Happy birthday Maude and various and sundry other bits

Maude: Today is Maude's 40th birthday. Happy birthday, Maudie!

I was looking for a kid picture of the two of us, but unfortunately, everything is still packed. But then I remembered I'd scanned this one for our wedding slideshow.

I think we're about three here. It's Easter, and my family was visiting Maude's family in Chandigarh. I don't know which of us dropped the basket, but probably me.

The mail: It's not yet sorted out, but it's getting there. If you go on the USPS website and type in our addres to get a +4 zip, it tells you it's not a valid mailing address. But we've gotten a whole bunch of people involved, and it seems this will in fact get sorted.

Nick: Nick comes home tomorrow morning. He's been gone for ten days for work. California and then Alaska. Ten long, long days.

When he got to Juneau I asked if he could see Alaska from his hotel room.

"You mean Russia?"

"YOU try being pregnant, asshole!"

What I really meant was: "I miss you and can't wait to see you."

And 4th of July: Our office is letting us out at noon. As in, a few scant minutes from now. Yippee!

Tummy and I will be back tomorrow!

Raised in a barn rant

This is an expression I've always liked, although I've also always thought that clearly it depends more on who your parents are than what type of edifice you were reared in.

But much like the wild hair/hare expression, I like saying it.

"Were you raised in a barn?"

Nobody ever says yes.

But anyway.

You don't have to hold the door open for me.

Candidly, I have always loved having doors opened for me, and while I didn't think less of men who didn't open doors while we were on a date, I did think more of men who did.

OK, so yes, I'm judgey.

I fucking hold doors open for people. Just to be polite. And now that I'm big waddly preg, lots of people - men and women - hold doors open for me.

It's nice. It's not hard to do. Why the fuck not do it?

And me, I always say thank you, and I always appreciate it.

So, you don't have to hold the door open for me.

But if I've just opened it, and am partway through, then you, preppy 20-something guy, you should not dart through it, all, hey, cool, she's clearly coming in and I need to go out and awesome, an open door! just because you move faster than me.

Asshole.

Lucky

When you move to DC, your car insurance goes up.

And for good reason. I've had a lot of bad stuff happen to my car. Being sideswiped while parked is the least of it.

My hood got all dented in what we had to assume was the process of someone standing on it. In order to smash my windshield. Just for fun.

The best, though, was when my entire wheel got stolen. They left it jacked up, with just the little nup sticking out. They took the whole fucking wheel.

The policeman told me I was lucky. Lucky they didn't steal my entire car.

Huh.

So I thought about this last weekend.

After I left the car running on the street in front of our house.

Honest to god. I didn't even notice. I got a great parking spot, parked, and walked inside with the bags I was carrying.

It's not exactly as terrible as it sounds, in that a friend of ours was double parked just ahead of me, unloading furniture that didn't fit in my little Civic. So our front door was open, and Nick and others were in and out.

But still.

I'd have done it regardless, I am certain. Because my house keys and car keys are on separate rings.

Suddenly I realized I'd forgotten something in the car. And started looking for my keys.

Just after my search began, Nick started calling for me. "Lisa!"

I don't answer. I'm digging through my purse.

"Hey, Lis! Could you come here? Lis?"

And I was thinking, ohferfuckssake just give me a second. Seriously? What's so urgent?

"Lisa."

"Hold on."

"Honey."

"Goddammit! Hang on! I'm trying to find my fucking keys!"

"Odds are they're in your car. Which you left running."

Ah. Lucky.

Dear Dad, week six

Dear Dad,

It's been just over six weeks since you walked out of the house and quietly but firmly closed the door on your life with us forever.

It's been a month since your memorial service.

In some ways it feels like much, much longer, because so much has happened and we've worked so hard in the intervening time. But in others, it's just as fresh as if you left yesterday.

I try very hard not to get into the "what-ifs" and "if onlys" and "I should'ves" - because I understand how futile they are. But I don't always succeed, and in my imagination, that morning goes differently. Or you are found in time. And you're still here with us.

Recent pictures are hard, because I look at Christmas and think, you weren't doing your best, but you were OK. Or OK enough to stay, anyway. And I wonder where the line was.

But I love this photo above. I love the life and the energy and the fun in it.

We scanned it for your slide show. I remember you playing the piano in Dacca. You played all the time when we were younger. I can't even remember the last time I heard you play, actually.

The other night I dreamt that you were still alive, and it was so very real. But then I noticed that I had a completely flat stomach, and that's what tipped me off that it was a dream. Another night, Nick and I were staying over with mom, and I woke up smelling your cologne, as if you'd just passed through the room.

The dreams I get. The smell, that I really don't understand.

You left things extremely well organized - which you always knew - and that's been incredibly helpful. Even so, there's an astounding amount of administrative stuff to deal with.

Nick has been spectacular at dealing with all of the terrible details - and was from minute one. We all knew how amazing he was, and I know it made you feel better knowing we were in good hands. You can't begin to imagine how great he's been.

For so many of these things, it's so helpful that he's a lawyer, but even more so, that he's so incredibly detail-oriented.

I have to say, I think you were right - he might actually be more anal than you. Practically unimaginable, but possibly true.

I am huge now, and so is the boy - much bigger than when you saw us last. When he moves, my whole stomach shifts. It's pretty crazy; you'd get a kick out of it.

We all miss you terribly, and wish you were still with us.

Love,

Lisa

Week 33 tummy

The boy now feels like he takes up my everywhere.

There isn't a bit of my insides that he isn't pressing up or down or sideways on.

I envision him with his feet firmly planted in my lungs (or maybe his head - I still don't know which way he's situated) and the rest of his body firmly settled into my other organs.

He gets a back itch, and rubs it up against my liver for a good scratch. And when he feels like a little toe tickle, he skibbles his feet along my ribs.

This is my vision of some of the antics in there.

I walk around holding my stomach a lot for moral support. I thank goodness I worked my abs a ton last year. I feel sorry for them getting all stretched and poked.

I feel sorry for me getting all stretched and poked.

The weird thing is, while I'm physically feeling all sorry for myself, I realize more and more that I already just love the shit out of him. I absolutely can't wait to have him, to pick him up and kiss and squeeze and love on him.

And the thing I don't get about this is that I know there's an actual human in there, but it's really impossible to imagine what he's going to be like. And even so, I love him.

So last week I started getting lightheaded a lot, and I had a couple episodes of my heart racing while I was sitting at my desk, doing nothing more strenuous than trying to edit a tedious document.

My OB sent me to a cardiologist, who did these tests that show that my heart is structurally fine. He said this is really common in pregnancy. But just to be sure there isn't something else going on, he had me spend 24 hours wearing these electrodes.

I felt all bionic. And sweaty. And itchy. And I couldn't bathe, as I'd been told no unequivocally - no bathing! These machines are expensive!

If you live in DC, you know last Monday and Tuesday were hot and sweaty. I was gross.

So they stuck all these things on me with what I have to say is very impressive adhesive and then gave me the little monitor to hang on the waist of my pants. I nearly dropped it in the toilet a couple times. I had to start tucking it in my bra while in the bathroom.

They also give you a little diary with all these slots to record every activity and every symptom. Like, if you walk up the stairs and get lightheaded - activity and resultant symptom.

Activities to include: eating, exercise, sex, bowel movements, ingesting caffeine or alcohol. . .

I will tell you, writing all this town and noting the specific time makes you hyperaware of how much snacking you do, the timing of your bowel movements, and how lacking in heart-racing romance your life might be.

What I also discovered, though, is that my lightheadedness happens mostly when I'm sitting or standing. While I'm walking, I'm usually good. And then I stop and get all dizzy.

This is still the case. I've been paying attention.

Dunno.

Anyway, I dropped off their little machine and will hear back next week on what they say. Which I know will be: it's normal. This happens to pregnant woman. It's hormones and the kid.

Everything happens to pregnant women. It's hormones and the kid. Always.

I am telling you, your leg could fall off, and they'd say, "Sure, bring it in for testing. But that happens all the time to pregnant women."