Peeve Fighters, part 1

In my experience pregnancy is annoying and other people make it that way.  I don't think actually being pregnant is all that annoying, but people's reaction to a pregnant woman can be a special kind of irritating.  This is not a new discovery on my part.    

To battle the annoyance, I'm starting a new feature here on Bits and Wiz.  I'm calling it "Peeve Fighters", and I imagine it will turn into a Hall of Fame of sorts, dedicated to those brave souls, products, and other random entities that are a beckon of light in a sea of annoyance.

The first Peeve Fighter is a woman whose name I do not know, and whose face I probably wouldn't recognize.  I encountered her at Publix the other day.  I was walking into the store, and she and a couple of her girlfriends were leaving the store at the same time.  She had fabulous white hair and was dressed in beach attire.  Clearly, she and her cronies were on the way to the beach to soak up some sun.  She was pushing an empty cart, smiled widely, and asked, "Would you like this cart?"

As she pushed the cart to me, she said, "I just love to see people having babies."  And then she gave me the most reassuring, firm, "go get 'em" pat on the shoulder I've ever received.  It wasn't a patronizing pat - one that might convey "honey, you're in for it now.  Heh, heh, heh.  You have no idea."

Instead, it was like she was on my side.  Rooting for me.  Excited for my future.  Eager to celebrate the next generation.  This interaction stood in such sharp contrast to many other encounters I've had over the past few months.  Strangers showering pity on me, or making snarky comments, or offering sing-songy warnings about what's in store.

So thank you, Random Beach Lady, for being a first-class Peeve Fighter.  The world could use a few more of you.

How to pick a nursery rug in 117 easy steps

1.  Decide you need a rug.

2.  Wonder what size rug you need.

3.  Take a nap.

4.  Spend an exorbitant amount of time looking at rugs on the internets.  Never at work though.  That would be obsessive.

5.  Ask a kind of snotty lady at a fabric/home interiors store for her opinion.  Ignore her eye roll.

6.  Take a few days off from the search.  It's exhausting.

7.  Remember that you still need a rug.

8.  Ask a different lady at a different fabric/home interiors store for her opinion.  Listen to all her ideas.  Wonder if you could put her in your purse and take her rug shopping.  Thank the good Lord for your filter, which keeps you from asking such questions aloud.

9.  Learn that too many ideas = ICE CREAM BREAK!

10.  Find a rug online that you think might work.  Take a risk and order it from the internets, never having seen it in real life.

11.  Pace back and forth a little, while wondering if you made the right decision.

12.  Wait about 8 days before you receive a "Your Item Has Shipped!" e-mail.

13.  Rejoice.

14.  Take a nap to recover from all the rejoicing.

15.  Wake from your nap and wander around your house.  Notice the freshly delivered rug that has been carelessly flung lovingly placed on the floor by the front door.

16.  Do a little jig.

17.  Decide good things always happen during nap time.

18.  Rip open the package and unroll the rug.

19.  Stare at it for awhile.

20.  Drag the rug into the dining room while exclaiming loudly.

21.  Startle your husband.

22.  And the dog.

23.  Put the rug under the nursery rocker.

24.  Stand back and stare.

25.  Tilt head to the right.

26.  Call husband into the room so he can stand back and stare.

27.  Tilt head to the left.  

27.  Decide to walk away for a few minutes and come back to do some more staring.

28.  Come back to do some more staring and find this:

29.  Seriously?

Jumping off the cliff

I mentioned the other day that Jeremy and I are taking a series of 12 childbirth classes.  To learn.  About childbirth.  And how much it's going to hurt be a miracle.  Tonight is class #2, unless you're a burglar in which case we will be home all night cleaning our guns and sharpening the dog's teeth.

Ruthless, trained killers are just a phone call away.  (Name that movie.) 

As is apparently customary in with this particular class under the instruction of our particular teacher, each week refreshments are provided by a different couple in the class.  Snacks at our first class were provided by the teacher, presumably to show us an example of what she means by "refreshments."  Veggies and dip, grapes, almonds, cheese (pasteurized, of course) and crackers.  Juice.  Water.

The refreshment rotation goes in order of due date - the first couple due is up first in the rotation.

And wouldn't you just know it?

I'm the most pregnant in the class.

In more ways than one, being the most pregnant is like standing on the edge of a cliff while all the other couples gather 'round.  Somebody's gotta jump first.

"Go ahead," the others encourage.  "You go first.  We'll be right behind you."

"I'm not so sure," I say cautiously.  "I've never jumped before.  I'd rather watch someone else go first, and learn from their mistakes."

"No, it won't be that bad.  You go ahead.  You were born to jump.  You'll be great."  Nudge, nudge, closer to the cliff.  Reassuring applause.  Vigorous nodding.  Stiff smiles.  "Go ahead!  Jump!"

Unless mother nature has other plans in mind, I will be the first one to give birth.

Which means I'm also the first one to bring snacks to class.  I'm not sure which I'm more nervous about - the snacks, or the pushing.

Do I follow the teacher's lead exactly?  Bring the same menu?  Do I go ahead and let the whole class assume that I eat that way all the time?  Or do I bring cheese doodles and sour gummy worms, shrug my apology, and dig in?  Anything less seems inauthentic.  

I told Jeremy what I'd planned for us to bring and he says I might be slightly over doing it.  But I don't want to under do it.  They'll pile in their cars after class and judge me.  Or maybe, just maybe, they have lives and won't give a second thought to the snacks?

Nah.  Not likely.

I bet this is what it feels like to be assigned to bring a snack to your child's classroom, isn't it?  You don't want to be shown up by the other mom who brings a fresh-from-Pinterest craft/snack.  But really, you just want to keep it real and bring ding dongs with a side of Ritz and peanut butter.

A great piece of flair

So.  Last Monday, Jeremy and I went to our first of 12 childbirth classes.  They are taught by a hippy kind of woman who also happens to live just two streets over (score!) and we were one of 4 couples.  I found the whole thing to be fascinating.  The subject matter, obviously, is important and on more than one occasion made my hiney cringe.  I fought to say focused on learning instead of analyzing the other couples.

After the 2.5 hour class, we were sent home with a wealth of information.  A workbook/study guide.  Homework.  Pamphlets on everything from custom nursery bedding to breast milk donation.  A CD-ROM of all the handouts we'll be receiving.

And this gem.  The star of the show.

I mean, seriously?  Does it get any better than that?  What better way to ward off all the well meaning people who feel compelled to tell horror stories of deliveries gone wrong, late-term miscarriages, bloody return visits to the hospital, or about how their daughter's-roommate's-niece's-grocery bagger received so many stitches that the doctors lost count.  And she even earned a picture on the Wall of Fame in the nurses' lounge.

I'm not sure I have the nerve to actually wear the button, but it's like a glorious secret weapon in the fight against prenatal injustices everywhere.

And so cheery, too, don't you think?

Art appreciation

We're smack in the middle of the annual arts festival hosted by our city.  I knew that because there are street light pole banners emblazoned with "North Charleston Arts Festival."  

I also figured it out late last week when I almost drove off the road on account of this guy:

I mean, yikes, right?

He is the only piece of art I've seen - a big, huge, opposing figure which has been installed (temporarily, I hope) in the park near our house.  The park I drive past at least twice per day.  

Over the weekend, some hooligans pushed the statue over.  Either hooligans did it, or he was knocked to the ground by the screams of an unsuspecting jogger at dusk.  

Tough to tell.  

Sights set on resiliency

Here goes nothing.

About a year ago, Jeremy and I found out that we were pregnant (more specifically, that I was pregnant).  We were thrilled and excited, bright eyed and still glowing from our wedding 4 months earlier.  Imagine our shock and shock and shock when we found out we were expecting twins.  It's a moment I will never forget.

Twins?  Twins!  Twins. 

You may be scratching your head, counting months and wondering...twins?  You might be saying to yourself, 'I must've missed a major post, and those twins must be locked way in a dark room.'  Rest assured you haven't missed any announcement - this is a post I've written in my head countless times but never actually typed out.  Until now.

In the breath after the ultrasound tech announced that there were two babies, she also explained that ours was a high risk situation.  The twins I was carrying were diagnosed as mono-mono (you can read more about that here.)  The gist of it is that our twins didn't have the luxury of a membrane separating them in the womb, so the risk of their umbilical cords becoming entanglement or compressed was high, very dangerous to the babies, and potential lethal.  The babies themselves were healthy, but their environment was not.  Sort of like me in an ice cream parlor at the end of a long week.  It could get really ugly, really fast, with no warning. 

Ever the optimist, I remember brightly asking the tech when the risk would be reduced, or better yet, when it would be totally gone.  In my life experience at that point, bad stuff was never really as bad as it seemed, and scary times never lasted long.  Surely we would endure a couple of weeks of hand-wringing before the doctors declared that all was fine, no need to worry.  Bluntly, matter-of-factly, and somehow gently, the tech smiled at me and said simply, "Delivery." 

Oh.  Well, then. 

Fast forward through about 5 of the most stressful, worry-filled, tearful weeks of my life.  Would the babies be ok?  Would they need to be delivered early, and if so, what developmental delays might we be facing?  What in the world were we going to do with TWO babies?  Would I be ok?  Do we even think about preparing a nursery?  Do we tell people?  This isn't how this was supposed to go.  We were supposed to be like other parents, posing sweetly with our newborn baby snugly wrapped in a blanket after an uneventful and predictable pregnancy and delivery.  This isn't how this was supposed to be.  This isn't how this was supposed to go. 

Our fears were realized in early May when we went in for a routine 13-week ultrasound and left with our hopes dashed and our minds blown.  5 words changed my life and rocked my world:

"I'm not seeing any heartbeats." 

They were gone. 

We learned later that they were twin boys, though genetic testing revealed little else. 

It's been a year and still I am tearful as I write this.  There are days when I still feel totally defeated - that's the best way to describe my jumble of emotions - defeated.  Most days bring relief from totally defeated, but eventually the sense of defeat comes wiggling its way back in.  But there are definitely days when I feel so frustrated at myself, because seriously?  This is the only bad thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm going to just go ahead and pack it in? 

"There goes Elizabeth.  She lived a full, vibrant, joyful, jubilant life for 32 years.  Then things didn't go her way once, and for the rest of her life, she just existed."  I feel that way some days.  Like I'm just existing.  In the grand scheme of things, very few people know that any of this went on, and that's been both a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because I am a private person (aside from the moronic childhood stories I share on my blog), and a curse because sometimes I just want to stand on a table and scream out loud that I am not the same person I was a year ago. 

I hate that I'm not the same person.  I really liked who I was...maybe a little too much.  Somehow, I'd overcome the bad hair of my middle school years, and I was comfortable in my own skin.  I liked myself, and now I don't as much.  I'm still adjusting to the new normal, and I hope someday to like my new self again, maybe even  more than I liked my old self, but right now, I can't say I'm really digging the weight and heaviness that this new me carries around.  I wish I hadn't mastered the art of the fake smile, wish empty laughter had never left my mouth, wish every whiff of grief of any sort didn't send me straight back to that day in May, Jeremy and I peering at the calm, still, silent heartbeat lines at the bottom of the ultrasound screen. 

"I'm not seeing any heartbeats." 

Well, isn't that the damn truth.  The same observation could've been made of me over the past year.  There were times that my heartbeat - my spirit, my passion, my spark - was undetectable.  Times when the best I could do was just sit really still and celebrate when 5 more minutes had passed, because at least that meant that I was 5 minutes further away from May. 

But the current of the river has brought me around to May again.  I've been dunked, tossed, dragged, overcome and underwhelmed, I've stumbled along and sputtered to the surface, gasped for air and been battered by the rocks.  But I find I float calmly on the surface more now, praying that calmer times would come and last, praying that I'll find my bearings and once again emerge joyful, laughing, jubilant, a little more weathered, a little less confident, a little more human than before. 

I'd like to add "resilient" to my resume.  

I'm not sure why I'm writing this.  There are so many people close to me who deserve to hear this first-hand from me.  That's held me back from sharing this story before.  Shouldn't I at least call them and tell them?  Announce it at a family reunion?  Send a letter?  But something about this feeling of defeat makes me want to write about my experience.  To share it.  To come out from the corner where I've been licking my wounds and hiding from life and waiting for this to pass.  I fear pity - I don't want people to feel sorry for me or try to offer words of comfort that do more harm than good (that's the worst).  But I don't want to be defeated, either. 

So maybe breaking this silence is my way of taking a step toward, "There goes Elizabeth.  She lived a full, vibrant, joyful, jubilant life for 32 years.  Then things didn't go her way once, and for a year, she just existed.  That wasn't really working for her, so she got her shit together, dusted herself off, and LIVED again.  She is resilient"

Resiliency: the power or ability to return to the original form, position, etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity.

Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater

The story of my spelling woes has been well documented on this blog.  Ok, it's been once documented.  But once is enough to examine my shortcoming (singular), trace its roots, and decide that it is the fault of someone else.  

Tonight, however, I was reminded of another time my spelling shortcoming reared its ugly head.  

Picture it.  6th grade.  Mr. Alexander's class.  Spelling test. 

Apparently, I was ill prepared to take said spelling test.  In a last ditch effort to pass the test, I used an ink pen to write each of the 20 spelling words in the palm of my left hand. 

Genius, no?

Because Mr. Alexander was a shrewd and wise man, and also because he had two working eye balls, it took him approximately 17 seconds to figure out that I was cheating.  He calmly walked to my desk, picked up my left hand with his right hand (I remember resisting at first before realizing it was futile) and discovered my secret.  He quietly asked me to go out to the hallway.  

When my classmates had finished their tests, he came into the hallway, where I had dissolved into a puddle of snot and tears.  I was doomed, and I knew it.  My parents were going to kill me.  I was dead meat.  

He asked me why I felt the need to cheat.  I snotted and snorted and whimpered something inaudible, and Mr. Alexander suggested that maybe I wasn't prepared for the test because I was overwhelmed with basketball practices.  That excuse had never occurred to me, but I thought it sounded plausible, so I nodded vigorously and took his suggestion.  Yes, that must be it.  Basketball practice had interfered with my ability to study my spelling words.  

Mr. Alexander made a pact with me.  If I wrote each spelling word 100 times each (all 20 of them!), and turned in my work the following day, he would not tell my parents.  

I repeat.  He would not tell my parents. 

Mom?  Dad?  Have you ever heard this story?  

You better bet your sweet bippy that I wrote all 20 of those spelling words, 100 times each, and had them on his desk the next morning.  

The irony of this story lies in the fact that the cheating incident (the first and last time I ever attempted something like that!) happened on the same day that I was named Student of the Month for the entire 6th grade.  You better believe I ran home and told my parents about that accomplishment, and then promptly excused myself from the dinner table to go work on my...homework...assignment.

Extreme Home Makeover: Chair Edition

My husband is a prolific Craigslist shopper.  In fact, he thinks so highly of the website, he lobbied vigorously to name our son Craig.  

That's not true.  The name part.  The love affair part?  Totally true. 

I'm not a confident Craigslister, mainly because of the whole risk-of-murder thing.  But my beloved overlooks that and forges ahead.  He's racked up some good deals over the years.  

When we began to look for a rocker/glider for "Craig's" nursery, we each stuck to our shopping preferences:   I headed straight to a real, live, brightly lit furniture store, and Jeremy turned to Craig and his List.  I left the store with sticker shock (you want HOW MUCH for a chair?  Does it come with jet packs or something?  An ejection button?  Anything?), and Jeremy sent me a link to this chair:

This chair does not come with a jet pack, but it does come with a volume level.  LOUD.  Just look at that upholstery.  Wow.  I mean, that's a statement.

But Jeremy encouraged me to look past the screaming print, and since I always do what he says, we went to the chair owner's house to have a look and a sit.  I may or may not have slipped a weapon in my purse.  (I didn't.)

So anyway, we ended up buying the chair, and then I did something that falls into my list of Top 10 Most Adult Things I've Ever Done.

I selected fabric from a real, live fabric store, and I had the chair reupholstered.

Say what?!?

Here is the "after" picture, for your enjoyment.

Can you even get over how cute it is?  Don't you just love how it "goes" with the little quilt from the nursery bedding set?  Can you even get over the neon milk crates in the background?  Can you even handle the dinner dishes on the kitchen table (taco night!)?

Back to the chair.  From the beginning of the exhaustive fabric search (which lasted a whole 2 stores), I was dead set that I DID NOT WANT A DENIM CHAIR.  No denim.  And guess what?  I ended up choosing a denim chair.  Universe, I shake my fist in your general direction.  But it's a dark and stylish denim, right?  It's not a denim jumper shade of denim, which is what I feared.  

So yay for adult decisions, denim rockers, and chairs that temporarily live in the middle of the dining room.

The End.