subject to something else. My Dad had been sick, and getting worse, for awhile. The multiple sclerosis that had been diagnosed less than two years before moved quickly, and when he had the stroke at the beginning of December, I had stood at the end of the driveway and waited for the ambulance to arrive and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before: "No. Not now. Not right before Christmas. Not now, I'm not ready."

And it hadn't been then. He was still with us, and I couldn't even bear thinking about the alternative. So yes, I changed the subject. I never answered his question, and five months later when his time came, I thought of the beautiful Christmas Eve morning we'd had, the memory golden in my mind. I can still see the sun and smell the apples, I can still see him right there in front of me, I can still hear his gravelly voice. I have no greater sadness in life that my children will not know him themselves, but they will know of him--the good, the bad, and the hilarious.

So, Daddy, to answer your question:

• I will tell my children about the time you took me to pick out a puppy--a husky, like I'd always wanted. Mom had told me she didn't want a male dog, so out of the two that were left, I scooped up the chubby female ball of fluff. We got halfway up our driveway at home when you had to turn around. You couldn't bear to leave the last puppy alone. Ten years later, the two dogs still fly across the front yard to greet me whenever they see my car coming.
  
• I will tell them how you took me fishing, and made me bait my own hook even though I hated touching the squishy worms we used. I will tell them how, when I caught one of the biggest fish to come out of the lake that year, you called the local newspaper and got my picture under the headline "Young Angler Lands Lunker".
  
• I will tell them how you kept a card in your wallet I had made you when I was six, stating "this card is good for one day of whatever you want to do, day to be picked by you". Through my entire life, you told me you were going to cash it in on my wedding day. You didn't. Instead, you walked me down the aisle and gave me away, and when you died, I took the card out of your wallet and put it in mine.
  
• I will tell them about your temper. Good heavens, did you have a temper. Unfortunately, you passed it along to me. It takes a lot for me to lose it, but when I do...well, it's just not pretty. I will also tell them that no matter what, we always made up.
  
• I will tell them the temper wasn't the only thing I got from you. Other qualities include my need to keep everything (something my husband does not really consider a "quality"), the fact that I have to talk with my hands (if I sit on my hands, I'm completely unable to finish a sentence), and my love for a daily serving or two of pasta and olives.
  
• I will tell them how you kept the glove compartment in my car stocked with my favorite candy, and the ashtray full of quarters and enough one dollar bills for an order of fries at McDonalds.
  
• I will tell them about how, after you left me at my dorm on my first day of college, you drove around the campus for four hours, then made the two hour drive every day for the next two weeks to take me out to lunch.
  
• I will tell them how I watched you stop on the side of a busy highway after a dog had been hit by a car that hadn't bothered to stop. You shut the dog's eyes and sat with it until it stopped breathing, then you buried it as best you could.
  
• I will tell them how you went to every single high school football game for three years to see me perform in the marching band.
  
• I will tell them that you always came to see me on my birthday, no matter the day of the week or where I was living.
  
• I will tell them a million things, but in some ways I was right: my children will know you. They will know you from the white bookshelf you built for me when I was a kid that now sits in the nursery. They will know you from the children's books that you continued to buy me long into adulthood that sit on that bookshelf. They will know you in the appliances that you gave me for Christmas every year--a toaster when I was 14, cookie sheets when I was 10, the pasta plates when I was 18--because I still use them in the kitchen. I will teach them how to fish (and make them bait their own hooks), I will always see them on their birthdays, I will stash treats here and there for them. They'll know you through me.
  
• I'll tell them that I thought you were the best father ever, and that no one could ever top you--until I saw the way my husband reacted to my positive pregnancy test, the way he daydreams with me about playing with our first son and any other children we're lucky enough to have, the way he has taken care of me through pregnancy and before. My husband is going to give you a run for your money for this title--and I know that's exactly the way you'd want it.

It Sounds So Sweet: Papa's Voice and The Fab Four

I don't know the science behind it, but our little guy has developed an ear for certain sounds.

Several times over the past few weeks, baby boy has had "quiet" days--I still feel him moving around in there, but he has days where he's pretty mellow. Mellow, that is, until his Daddy comes home and chats up my tummy--he finds my husband's deep voice appealing, and always moves around when he hears it. Even when we're surrounded by other voices, he responds to his Papa Bear's voice. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy, and I can see the thought bubble over my tummy: "lets chat, dad! Three kicks means yes, two means no."

Sitting in traffic this afternoon, I had the radio on and an old Beatles song, Love me Do, started to play. As if someone had switched his power on, the little guy started moving around, so quickly that it made me laugh. I'd never felt him move around that much save for the time I inhaled three waffles in quick secession, giving him a major sugar high from the syrup. When the song ended, he stopped. Once I got home, I experimented with the iPod. Hard Day's Night got him grooving. He didn't care much for The Backstreet Boys, Beyonce or Taylor Swift, but started back up when I played Saw Her Standing There.

At least he has good taste. My husband will be pleased.

Holy Personal Heat Wave, Batman

I've been anxiously awaiting spring since...well, November. I'm one of those people who is always cold, someone who carries a hoodie around with her even in the heat of late summer. So when weather.com promised a beautiful day yesterday, I embarked happily on my errands, prepared to enjoy the sunshine with my car windows rolled down.

My car windows were rolled down for about 10 minutes. After that, the windows went up and the air conditioning came on. Full blast. I was hot. When I got home, I cranked on the AC and got a cold drink and waited to cool off.

And waited.

And waited.

And am still waiting.

Even after a cold shower last night and this morning, I am still uncomfortably warm in my own body. And it didn't even reach 70 degrees today. I now have greater sympathy for my Canadian-born BFF, who was always overheating during the summers down here.

I was expecting the hot flashes (after all, I'm due in July) but I wasn't expecting to get this warm this quickly. I am reminded of the scene in "Father of the Bride 2" when Steve Martin's pregnant wife and pregnant daughter are lounging on the couch with fans and cool compresses, wearing shorts and tank tops, still complaining about the heat in the house, and he is running around in a parka and scarf. I apologize in advance to my husband: don't worry honey, I won't pack away your winter clothes. You might need them come July.

1 pound and 3 ounces of the Cutest Attitude Ever (Otherwise Titled "If I Can't See You, You Can't See Me!")

We had an ultrasound today--what may be the last view of our little one until he makes his debut into the world. Since he had been super active yesterday, I was hoping that this ultrasound would go more smoothly than the previous ones.

I had been told previously by my doctor that I am carrying our little man very low. Doctor was not exaggerating--the ultrasound tech found him to be not only low, but as far back as he could possibly get in my pelvis. As the tech swept the ultrasound wand over my belly initially, we were greeted by our little man cub curled up with his face pressed towards my back, hands up as if covering his ears. There was his spine--I'm still fascinated by how far it's come since that little four-runged ladder I saw at 8 weeks. He showed us a nice view of his feet, and the tech got all the views of his heart she needed. We could see the four chambers pumping away at a rate of 150 beats per minute, right on track with what we are used to seeing out of him. This is where his cooperation ended.

We were still after that profile shot of baby boy that had eluded us for the last two ultrasound sessions. As she moved the wand up toward his head, he moved his hands to cover his eyes. We got a great view of an ear. Adorable, yes...useful, no. She shook my belly (once again, I say: please warn the pregnant woman before you shake her like that. I mean, seriously. I always have to go to the bathroom). He did not move. She shook me again. He kicked me. She sighed. She had me roll over on both sides. Baby thwacked me again with his feet and put one hand in the middle of his face, covering it, and clamped his second hand over it as if to inform us that he was securing himself for the storm. She started to get frustrated, so I sat up and did a little dance in my seat to try to get him to move while she did some measurements on the photos she had.

(I would like to say here that this is where motherhood truly begins--you know, the part where you're willing to do anything for your kid and his well being? Sitting in a darkened room with my husband on one side and the tech on the other--who, I'll admit, had a teeeeny attitude about all of this, as if I could help what baby was doing--scootching around in my seat with my pants pushed down as far as they could go without everything exposed to the world, a paper gown shoved in the waistband, belly hanging out and covered in goo and my shirt pulled up and tucked in my bra. It didn't occur to me until later how ridiculous I must have looked, I was too focused on getting the baby to move his hands).

Her measurements told us that baby boy weighs 1 pound, 3 ounces, putting him in the 48th percentile and right where he needs to be. She also assured me that his head is of perfectly normal size. All the fluids in there with him are right where they need to be, and everything about him seems perfect--except that he's a stubborn little stinker.

On our second attempt to see his face, we had almost given up the cause when he moved his hands down to his chin. I thought the tech was going to get up and dance, except that he quickly tried to snuggle his face further into my pelvis (maybe he's not stubborn. Maybe he's just shy like his mother). When he couldn't inch himself down any further, he gave up--and started sucking his thumb. It was the cutest thing I'd ever seen in my entire life and I instantly forgave him for all of the ultrasounds and morning sickness and back aches and started talking to him in a high pitched, ooey-gooey voice.

(A note to my husband: I promise I won't always be like that. I will not be a baby enabler. At least, not all the time).

So we finally got all the views we needed--and it only took us five ultrasounds, as opposed to the two that most pregnant women have had up to this point. I can't complain--I love the peek we get into his world and to see how he's changed over these 23 weeks. I've loved watching his little hands and feet form, seeing his appendages move, and (of course) watching his little spine grow.

However, my favorite part was today, when my husband and I got to play our first game of peek-a-boo with our son. Here's to many more.

Small Town Mama, Big City Baby

I was raised in a small town. Everyone knew (and still knows) everyone, and most of their business as well. When I visit my family, who still lives there, a trip to the local Kroger often turns into a reunion of people I've known since grade school or before. Just recently, I ran into my old American History teacher at my mother's physical therapy office. He not only remembered my name, but the names of the girls I hung out with and asked after them, too.

In the town I come from, people give directions like, "go to where the old K-Mart was, and turn right." When I was growing up, the major point of attraction in town was the old K-Mart. When the southern heat got too much to bear late in the summer, the local news station would advise those with small children and the elderly to go to K-Mart so they could be in the air conditioning. There were two grocery stores, one on either side of town. And most people didn't live "in town"--they had to drive anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour to get to whatever grocery store they were closest to. There were only two or three "fancy" restaurants, and on prom night, you could bet they were full.


The biggest event of the year in the small town I grew up in is an outdoor fall festival held in the fall. I just did the math, and realized that this fall would mark my 20th festival. As a child, I went with my Girl Scout troop and the main focus was getting our faces painted and eating cotton candy--pink has always been my favorite. As a teenager, it was no longer cool to go with your Scout troop--instead, we all paired up with boys we didn't really like just so we'd have someone to hold hands with and share a bag of cotton candy. While I was in college, I went with my mom and dad. The main focus shifted to the joy of getting to run into people I'd grown up with, now that I had moved away to attend school. Oh, and eating cotton candy. Now, I go with my mom and my husband, and I still run into people I grew up with (who are there with their moms and husbands), and I still eat pink cotton candy. What can I say? Some things will never change.

When I was a teenager, my small town grew a little--the old K-Mart was torn down, and replaced with a Super Wal-Mart. A Target appeared, and a huge mall was built about 30 miles away. When I was in high school, a big movie theater was built, along with several large shopping centers. My little town was growing up, and so was I--but the little town wasn't keeping up. I had this fascination with big cities, probably because I had never been there. I still remember vividly the first time I really went to my state's biggest city--a little over an hour south of where I grew up. My father had something to do downtown and he took me along with him. I was 13. We walked the streets, surrounded by the tall buildings and people moving busily along the sidewalks. We had lunch at Planet Hollywood, which was by far the coolest place I had ever set foot in at that point. By the time we left that day, I'd acquired quite a few souvenirs. The most important, however, was a new found passion for that big city.

Several years later, my parents helped me pack up my car and my Dad gave me detailed directions to the college I would be attending--in the heart of the city. In a moment worthy of a Dawson's Creek episode, this small town girl got on the interstate for the first time alone and headed to the big city.


And there she stayed. I worked hard to make it my own. It's where I met my husband and where we live now. And it's where my son will be born. My son (like his father) will be a city boy. Most likely, he will not grow up with a big yard. If he wants nature, he'll have to hunt for it. He will not experience the complete silence that comes at 2 AM on a winter night on a 5-acre horse farm like the one I grew up on. There will always be the noise of traffic or neighbors. He won't have a big view of the sky, and while there will be stars visible, they will be few and far between.
At the same time, he will have parks and zoos and aquariums. There are walking paths to be discovered and duck ponds to be explored. The city may not be a silent place, but he will never feel alone. There is always someone moving in the city. And while the night sky may not have many stars, the skyline of our city lit up is just as beautiful. Yes, my son will be a city boy, and it will probably come far more naturally to him than it comes to me. My husband still laughs at my small town ways. The city hasn't lost its sparkle to me--I still gape at things like a tourist. I make eye contact with everyone, smile and make small talk. I can't parallel park to save my life. I will never be a city girl, but I still love it here.

The more I think about it, the more I realize my son will really have the best of both worlds. He can have the bustle and culture of the city, and the quiet pace of the small town on visits to my hometown. He can marvel at the tall buildings and still have a place to plant a garden or climb a tree. And you can bet that this year, I'll be taking him to my town's festival to show him off to all the people I will surely run into. He might be too young to eat cotton candy, but I'll eat some for him. Maybe I'll let him suck a little off my finger. I'll even make sure it's blue.

Tonight on Mythbusters....

One of our favorite TV shows is Mythbusters, a Discovery channel show in which a team of 7 or 8 people trained in "movie magic", special effects and stunts take popular myths, try them out and declare them "busted", "confirmed" or "plausible". Some of my favorites have included shooting fish in a barrel (harder than you think), seeing if someone will really wet themselves if you put their hand in warm water when they're sleeping (nope) and finding out if you can really make a lead balloon (confirmed!).

I don't know about you, but I think a great topic for the next Mythbusters show would be pregnancy myths and old wives tales. Early in my pregnancy, I loved reading all the wacky things people came up with to predict everything from gender to hair color...

• If the baby's heart rate is over 140, it's a girl. Totally busted. We've never seen a heart rate under 150, and we are definitely having a boy.
• Add the age of mom and the year she conceived. If it's an even number, it will be a girl. An odd number means a boy. My number turned out to predict a boy--correct! My mom's number is odd, also indicating she should have had a boy some twenty-odd years ago. Since I am her only child...incorrect. We'll call it plausible.
• Mix drano and the mother's urine together. If it turns green, it's a girl. If it's blue, it's a boy. Um, ew. I did not try this and I am begging you not to try it either. You'll find out the gender eventually, please don't pee in the drano.
• If a woman sleeps with a wooden spoon, scissors and a pink bow under her pillow, she'll have a girl. Or poke her eye out.
• If a woman is graceful during her pregnancy, she's having a girl. If she's clumsy, it will be a boy. It must have been written in the stars that I would have a boy. Long before I was pregnant, I could trip over nothing at all.
• If a woman has no morning sickness, it's a boy. If she experiences morning sickness, it's a girl. WHATever.
• If a father doesn't give his pregnant wife what she is craving, his eyes will swell shut. This is how rumors get started: somewhere, a cranky wife told her husband this, and when he didn't acquiesce, she put hot sauce in his contact solution.

And my favorite one of all--which I cannot declare busted or confirmed because it's so odd...

• If a pregnant woman wears a lei, she will choke her baby. Pregnant ladies beware, apparently getting off a plane in Hawaii can be risky business.

The Amazing One Pound Papaya

Our little Man Cub continues to grow, this week hitting another milestone--he has gained so much weight that he now weighs in at one whole pound. His mother, on the other hand, has definitely put on more than one pound. I don't have the next official weigh-in until a week from today, but I am sure I've put on at least five pounds since the last doctor visit. No exaggerating--the doc said from now until D-Day I would be looking at a pound a week, resulting in a total of 30-35 pounds. That seems like A LOT of weight to me, especially since I already feel gigantic at a third of that. I know I am not really gigantic (yet) but the belly is a reality I definitely notice when trying to do things like squeeze between the grocery cart and the check out conveyor belt when loading my groceries, when slipping into a booth at Applebees and finding the room between me and the table to be minuscule, or when trying to crawl under the bed to plug in my alarm clock. It makes me glad that I will be at my biggest during flip-flop season, because eventually, I don't think I'll be able to reach my own feet to tie my shoes.

I have to admit--I like being bigger as opposed to "plump-ishly pregnant". There's no mistaking I've got a baby cooking, and I actually feel more confident the bigger I get. Like most women, I have always been self-conscious about parts of my body--but pregnancy has rounded out those parts. I hate to admit it, but the doctors that have always told me I would carry pregnancy well are correct (at least up to this point. We'll see how good I feel 25 pounds from now).

In addition to being a heavyweight, our little guy is now the size of a papaya and has developed taste buds. He is swallowing amniotic fluid, which apparently tastes like whatever I have been eating. While this has made me slightly more attentive to what I put in my mouth, lets just say that baby will be well adjusted to the taste of cadbury mini eggs and ruffles potato chips. He can also hear and distinguish noises. He is able to tell my voice apart from his Daddy's voice, and the book says if I sit in a quiet room and there is suddenly a loud noise, baby will jump. This, like the flashlight idea, sounds a little mean to me and I have not tested the theory yet.

He already has his own schedule and sleeps somewhere between 12-14 hours a day (it would be fine with me if he wanted to keep that up when he arrives, but I am finding that highly unlikely). I feel him move around at the same times every day--early in the morning and late at night, and usually mid afternoon, with a jab here and there in the evening.

One more week and I'll be in my sixth month (!!!). My mom, mother-in-law and sister-in-law are starting to plan a baby shower, my husband and I are starting to register for the endless amount of baby supplies, and soon we'll be organizing the nursery. Nine months seemed like a really long time back in November...

It's all Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Kicked in the Gut

I have been anxiously awaiting the moment I could to feel our baby boy's movements. Called "quickening", it has been described to me as a light, tickling feeling--like butterfly wings inside my tummy.

Well, I beg to differ.

Several Saturdays ago, I was in bed early in the morning with my hands on my stomach, as I had been doing for days, waiting for the butterfly wings. I had almost given up and was starting to think about getting out of bed and starting my day when I felt what can only be described as a good, solid kick to my gut. It was followed by several other firm movements, and it was enough for me to wake up my husband and share the exciting news with him (even though he can't feel anything yet).

Since then, baby boy's movements have been following the same pattern--no gentle butterfly wings in this tummy. I've started feeling them often, and not just when I'm focused on feeling them. When I get kicked in public, it usually makes me giggle out loud, and the locals in our new town probably think I'm a little crazy.

All this movement has earned our little one a new nickname. I (quite lovingly, mind you) refer to him as "Lumpy", because he seems to enjoy shoving what I can only assume is his head or his rear end to the far side of my tummy, giving me a weird and obvious lopsided look. So far, he seems to be favoring the left. I do not know what this says about his personality, but I do know this: between his already established stubborn streak and now his bam-pow-hulk smash kicks, there is definitely personality there. I can't wait until he's here and we discover more about him.

On the Move...

Sorry for the lack of blogs....We are in the process of moving and sort of in between two apartments. We'll be settled in soon and I have lots to blog about-including the nursery that I am so excited to start decorating. Yay!