Baby eve


So, tomorrow’s the big day. C-day. I check in at 10:30am and (supposedly) go under the knife at 12:30, although I harbor no delusions that my doctor will be on time, seeing as how she rarely is. I had today “off,” so I took advantage of having the day to myself to take care of business:

  • wrote a letter of recommendation
  • shopped for winter garden seedlings (4 lettuces, broccoli, cauliflower, kohlrabi, brussels sprouts)
  • cleaned the house (although somewhat half-assedly because I had no fresh sponges and didn’t feel like going to get any
  • laundry
  • short nap
  • picled up Harry for dance class, bailed on dance class when he said he didn’t want to go (I wanted to plant before sundown, so I didn’t push it)
  • trip to Costco, where a $6 mega pumpkin pie jumped — nay, LEAPT — into my cart
  • home, planted seedlings, which was probably too much because now I’m really tired.

I still need to fold laundry and sweep the floor, which I guess I can do in the morning before we go to the hospital to meet our pink lady.

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Apropos of nothing


My therapist recommended several times that I read The Drama of the Gifted Child. I just heard Sarah Silverman’s interview on Fresh Air, where she said that the original title of the book was to be The Drama of the Narcissistic Child, but that the author knew that her target audience would resist that title. OUCH. Now I feel kind of offended that my therapist recommended it so strongly to me!

Five more days


In five days, I’ll check in to the hospital to have this baby surgically removed. And then I think I’ll be closing the chapter titled “Reproduction” in the book that is my life. I’ve washed every single last pink onesie, sock, bib, receiving blanket, and tiny hat (what happens if the ultrasound tech was wrong and this baby’s a boy?). The crib is assembled, the Boppy is waiting, the breast pump is … somewhere. My closet, maybe? I need to follow up on that. Now all I need is a baby.

I was looking at pictures of Harry from his first few months of life last night and realizing that his babyhood was such a sweet time. Sure, there were some rough nights and some slammed doors and some cracked and painful nipples (note to self: come home from hospital with tubes of Lansinoh in every pocket), but I’m remembering the newborn days now as snuggly and exhausted, but maybe not so worthy of the dread I’ve been feeling as we approach Newborn Boot Camp. But see, that’s how Mother Nature tricks women into having more children — She makes you forget the shitty stuff I can’t remember right now.

By the way, I’m writing this from my laptop, which has a new top case and keyboard, free of charge. I don’t know why, I didn’t ask any questions when the Genius said it was “covered.” As far as I know, the warranty on this machine ran out in August, but again … no questions. I’m a little concerned about the extended life of this machine, as it was slow to boot up after I picked it up yesterday, but if this small repair means I’ve got a few more months of use, that’s fine with me. I’ll just tuck a little extra into savings every month and maybe cut back on my Starbucks consumption. It’s looking like a handmade Christmas, anyway, so maybe a new laptop won’t hurt *too* much come summer. We’ll see.

LOTS of duck-lining-up to do, work-wise, in the next few days, and I might go a little nuts and try to get some spinach and carrot seedlings into the ground sometime before sundown on Thursday. So, back to transcribing this interview with Marion Winik and uncomfortably digesting my first-ever attempt at shepherd’s pie.

I c@n h@z new l@ptop?


Zo, I zpilled coffee on my laptop on Monday, conveniently enough for @pple, on the day they rolled out new Macbookz. Note: when your repair outlet is also a retail outlet and you bring in a machine with liquid damage on the day they roll out new laptops, you might as well have a bullseye painted on your forehead.

Hence my zilence. I’ve been loathe to do much typing becauze, you know, I couldn’t have fried the Q key, now could I? No, of courze not.

Zo, an update on my clazzroom ethoz: Thingz have improved conziderably, ezpecilly in my 2pm clazz. Changez I’ve made include requiring ztudentz to bring in 3-5 talking pointz over the material azzinged for that day (they alzo have the option of writing reading rezponzez, which alzo zerve az talking pointz). My 2pm clazz now muzt arrange their chairz in a circle, rather than the traditional ztadium-row zeating that the dezkz are zet to out of default, I guezz. I noticed that my 1pm clazz haz a zeminar table az oppozed to the rowz & that dizcuzzion haz alwayz been livelier in that room. Ztrangely, my 2pm kidz had better paperz, zo I told them, look, I know by your paperz that you’re capable of having intelligent convoz about thiz material, zo T@LK!!!!!

Ok, thiz iz getting really annoying, zo I’m zigning off now. More later, hopefully with a fully functioning keyboard.

A quickie recipe before I skedoodle off to bed


Because otherwise, I’ll forget. I spent nearly $20 on veggies at the farmer’s market on Saturday, which is a lot of cheddar for some peppers, know what I’m sayin’? I was bound and determined to make use of them rather than throw them in the trash (sadly, the french radishes I bought shriveled up before I could get to them; boo).

There’s a particular farm I like to buy from because their produce is always gorgeous and plentiful (although I hear their CSA boxes leave a bit to be desired), and the wife has breast cancer. So, I try to support them even though the customer service can be a bit … surly … sometimes. So, here’s my recipe for Random Farmer’s Market Veggie Soup. The veggies with asterisks next to them are what I got from the FM; the rest I supplemented with storebought veg that needed to be used before they went the way of the neighbor’s compost bin.

16 oz. package cream peas*

purple bell pepper*

yellow bell pepper*

orange bell pepper*

1 cup yellow cherry tomatoes*

1/2 clump bok choy

1/2 eggplant

a few button mushrooms

baby carrots

2 cloves garlic

1 very small yellow onion*

Saute onion and garlic. Add peas. Cover with water and bring to a boil, then simmer for 15-20 minutes. Add other veggies, plus a couple of bay leaves, some salt and pepper, and other spices to taste. Add more liquid (I used half a carton of organic beef broth and a couple of cups of water because that’s what I had on hand; next time I’ll skip the beef broth and use a combo of veggie broth and maybe some tomato paste or something), cover and simmer.

That’s it. It’s really, really simple and delicious. I plan to take some for lunch tomorrow, along with some Costco tortilla strips (you know, the kind that cost $3 for 70 pounds). I imagine it would also be good with some crusty bread and a hunk of cheddar cheese or something. Future iterations of this soup will likely include spinach and other winter greens (except chard, which I’ve decided I hate because I ate a big dish of it during my prolonged morning-sickness phase this past spring), maybe some cabbage, butternut squash, kohlrabi.

On being impeccable with your word (or voice), preschool edition


I just read this post on Snickollet and it really hit home for me. I have been thinking a lot lately about the way I talk to Harrison, particularly when I’m extra tired and/or achy and/or he’s behaving particularly three-years-old (seriously, kid, what is with the moshing/screaming/talking back/Tasmanian Devil thing? And why did it just turn on like a flipped switch on your third birthday?). I am much more yell-y than I thought I would be as a parent. And I’m ashamed of it.

Now then, there are certain situations where yelling is warranted, I think. For example, as we were leaving our local Old Navy yesterday, Harry ran out into the parking lot without me, having sprinted off before I could grab his hand. Oh, you bet I hollered, and I even gave him a very carefully considered, non-angry swat on his little tushy because Extremely Dangerous Behavior warrants, in my opinion (and Matt agrees), stepped-up attention-getting maneuvers by the Parental Units. We are very anti-corporal punishment, but man, I am a yeller, which really, really bothers me.

Here’s why: I have a longtime friend whose sister-in-law could be considered an Extreme Yeller. She hollers at her 15-year-old son over anything (but, of course, when he’s “borrowing” his relatives’ credit cards to pay for online porn and running up their pay-per-view for the same ends, there are NO consequences). I have never seen this child nurtured or seen any sort of affection paid to him in my years of interactions with this family. He’s either ignored or screamed at. And guess what? Two weeks ago, he attempted suicide. For the second time.

Now, I’m not saying that every kid of a Parent Who Yells is going to end up attempting to kill themselves: I am fully aware that correlation != causation. I *am* saying, though, that this incident and my reflection on this other woman’s parenting choices made me aware of my need and desire to speak to Harrison a little more respectfully, to honor his dignity and worth as a human being, especially since this pregnancy has made me the meanest version of myself. I don’t like it, but I accept it and now I have to really, truly commit to treating my son with the same kind of respect and consideration I expect from others (even though I don’t always get it).

And just last night, I felt compelled to apologize to Matt for being short-tempered with him; I was exhausted, my back and uterus were hurting, and we were just not being very nice to each other. Now why wouldn’t I afford that same consideration for my kid? And if I don’t model respectful talk to him, who will?

Next: an update on my new classroom ethos.

Not my best moment? I dunno.


I just had a bit of a gross moment with my 2pm class that has left me feeling a bit … unsure of my choice.

See, I’m teaching two sections of the same class, back to back, and while the 1pm class is great, the 2pm section is a bit more of a challenge. It’s the stereotypical classroom, you know, with slumped postures, bored expressions, heavy-lidded eyes, the occasional smirk. Drives me up a wall, not to mention, when they’re bored and not talking, I’M bored and just want to walk away. I’m not a salesperson, I’m not going to cajole these people into participating. But it is my job to get them to think critically about the material, so I can’t just check out.

So, after a brief chat with a friend of mine about the right thing to do in this situation, pedagogically, I told my class, “Look, we need to have a conversation about expectations. I see a lot of this [imitated slumping postures, etc] and that’s not cool. The success of this class is dependent on *your* investment and participation, and I’m not a TV. I can see your body language and it’s killing this class. So, I want you all to be thinking about what you think it takes to make a successful class and what we can do to make this class better, rather than us boring each other to tears for three hours a week. Nobody wants that, and it’s going to be a long, sad semester if we’re sitting in here bored every day. So be thinking about what it will take to go from this [slumping, sad/bored face] to this [sitting upright, eyes wide open] so that we can make the most of our time together.”

I got some concerned looks and some glares (god, there’s this one kid who sits in the front row and the hate-rays I get from him are unnerving — I wish he’d move to the back!) and some smiles from the teacher-pleasers. I really don’t know if I did the right thing. All I know is that I dread going from my 1pm class (smiley face!) to my 2pm section (sad face) every single MWF, and that’s not doing anybody any good.

How to wake a sleeping fetus


Apparently it takes:

  • 1 Little Debbie Nutty bar
  • 1 Dr. Pepper
  • and when those don’t work, throw in:
  • 3/4 of an “Energy” Vitamin Water
  • Mama losing her fucking shit and preparing to drive to the ER/L&D

to get a 36-week fetus who’s been napping all freaking day to wake up.

Never a dull moment up in this trailer, I tells ya.