The Event

So, contractions were coming with moderate regularity. I wasn't keeping strict track of things, but I'd guestimate every 7-10 minutes for the first hour, and then they really started picking up, both in frequency and intensity. This was about 11:45, and I was getting pretty tired, so I tried to curl up in bed and hope I'd be able to get some sleep. I got about 6 minutes of sleep before another contraction woke me. Ugh. This wasn't going to work. Then I thought a nice, hot shower would help, and it did in spite of having at least three contractions during and two more drying off. Things were getting serious here.

Ok, I thought, I should probably wake James. I felt bad for waking him at what was then 12:45 in the morning, but I was pretty convinced that this wasn't "false labor" and even if it was, I needed some moral support, here.

I managed to gather our stuff between contractions while James took a quick shower, and then we were off to the hospital. I called on the way there to let them know we were coming, and had three more contractions between the house and the door to the ED. James dropped me off there and went to park the car, joining me right as the L&D nurse came to take me upstairs.

After a few questions about frequency and duration of contractions, they decided to admit me (thank you!) and we were soon settled in room 12C-26. They checked me out and determined I was now 4 cm dilated. I'll admit, after all those contractions, I was hoping for something more dramatic, but since they said they'd keep me, I wasn't about to complain.

At about 2:30, we called Mom. To her everlasting credit, she said she'd come right away. By the time she arrived, I was in a state. The contractions were frequent and severe. I hobbled to the bathroom two or three times, and remember trying to use the toilet when a contraction would hit, and all I could do was say "Owie, owie, owie!" while clinging to whatever loved one was closest at hand (James or Mom).

The night doctor told me that I needed to progress a bit more before I could get an epidural (try walking around, like across the VA skybridge - yeah right!), and the night nurse, Lisa, further informed me that I needed more hydration, so they'd start an IV after I'd had some time to walk around. Well, I just curled up into a fetal position and cried, so they started an IV and a liter of LR. Then they gave me 100 mcg of fentanyl and the world was a better place for about 45 minutes. I managed to get a nap in, and the fluids dripped into my underhydrated veins. I could only have the fentanyl every hour, so the last 15 minutes were rather uncomfortable, but I made it, and they gave me another dose, and started another liter of fluids. By the time I was ready for Round Three (about 4:30 am), the anesthesiologist resident was there and I got my epidural, which started to kick in a few minutes later.

Ahhhhhh!

I could still feel when I contracted, but they felt more like Braxton Hicks contractions, so I was able to get some sleep, James took a little nap, too, and Mom went down to the cafeteria for something to eat. After the epidural, time became rather relative. I no longer watched the clock (positioned inconveniently over my right shoulder) for my next dose of fentanyl or braced myself for the next contraction (everyone kept telling me to just relax and it wouldn't hurt as much - much easier said than done). The next thing I remember is my clear liquid breakfast (juice, chicken broth, and jello - yum!) while James feasted on Fruity Pebbles or some other sugar bomb cereal Mom got him from the cafeteria (at which point the lady at the cash register asked her if she qualified for a Senior Citizen discount - she didn't look THAT bad for having woken up at 2:30 in the morning!).

By mid-morning, the contractions were starting to get stronger again. Since my epidural was on a PCA button, I started pushing the button with each contraction. When I told the day nurse, Lorie, she called anesthesiology and they came to bump up my rate and give me a bolus of whatever wonder drug they were pumping into my epidural space. I had a "walking epidural," which was somewhat misleading because my one attempt to walk to the bathroom didn't even make it to the dangle position. So I had to get a foley catheter, which I couldn't feel, so it was ok.

Another good thing about the morning arriving was Dr. Sarah Present came! Accompanied by Dr. Lochner, the attending in the hospital for L&D that day in Family Practice, it was such a relief to have MY doctor on the floor, lookin' out for our interests. Since she'd been out of town all the week before, I must admit that I'm glad Gwen decided to wait until the next week to make her appearance.

So Sarah checked me and I was hovering around 9 cm, fully effaced, etc. There was some concern about the baby's heart rate dropping dramatically with each contraction, so they had me position myself such to keep the heart rate up - first on the left side, then on the right, then on one side with my legs and knees heldjust so so that the baby's heart rate stayed in the safe range during contractions. I started to feel like I was looking for cell phone coverage. They put an oxygen mask on me to provide more O2 for the baby.

My water had not yet broken at this point, and since I was almost fully dilated, we opted to have Sarah break my water to progress labor. She pulled out the crochet-hook-looking AROM device and next I knew, they were telling me that there was some meconium and they were going to call the pediatric team in case she came out with meconium inhalation problems. Then they told me to just let labor progress and to call when I started feeling the urge to push.

Some time before 11, I started feeling some pressure and let the docs know we were getting to that urge point, so everyone gowned up. Someone gave James a gown and instructed him on putting on sterile gloves. The sun was shining in the window, bathing the room in light and heat. I didn't notice the heat as much as the gowned members of the team, as I was wearing a light hospital gown and little else, but I was working the hardest! Every time I felt a contraction, I would push, push, push, encouraged by the team, James and my mom. I remember glancing at the clock at about 11:30 and wondering if this would be an am or a pm baby. I was getting pretty tired, especially my abdominal muscles. I remember feeling a contraction and just not having it in me to push, opting for a break, then Dr. Lochner suggested that they may have to use the vacuum extraction device if labor continued as it was going and her heart rate continued to drop. It didn't come to that, though. At 11:49 am, with a big push, there was a sudden shift and her head came out. Then came her shoulders and next thing I knew, I was holding a squirmy, wet little creature, her deafening wail broadcasting to the pediatric team that their services would not be needed - her lungs were just fine.

Then she pooped all over her mother, but I didn't mind.

The Build-Up

So I'm sitting in the rocker in the nursery, rocking my 2-day-old baby girl while she sleeps, so let's see if I can get out the details of her Arrival before she wakes and distracts me again forever.

On Monday, November 30, 2009, went to see my doctor in the morning. I was 40 weeks and 2 days gestational age and frankly beginning to wonder if I'd just be pregnant forever. I'd gotten this silly notion somewhere in my second trimester that I'd deliver early, sometime between November 15th and the 25th. Ha. So much for a mother's intuition. So I'd been rather depressed for a while about my body's lack of cooperation with my plans, but by this visit, I'd decided I'd just enjoy what time I had left to myself and James and if the baby didn't make her appearance by Saturday the 5th, we'd induce. Sarah said that the more one plans for a post-term induction, the less likely the chances that one needs to get one, so we set the appointment for me to come in on Friday evening to get things started and I made an appointment for a fetal stress test on Wednesday, etc, etc.

I came home and decided a nice walk to Bed, Bath and Beyond would be nice. The air was crisp and clear, so I bundled up and walked over to buy some clips to hang our stockings from the fireplace and a shower head that James later said he wanted to return. I got a peppermint hot chocolate (that was really more warm than hot) from Starbucks on the way home and arrived home after James had already gotten home from work. We did our own thing for a bit, including James surfing reviews of shower heads and I did some quilting.

We were both on our way towards getting peckish, so we settled on Vietnamese sandwiches. We walked over to Best Baguette and had a nice meal before coming home and setting up our Christmas tree. Since our tree this year is significantly larger than trees of years past, we had to make a trip to Rite Aid for more ornaments and lights, but since the evening was wearing on and James had work the next day (not really, but he didn't know that at the time), we drove instead of a third walk that evening. We joked about running into the same cashier who sold us castor oil a week ago (which I never did work up the courage to take), but it was someone else at the check stand, so we didn't have to explain why I was still pregnant. We made our way home and decorated our tree, nostalgically putting up ornaments of Christmases past. We got two new ornaments for Christmas this year (first house and baby's first Christmas), but since we wanted to put her birthdate on her first ornament, they sat in the bag waiting to be brought back to the mall for personalization after the birth.

Like I said, James thought he was going in to work the next day, so he made his way up to bed shortly after 10, but I thought I'd stay up and read for a bit, so I settled myself on the couch and read until 11, when the contractions started coming.

To be continued...

Thankful

I know, I was supposed to be thankful yesterday, but better late than never, eh?

Yesterday was quite the whirlwind of activity and then a nice afternoon of digesting.  Due to a little hiccup in planning, James and I got a crash course in Thanksgiving Feast Preparation.  The turkey was in the oven, and Mom and I went over to Winco for some last minute items (on Thanksgiving morning, with a 2 1/2 year-old . . . and we survived it!) while James started preparing what he already had on hand.  We had a simple menu: turkey, mashed sweet potatoes, roasted root vegetables (but if you want parsnips, you gotta make it to the store before the morning of the event, *sigh*), caesar salad, cranberry sauce (canned - don't judge me), gluten-free stuffing, gluten-full rolls, apple juice, pumpkin pie and/or custard (depending on whether you want the gluten-y crust).  I later picked Jared up, who surprised us with roasted, stuffed butternut squash, cranberry sauce from scratch, and some fabulous sauteed squash (he told me the name of the squash about 12 times, but it's not one I'm familiar with, so I forgot) in a citrous-butter sauce.  Feasting was supposed to start at noon, but we felt rather proud of ourselves to have the whole spread ready by 1:15 or so.  And it was good.  And we have leftovers for when the baby comes and we really don't feel like cooking.

So, I'm thankful for my wonderful husband, who totally rose to the occasion and did about 85% of the feast all by himself, with mostly good graces (there was a period of panic at first), and even missed parts of the Greenbay-Detroit blowout playing in the next room.

I'm thankful for my mom, who will work herself into an early grave to maintain family harmony and deflect sibling rivalry.  I hope she doesn't have to, though, because she's one of my best friends and I need her around.  (I'm selfish like that.)

I'm thankful for my papa, even though he got to watch the game that James missed.  :)  I'm grateful that he watches out for my mom and tries to keep her from over-straining herself.

I'm thankful for my brother, Jared, who continually surprises me over how much he's grown as a person since we were younger.  I keep having to mentally shift from the surly, punk teenager I once knew to the kind, thoughtful man I saw yesterday.

I'm thankful for my sister, Diana, who is weathering her own personal storms with a boot-straps resolve I never thought I'd see in the Little Girl who would streak through the house after her bath.

I'm thankful for my sister Aubrey, her husband Nic, and their two kiddos.  As I'm fretting over whether I need a bottle warmer or a fancy tummy-time mat, they're teaching me that all these objects are merely props, and that the true nature of parenting is in the consistency and love you give your chill'uns.

I'm thankful for my house.  In spite of all we've been through, I have yet to regret the decision we made to buy it and move here.  I hope I never do regret it.  I love the space in all the right places - big kitchen, spare bedroom, big master bathroom, garage.  I'm thankful that we were able to have my family over for a day of gratitude and closeness, and I'm oh so especially grateful that they did the dishes afterwards!!

Waiting for Gwendolyn

A thousand apologies to my loyal fans (Hello?...Hello?...*echo, echo*) for the extreme lapse in posting during what is quite possibly the most eventful year of my life to date.  Since January, James and I have gotten pregnant (mainly me, but he helped), gone to Brazil (second time, but still eventful), bought a house, flooded it (mainly him, but that's all water under the bridge, or over the dam, or most accurately, all over our new house), survived the 2 1/2 month construction zone of the aftermath, packed up all of our belongings (at the apartment), unpacked (HA! about 1/3847th done there), had three baby showers, loved my job, hated my job (well, not the actual job part, just all the HR BS that comes with it), nested, mowed my own yard, raked my own yard, had Fun with Composting, been to a Blazers game and a Pearl Jam concert, been through the wringer with a chiropractor (both effective and less effective), fallen in love with our new ward, and had a baby.  

Oh wait.  No baby yet.  She's "due" in 9 days.  We're trying to convince her to make an early appearance.  James tried luring her out with the promise of cake, but she's too smart.  She knows that after she stops sharing my digestive nutrients, the next time she'll get refined sugar is probably at her first birthday.  (Who am I kidding??  Nana's totally gonna spike her bottles with straight-up sugar the minute I'm not looking.  Hear that, Gwen?  Come out and Nana will give you sugar...)

At least now I have lots of free time to update my blog, right?  Yeah, that's what I'll do.

No, seriously, I'm going to make a Concerted Effort to write at least a brief post on every topic listed above, and extensive posts on some topics.  But not right now.  I have to get ready to visit my orthodontist and hopefully get my braces taken off today.  

I'll blog about it.  I promise.

The thin blue line

Ok, I'm writing this post on March 19, 2009.  I will date it and post it in probably 6-8 weeks, but wanted to put my initial thoughts down so I didn't forget them.

Yesterday, James and I found out I was pregnant (I do not say "we were pregnant" because honestly, who's going to be pushing this thing out?).  

(If you can't see the thin blue vertical line in the left window, don't worry - 

James had his doubts, too.) 

(four months later)

Apparently, I got distracted and never did put down those initial thoughts, lost forever into the ether.  But I'm going to try harder to blog for the next four months so you all can share my experiences and complaints.

Looking back over the last four months of gestation and preparation, I think J and I have both changed and grown a lot.  Of course, this is nothing compared to the changes and growth that will happen AFTER the birth, but it's a good preparation and a comfort to know that we can allow our lives to expand and accommodate a little one, allowing love and joy to push out feelings of selfishness and resentment that are instinctual human emotions.  I already love this little girl that nudges me day and night.  And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get her some cereal...

My favorite souvenir

So, since we stayed in Cabo Frio instead of Rio de Janiero proper, we had the hardest time finding good souvenirs for our trip (and I had the hardest time spelling "souvenir" just now - thanks, Spellcheck!).  Cabo Frio is a fabulous vacation spot, but it's geared more towards native Brazilians and other South Americans.  No one at our inn spoke English (including the owner) and we couldn't find any knick-knackery with a Brazilian flag on it to save our lives, but the beaches . . . oh, the beaches were wonderful!  More on those later, but I wanted to share pics of my favorite souvenirs from the trip:

"I'm Daddy's"

Flamengo Baby - the most popular futbol (soccer) team in Brazil

"I'm Mommy's"

So, for any of you who isn't on Facebook, doesn't work with me, hasn't heard through the grapevine, or I haven't called or e-mailed: yes, there is a bun, and it's a-bakin'!  These are the very first clothes we've gotten for the little one, and it was neat to see J get excited about the Flamengo stuff (of course, not as excited as I was about the green jumper!).

Anyway, we're due around Thanksgiving and I'll be keeping you all updated on my Crazy Pregnant Lady Adventures.

Oh, and I'll post more stuff about Brazil, too.  'Cause it was so darned awesome!

Why I Haven't Written in a While

Hey y'all.  I have to apologize for the extended delay in writing.  You see, I had that baking frenzy about a month ago and then I was just plain worn out for several weeks.  It seemed like I was working ALL the time, which of course isn't the case, but sometimes the shift schedule stacks up on you to seem that way.  Of course, when you purposefully stack the schedule that way so you can get out of the country for eight days while only taking one day vacation, it can just plain be exhausting.

But that's what I did, and now I'm living it up in Cabo Frio, Rio de Janiero, relaxing on the beach and feasting on the fabulous food.  And sleeping.

Last time we came to Rio, back in September, I gave a day-by-day account of our adventures, almost in real time, with pictures.  This time, J erased the pictures off the camera after transferring them to his computer, so I'll have to post with pics after we get home.  I'm sure you're all just dying to hear me rub in all the details about my week in paradise.  But for now, I'm tired.

Until later, ciao, os meus amigos.

Too Darned Stinkin' Cute

Help me.  I've developed an addiction and I cannot stop.  I've been baking almost every day off for the last two weeks.  It all started with two new blogs I've fallen into following: PioneerWoman and Bakerella, who were so dastardly as to team up and teach me about fondant.  Then Bakerella showed me these cute cake pops, and I cannot stop!

Anyway, here's what I've accomplished.  Ok, it's not everything I accomplished.  I had to give some away before I ate them and didn't take pictures, but trust me, they were cute.  Of course, not a cute as the original artist can do, but hey, I'm a novice here...

Fondant-covered cupcakes.  Too cute.

And the bow!  Honestly, I don't know what got into me.

But I hope it doesn't go away soon, 'cause this is just too precious.

The whole gang.  Yes, it took me all evening to make these eight.  

J had to make dinner, I was so obsessed.

And the cake pops.

I'll admit, I felt a little odd putting the plastic bag over this cute guy's head, but he just kept smiling, so I guess it's ok.

So, now I'm faced with another dilemma: I have a house full of sweet, sugary goodness, but not only are they too cute to eat, my waistline can't afford the calories!  If you can't help me with my addiction, please come by and help me reduce my surplus.  Of course, you'll have to come here; I can't leave the kitchen.  (At least I'm required to go to work tomorrow, so I should see the light of day soon.)

Score!

One thing James has taught me is that joy comes from the little things, but you have to allow yourself to toss away your pride and just get giddy.  (I live to hear his little "squee!" when I make Rice Krispies and if you've never heard it, you life is that much poorer.)

So I went out running errands today and as I was checking out at the Home Depot, I randomly decided to get cash back based on a conversation I had with the owner of the baking supply shop at my previous stop.  We had been talking about how people use their debit cards for the most minute purchases and how it sometimes costs the store more to charge the purchase than to just give the merchandise away for free.  In any case, I'd given him my last four dollar bills and decided to get some cash for future impulse purchases.  As I was at a U-Check station, I scanned my purchase and agreed to the $10 cash back before looking down to the little slot where my cash should appear, only to find a one dollar bill where my ten should be.  Well!  I held the measly dollar up for the cashier, who was manning the four different stations, to see and said, "Um, this should be a ten" in what I hoped was not my biz-natch voice, but probably was (James always points it out when I get saucy with the cashiers, but he wasn't there).  Then, the poor man came over and very nicely reached up further into the slot and produced my wayward ten dollar bill.  "They sometimes don't come all the way down the slope," he explained very nicely, especially considering my tart little remark earlier.  "So, this one dollar is a bonus?" I asked hopefully.  "Sometimes people don't take all their cash," he agreed (or I'm assuming he was agreeing with me, as I didn't wait around for him to ask for it as re-payment for my little attitude hissy).

So, free dollar!  Score!  Here's a picture of my loot, taken along side the ten for perspective.

Motivated Mathematics

I've always loved math.  I was the Math Olympiad winner three years running in elementary school.  I used to write myself long long-division problems during summer vacation just because I was bored.  What's 36,183,756,383,729 divided by 26?  Let's find out!  (Not really - I've since discovered the joy of calculators.)

Anyway, when James and I decided to make Rice Krispy squares this evening, I thought I had enough ingredients, but when we got home, I found that one of the bags of marshmallows in the pantry was fruit flavored.  No way.  And I wasn't about to go back out and buy more marshmallows, so I took stock of what I did have.

  

Four cups of mini-mallows (mallow-flavored).

Now, my cardinal rule of Krispy squares is this:

5 Tbsp butter

6 cups mini mallows

9 cups Rice Krispies

So, with four cups of mallows and a major Krispy jonsin', what's a girl to do?  Anwer: fractions!

First, since the mallows determine our lowest common denominator, I needed to find the conversion rate between what I usually use and what I have:  6 x ? = 4

Anybody?  Anybody?  Buhler?  2/3 is the conversion factor.

So, now to convert the Krispies and the butter by 2/3.

5 x 2/3 = 10/3 or 3 1/3 tbsp butter

9 x 2/3 = 6 cups Krispies

 

Then I was faced with another problem: I don't have a casserole dish 2/3 the size of my regular dish.  But I did have one roughly half the size, and thanks to the laws of displacement...

Super tall Krispy squares!

So, did I get the magic formula right?

I only caught the first bite because it's hard to take pictures and eat a Krispy square at the same time.  Gets the camera all sticky.

Mmm . . . oh yeah, I got it right . . .

In case I forget

So, to remind myself of what my little apartment is supposed to look like, here are some pictures:

I especially like the scriptures lying expectantly on the table.  Now, if I only sat here to eat more often...

They say you can tell a person's most treasured item because they place it in the corner furthest from the door.  As of this morning, I moved the TV and put Stanley, my cello, in that corner.  I tried putting The Boy there, but he won't stay put!

Proud artist - I made that trunk myself!  Just moved it into the position of coffee table this afternoon.

And now, for my next project:

So many books...

I'm actually not allowed to organize this one, but in the interest of being thorough, I threw it in.

This one, on the other hand, is all my mess.  I guess I'm not allowed to quilt until I clean it.  Or stack it somewhere else... No!  Must clean mess!

Just not today.

Mercury and Jupiter

I had a professor once who said his life was controlled by Mercury and Jupiter: most of the time, he was in a slow, ponderous orbit, millions of miles from anything productive, but occasionally he would whip into a storm of energy and production.  I've never had a professor with whom I identified so much (you see, he was an English professor, so I had to contort that sentence around so the preposition is floating somewhere in the middle instead of dangling precariously at the end - I hope I did it right).

I'm sure James often comes home from work and wonders how I manage to have so much time off and yet the house is the same slovenly hole it was when he left it before dawn that morning.  Books piled haphazardly on the coffee table, being kept company by the only major change in the decor: dirty dishes from breakfast and lunch stacked next to the piles of DVDs pulled out and never returned to their place on the shelf.  Sometimes I'm still in my pajamas, though I try to get to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I hear him coming up the stairs.  I've had at least nine hours of free time since he last saw me; how could I have nothing productive to show for it?

Then there are those other rare days, when he gets home and I (as if to prove that those other days are simple a very common fluke) immediately launch into the laundry list of tasks I have managed to accomplish since he kissed me goodbye this morning (btw, I love it that he kisses me goodbye in the morning, even though I usually grumble at the time).  I show all the organized shoes in the closet (he gets the lion's share of space both for the quantity and size of his size 13 collection of Doc Marten boots), the scrubbed kitchen floor and oven and range and hood, I nonchalantly mention the folded laundry in the drawers and the sparkling clean toilets and how Hamlet was terrorized by the vacuum - the vacuum! - and what could I make for dinner?  This happens about once a month.  Then Jupiter takes charge again and here I am, sitting in my pajamas at 12:35 pm and debating clearing off the coffee table before 3:45, when the boy gets home.  If only I could tap into Mercury more often, or figure out how it works so I could harness it at will.

These things I know:

1. I work better in the morning, before breakfast and a shower.  I have no idea why hunger motivates me, but I know that getting on my hands-and-knees to scrub bathroom floors after a shower just ain't gonna happen, so if I'm planning on cleaning (hah!), I delay the shower.  Of course, that usually backfires if I don't clean, and am still stinky at a quarter-to-four, when J gets home...

2. Music helps.  I got J a portable player for his iPod and just truck it around to whatever room I'm working on at the time.  If the music goes away, I get distracted really easily.  Putting books away, music fades into the distance, Hey, I haven't read this book in a long time...bye bye, clean house.

3. Speaking of getting distracted, if I get distracted cleaning a room and end up focusing on one particular corner, I just go with it.  Otherwise, the hood over the range would never get clean.  I spent an entire afternoon once cleaning out the oven and then behind the oven, and then the backside of the oven, when I was really just trying to tidy up the kitchen and do the dishes.  Oh well.  James can do the dishes.  How often have either of us cleaned behind the oven in the 3.75 years we've lived here? (Answer: once)

4. After I get done with my frenzies, I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures, because clean just looks so good!  My biggest regret of this type is when I took Comet with bleach and steel wool to the nasty grimy shower floor.  It took me three showers (ok, so I clean the shower when I'm in the shower, taking a shower.  It just makes sense to me.  Don't judge me.) to get the whole thing clean, and it's just a stand-up shower, not a bathtub.  By then end, it was beautiful and white, but who would ever notice?  It's not like it shouldn't be white.  I almost wanted to leave a little grimy corner to remind me of my accomplishments.  But I didn't.  

5. I love new stuff because it looks better clean.  Although it's just an apartment, it's a newer apartment, unlike the trendy, vintage look that catches such a high premium here in the NW.  I love it, because when I clean the kitchen, the countertops are white, the floor is clean, and there aren't any corners of just-won't-ever-be-clean grime and mildew.  There are stains, but they're few and easily hidden in the tan carpet.  I hope to find the same qualities in a house some day (soon?).

6.  I love to be appreciated.  Although I realize that James does at least 60% of the housework, when I get into one of my frenzies, all I can think of is "He's going to love this so much!" and it makes me work harder.  That's not to say that "He would love it if I cleaned the house" is a motivating force, but once I get going, it keeps the ball rolling.  And he always delivers, that wonderful man of mine, in spite of the fact that he does at least 60% of the housework on a daily basis.  (I'm probably underestimating him, but if I say 75%, I'll feel far too slovenly to continue quilting, writing, surfing, practicing my cello, reading...)

So, on that note, I'm going to finish clearing off the coffee table, vacuuming the main rooms, moving stuff down to the garage, re-arranging the furniture, emptying the dishwasher, brushing the cat (before vacuuming, I hope), showering and looking presentable for my boy in 2.75 hours!

What I really need

I saw this on Lindy's blog and thought it was hilarious. You type in "[your first name] needs" into google.com and post the first ten things listed. Here goes:

1. Kristina needs a two parent adoptive family with one or two older children. (So THAT'S where I came from!)
2. Kristina needs to find something to do tonight to keep her mind occupied. (Hmmm, maybe some mindless blogging??)
3. Kristina needs your help. (This one's fairly straight forward, I suppose.)
4. Kristina needs a good kick in the ass! Oh yeah...and soy gelato. (Insightful, since I've recently discovered I'm lactose intolerant, but I really don't like soy much.)
5. Kristina needs lots of support for speech therapy and occupational therapy. Kristina needs your help. Kristina needs a bone marrow transplant. (As a BMT nurse, this one really caught my attention.)
6. Kristina needs some serious help. (Did you ever doubt it?)
7. Kristina needs a tech makeover. (I don't even know what this means.)
8. Kristina needs a tent revival. (Amen, sista!)
9. Kristina needs a JJJOOOBBB!!! (Thank heavens, I already have one, but I only have a job, not a JJJOOOBBB!!!, so maybe I'm missing something in my place of employment.)
10. Kristina needs encouragement. (Boy, don't I! Namely, at the aforementioned job, or maybe it IS a JJJOOOBBB!!!)

Now what Kristina REALLY needs: to stop blogging and _go_to_bed!

Sweet melodious tones of the...

...cello.  When we were first married, James bought me a CD titled "Romantic Cello," complete with embracing couple pictured on the front in a vaguely European setting.  Anyway, it took about thirty seconds of listening to realize that there was some miscommunication between the cover art people and the playlist people.  Sure, it was cello music and, strictly speaking, "romantic," but only in the classical sense, as in "from the Romance Era of classical music."  Like, Tchaikovsky.  Beautiful sweeping melodies, dripping with emotion, grand sforzandos and crashing cymbals, tied together with delicate pianissimo trills and descants.  Beautiful stuff, but definitely not smoochy music; the suddenness of the fortissimo can be jarring when played by candle-light.  So the CD sat on the shelf for many months, and then somehow made its way into my car, silent, un-played, and waiting.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago.  James and I are taking a short road trip to Astoria and in my haste, I fail to pack any good music for the road.  We're on our way home and I come across this CD, "Romanic Cello," crammed into one of the door wells.  Well, it's better than listening to one of the other three CDs we've already grown tired of on our trip, so I pop it in.  As we're not smooching while driving, we're able to better appreciate the intent of the Romantic composers and the cellists who pay them homage.

Since that fateful voyage, the CD has not left my car CD player.  Given the fact that I drive much less than I once did, one is less inclined to wonder that I don't grow tired of the same nine songs played over and over again.  Rather the contrary - I came into a familiarity and fondness for many of the songs.  One piece in particular moved me greatly, such that I went to the local music store and bought the sheet music.  Thus has begun  the renewal of my acquaintance with my dear old friend, Stanley.

I first met Stanley when he was rather new and I was fourteen.  Through the previous three years of hard work and determination, I had earned the right to move up from my old cello, Chelsea, a top-of-the-line machine-made cello, to a hand crafted instrument of music.  Chelsea is blonde and sturdy, but Stanley is a beautiful chestnut brown with a thin, delicate neck and graceful scroll.  We bought him new from his crafter, Wayne Burak, a budding luthier and retired first chair cellist in the Ft. Worth Symphony Orchestra.

I'll admit, Stanley is no Stradivarius, but he's mine, he's beautiful, and I love him.  Because we bought him new, Wayne placed an inscription on the inside that reads, "For Kristina Martinsen," whom I am no longer, but Stanley has stayed with me nevertheless, through the years of diligent practice and shameful neglect alike.

For over the last week, Stanley and I have become reacquainted.  I've pulled out some of my old practice material as well as working through Kol Nidre, by Max Bruch, the genius that inspired my renaissance.  This piece is about on par (or perhaps ever so slightly below) with where I left off oh so many years ago.  Composed mostly in tenor clef with equal parts bass and treble thrown in for a good range of tone.  I'm developing callouses in all the old places and some new ones (namely, along my left thumb as I develop my "thumb position" callouses).  After a few days of sore bowing and weak fourth finger vibrato, my muscles have also begun to re-develop.

I find that the more I play, the more I can play, and therefore the more I want to play.  My only regret is that unlike when I was in school and would prepare for a concert or competition, I now have no goal in mind when I practice beyond my own enjoyment.  On second thought, perhaps that might not be considered a regret.  Rather, my regret is that I have no venue to share the music I am creating.  Don't get me wrong - I'm sure there are plenty of venues available for an amateur cellist yearning to share her half-baked gift with the world (the street corners of Portland come to mind), but I'll admit I'm just not that brave and/or confident.  I have touched upon a fairly simple piece that I intend to share with my church congregation (assuming it sounds more complete with the piano accompaniment), so I suppose that's a start.  I know of an adult amateur orchestra in the area; perhaps I'll seek it or something of the like out.  Let's see how far this re-awakened hobby carries me.

(On a slightly related note, my sewing machine has been in the shop for a week and will be so for another . . . we'll see what happens when I get it back and have to divide my hobby time between the audio and the visual.)

p.s. I'll post pictures of my beautiful cello later.  I'm learning thumb position and he's embarrassed to be seen with tape on his fingerboard.

Shiny Happy People

I guess not every post can be all bubbles and sunshine.  Warning: this is not a cheery "here's what I'm doing these days" post.

I got home this evening and had to finally admit to myself that today was pretty darned hard.  Not busy-and-I-can't-catch-up hard.  No, today was emotionally hard.  Start off with a five hour headache brought on by shoulders that were tight when I woke up and add torturing an overwhelmingly painful patient while maintaining professionalism and a positive attitude of "we have to do this for your own good."  I managed to fool myself into thinking today was a good day all the way home, listening to my classical cello music and thinking about other things.  Then I get home an immediately alienate the one person I can turn to in times of stress, break down in tears (always a winner with the gents) and retreat to the bathroom.  I thought I was crying because I picked a fight with the most important person in my life, but all I could see in the darkness of the bathroom (who wants to see themselves in the mirror during a crying fit?) was the pain-ridden expression on my patient's face, and as my sobs exponentially increased the throbbing of my head, I realized that I'd been deluding myself as I wore my "everything is fine" professional attitude all the way home and into my private life.  I realized how important it is to turn the "fine fine" off when the day is done and sometimes just allow myself to mourn for the pain and loss of others.

Of course, it helps when you don't have to do it alone.

I'll write a more cheerful post soon, I promise.

Weekend of indulgence

So on Saturday, James took me to:

Oh yeah!  We went to a fabulous lecture by a rep from E. Guittard about single origin chocolate, and of course they had samples!!  The rep talked about how the environment and growing conditions affected the end-taste of the chocolate.  Since they mostly process chocolate for high-end pastry chefs and such, they don't add flavors like the types of chocolate bars you see in the grocery store.  It was amazing to taste the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) differences in chocolate, simply from where it's grown.  By the end of the day, James said he was sick of chocolate.  I wouldn't say I was sick of it, but definitely satiated for a few days!

Then, on Sunday:
Superbowl XLIII!  Steelers vs. Cardinals.  I won't go into a play-by-play, but there were a few awesome plays that even got me into the game.  Of course, having some friends over to share pulled pork sliders, mini-cupcakes, Cheetos, Doritos, and a football field of Rice Krispy square rounded out my weekend of indulgence quite nicely.

Drat that cat!

I laid out the squares for a baby quilt for my cousin Andrea's baby (or rather, one of them, I already finished the other quilt for the other baby!)

A picture speaks a thousand words.  Here are the before and after pictures of Hurricane Hamlet.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

The Shadow knows.

So James had a hankerin' to watch the old 1994 version of The Shadow (not that there's a new version or anything).  Anyway, while I was watching, I found myself oddly attracted to the Shadow.  Not hot young Alec Baldwin, but his masked counterpart.  Then the resemblance hit me...

It's the noses.  :)  Also, deep green eyes.  I feel pretty lucky to still be smitten with my man after four years, and look forward to being smitten for years to come.

Anyway, it was a pretty good movie if you're not looking to take it too seriously.  

Last Saturday, James and I drove up to Seattle to visit our favorite Seattlites, Holly and Nathan. We woke up early-ish (hey, it's my day off, let's be realistic!) and got fancy pastries and hot chocolate from a posh little bakery in Hillsdale, and then drove up to our hotel in Bellinham, across the bridge from Seattle proper. After setting in, we met up with H&N at their apartment to carpool to the Seattle Art Museum, where there was an Edward Hopper exhibit that James was keen on seeing.

My only experience with Edward Hopper was the classic Nighthawks, which sadly wasn't in the exhibit, but I was touched by the melancholic works of the Norman Rockwell contemporary. My favorite was The Automat.

Nighthawks

The Automat

After seeing Hopper's work, we decided to get our admission money's worth and check our the rest of the museum. There were some fascinating Native American artifacts, notably Tlingit Indians, of which Holly is a quarter member. I didn't used to get drawn into Native American stuff, but after our trip to Alaska, I finally feel like I can see the intent of the totem art and appreciate its beauty and majesty. Also, we saw some masks made with human hair! Freaky. :)

I wish I'd thought to write down the names and artists of my favorite non-Hopper works of art, but I just allowed myself to get drawn into the experience without concern for the future impact. I'll admit, it made for a better experience, if not a better blog. Fortunately for me, google came to the rescue!

I loved this Lin Onus painting called Gathering Storm. You can't see the detail in this pic, but the detail of layering is beautiful and it boggles my mind.

Gathering Storm, by Lin Onus

This sculpture is called Mann und Maus, by a we-can-assume-German artist Katharina Fritsch. Not only did the stark black-vs-white imagery captivate me, but the thing is like 7 1/2 feet tall!

Mann und Maus, by Katharina Fritsch

So, after breakfast in a swanky bakery and all afternoon in a museum, we were all cultured up for the main event: Monster Truck Show!! This was the initial reason for visiting, as H&N were totally excited and we were willing to suspend our hoity-toity Portland standards for an evening. We started to Redneck-down by going to an awesome BBQ joint where they serve a ridiculous amount of meat and sides on an inverted garbage can lid, "family style" (don't ask who's family, for I surely don't know). There were at least half a dozen kinds of sauce to slather on the food, but I was content with those cooked on them, downing my share of brisket and ribs, steering clear of the corn-on-the-cob (braces) and chicken (this is BBQ - mammals only!). By this time, our party had doubled thanks to the company of Holly's two cousins, Nathan's co-worker and their long-time friend John, so it was a fun party. Since dinner took longer than expected (they mean slow roasted), the girls took off to leave the boys to handle the check so we could pick our tickets up from Will Call. Where does one go for a Monster Truc Show in Seattle? One doesn't - one goes to Tacoma! Of course, being a good friends, I won't even mention how Holly got the girl's car totally lost in Tacoma. At least we still got there before the boys.

In retrospect, it was a lot of fun. There were these buggy races, and of course the fabulous antics of Grave Digger and his cronies. There was a wonderfully helpful (if somewhat toothless - I am not exaggerating) fellow sitting in front of us who explained things like when the announcer yells "WHAT TIME IS IT??!" we're supposed to reply "FREESTYLE!!!" and not "Um...9:30?" as I was tempted to do. Three things that surprised me that I later realized shouldn't have: (1) it was cold, which was probably because they had to keep the heated-but-carbon-monoxide-heavy air circulating with the clean-but-cold January air from outside, (2) it was loud (which got me to thinking: why is it whenever we visit Seattle I lose a little bit of my hearing?), and (3) it was fun! Just let that mob-mentality seep into your subconscious and let the inner redneck out! What time is it? FREESTYLE!!!

After the show, I was tempted to find a late-night Winchell's or something, afraid to swing back into my normal lifestyle too quickly by finding an upscale establishment for dessert. We found a bar not too far from the Tacoma Dome that served dessert and let us sit in the closed restaurant area for the benefit of Holly's not-quite-21-year-old cousins. It was a good compromise, and we arrived back at our hotel in smooth transition. Ah, back to insular yuppie DINK lifestyle!

All in all, had a great time!

Housekeeping

Cleaned the toilets today. Should it bother me that the sight of a white and shining toilet tugs at my brain in the same way as a blank canvas: the niggling feeling that it's missing something?

I suppose if nothing else, I guess this is a stark testament to my stellar housekeeping instincts.

Ennui

Ugh, sometimes I really hate hormones.  After over three years of regulated hormonal levels, I'd forgotten what a roller coaster "the cycle" could be.  Let's face it: I'm not the most steady person with regulation, much less hormonally free-styling.  So I've been up, down, hot, cold, and everything in between, for the last four weeks.  And now it's officially PMS week, and I can feel it.  I've picked a fight with James, nearly wrecked the car, and caught myself in self-destructive thinking more times than I can count in the last few days.  The only consolation is that I'm a teensy bit more self-aware of the impact hormones play on my emotions than I was four years ago.  Back then, if I was feeling moody, I would just lash out without thinking about whether the instigator was really worthy of my energy or if the hormones were making me blow an innocuous situation out of proportion.  Drove James crazy.  Over the last few days, I've felt crummy and have lashed out a few times, but was usually able to catch myself at least understanding the cause-and-effect nature of hormones vs. Kristina (vs. the world).

Perhaps "ennui" is the wrong term, but it sounds so fancy, as if using a French term makes it classier to be moody.  Perhaps I should stick to good ol' American "despondence" or "melancholic." 

Do you know why they call it PMS?  Because "Mad Cow Disease" was already taken.

Oh, and in case you're putting 2 and 2 together (you clever mathematician!) we're not trying to get pregnant just yet, so put back that layette set, pack up the booties.  All in good time, all in good time...