Monthly Archives: February 2012

Om Nom Nom: Berry Sorbet

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Lately it’s been hard for me to glean a lot of satisfaction from food because I simply have no room in my tum-tum for it. Bebe takes up prime real estate in my torso and makes it hard to keep a lot down, so my meals are basically limited to a few bites here and there of (hopefully) nutritious morsels throughout the day.

I’ve concocted a super easy recipe for sorbet that I have no problem eating for breakfast, as a snack, and of course as a dessert. It’s good stuff for me AND Bebe, and it’ll stay in my repertory of recipes way after she’s finally born. (Get the hint, Beebs? It’s getting close.)

This recipe will make about four one-cup servings. Here ya’ go:

EASY BERRY SORBET

Ingredients:

1 1/2 lb. frozen berries (I use strawberries, blackberries, mango, and pineapple, but whatever you like is obviously fine. Just make sure the fruit is 100% frozen when you’re ready to prepare this.)

1/2 cup low-fat yogurt

1/4 cup milk

2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice

Fresh mint for garnish (For if you’re feeling fancy-schmancy and/or taking pictures of aforementioned recipe for your blog)

Steps:

1. Process the fruit in a food processor or blender until it is chunky but still very icy, about 20-30 seconds on high.

2. Add the yogurt, milk, and lemon. Process it on high for about 30 seconds. It will be heavily processed and smooth around the vortex of the blade but still quite chunky around the sides of the bowl.

3. If you want the sorbet to be chunky, just fold in the chunks with a rubber spatula and it’s ready to eat. If you want it smoother, scrape down the sides of the container and continue processing it until you’ve gotten it to your desired consistency.

4. Oh, and if you don’t eat it all, remember to FREEZE the leftovers. Yeah, just thought I’d add that. Thoroughness and all.

See? So easy. If you want it a bit sweeter, you could add some natural sweetener like stevia or even just simple syrup.

How I Spent My Shower Vacation: I Promise This is the Final Installment

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OK, so I realize that this whole chronicle of my trip to Memphis has gotten a little longer than we all hoped, but I can assure you that the slideshow is wrapping up and pretty soon I’ll be refreshing your drinks/ offering you a piece of strawberry shortcake/ allowing you to escape.

Sleep did not occur Monday night. Just didn’t. I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions the entire time I was in Memphis, and they were in high gear that night. That, along with my relative curiosity about my job interview on Tuesday morning and my anxiousness about flying back to NC later that afternoon made sleep rather elusive.

I don’t think I’m too different from most of the population of humanity in my morbid distaste for going on job interviews. I’ve had a handful of ones that went extremely well, but the countless others were just awkward and a tremendous waste of my and the interviewer’s time. The factor that set this one apart from all the other job interviews that I’ve ever been on was my level of confidence going in and my lack of focus on the task at hand. In the past, when I went on a job interview, I NEEDED a job. Like, BADLY. Or at least I felt like I did. Our scenario now is that B is gainfully employed and we’re not hurting for me to work. At least, not yet. It would just be nice to move to Memphis. Therefore my confidence was somewhat high because I didn’t feel like I’d have to pawn my string of pearls if I didn’t nail it (true intimation from my past.)

Then there’s the whole “lack of focus” thing. I really wish I could be one of these people who can balance their personal life and their career and separate them when necessary. But it turns out that at 33 weeks pregnant – which I was at the time of the interview – I just couldn’t. Or, more likely, I’m not wiling to or I’m just too tired to. This is my life and I owe it to myself and Bebe to be authentic. When the interviewer asked me why I wanted to move to Memphis for the job, I couldn’t feign excitement over taking a new step in my career; no, I was honest and told him that yeah, that’s a nearly full-term baby strapped to my abdomen and yeah, I’d like my soon-to-arrive friend to be closer to her family in Memphis. In my defense, she was kicking me throughout the entire interview, just BEGGING to be alluded to. Guess she had gotten used to all that attention at the shower.

Similarly, when the interviewer (who would also be my boss AND who I didn’t really seem to have a rapport with) told me about how the job requires devoting extra time on the evenings and weekends to totally innovating his department, I realized that a year or so ago that would have been something I could have sacrificed my time for and felt enriched about. It’s a great program and it’s doing great things. But the time just isn’t right for me to do that now. I want to know my Bebe. I want to know every single thing she does, every single thing about her.

She will only be an infant once, so she will get my evenings and weekends. I did the interviewer and myself a favor and recognized that right away and told him that I didn’t think I could provide the kind of service he would need. I think it came out a little more diplomatically than that, though. I AM indeed a born and raised girl of the South and I can sugarcoat things and drop some bless-your-hearts like a motha.

After the interview, I was a little upset with myself that I had allowed my lack of rest to get the better of me and make me be so frank and open with the interviewer about how I’m clearly not the ideal candidate for the position. I reflected on myself on the drive from the school to the hospital to visit my mom and thought, Who IS this person who didn’t even try to suck up just a little and play the interview game? Who IS this person who, in the past, could wax eloquent at interviews about how awesome I am, but today just “gave up” the instant I walked into the office?

It was me. Just me. I’m about to have a baby, and as much as I would’ve liked to muster some energy and pretend that the passenger strapped to my midsection doesn’t faze me, she is my number one priority and I can’t separate her and my role towards her from my intrinsic identity. That’s not to say I’m giving up and resigning myself to this new motherhood station in my life and allowing it to engulf me entirely. Not at all. But it is to say that at least for right now, I will be staying with my baby full time for her first year.

And I’m over-the-moon about it and I DON’T have to feign excitement over that. Authenticity – especially when coupled with love for my baby – is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced.

So I met up with my amazing mother-in-law Sidney and we went to the hospital to see my mom once more before I took off that afternoon. She was feeling a whole lot better and was later discharged that day (yay!). Sidney and I went to lunch at the Paradise Cafe* and just talked and ate and relished every second of it. Not joking, I have the best MIL in the history of Mother-In-Laws. She is such a blessing in my life not only because she ushered into this world my sweet B but because she is so purely her. She makes me want to invent National Mother-In-Law Day, even though it would probably be me and like 10 other people celebrating it :/

*Guys. SERIOUSLY. SO good. Promise me you’ll check it out if you’re ever in Memphis. ‘K? K.

After lunch, she shuttled me off to the airport where I hit the skies and got back to NC that evening. At the airport, Sidney embraced me and said, “Next time I see you, you’ll have Bebe.”

I know I’m on the record for making some pretty harsh statements about the wielding of quotes, but I’m going to go back on everything I’ve said and end with one that neatly summarizes my life these days:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” — Ferris Bueller

How I Spent My Shower Vacation: Part Three

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Sunday night’s sleep was choppy, to say the least. My brother Trevor and I both went to sleep with the knowledge that our mom’s night was going to be a lot rougher than ours, though, what with her spending the night in the hospital. Monday morning we got ourselves together and headed over to the hospital again. She looked good, considering the *fun* of the day before, but obviously she was tired and HUNGRY, having been put on a clear liquids diet. We are a Sprite family, but you can only take so much after awhile.

The doctor had made his rounds after we had left the night before, and although they’d have to run some tests to confirm an exact diagnosis, he suspected as she did that it was diverticulitis or colitis. MAJOR sigh of relief that it wasn’t something really serious. But still,  a downer because the doctor wasn’t planning on letting her go that day.

At the Pink Palace

Trevor had already planned on taking the day off of work that day and hanging out with me, so we decided to go to the Pink Palace Museum, a place where we had spent countless hours growing up in Memphis. It’s essentially a Mid South history museum housed in a mansion that was built by the founder of Piggly Wiggly grocery stores. He never actually lived in it, though, because he went bankrupt before it was completed.

I love this place because so little has changed there from when I was a kid. There’s still a pair of Civil War-era mannequins, one getting his leg amputated on the battle field by the other. Morbid and awesome. There’s still an incredible handmade model of a circus that comes to life once a day. There’s still a shrunken head. There’s still a true-to-size triceratops named Rollo, but he’s gotten so old that you can no longer insert a quarter and have him stomp and grunt.

Rollo

:(

Most of the Pink Palace still has that great 80s, PBS-ish feel to it, but it’s not rundown or sad in any way. It just makes me feel safe.

I was dragging, so after Mexican food at Cafe Ole, Trev and I headed back home to rest. Well, for ME to rest; Trevor went to the gym. My brother is massively health-conscious and spends more hours working out each week than I probably do in an entire non-pregnant month. He’s in amazing shape and it never ceases to amaze me that someone who I’m related to is capable of being as buff as he is.

I checked in with my mom later that afternoon and even though she was in a state of ennui due to her immobility and Spriet (“Sprite Diet”, get it?! HAR HAR HAR), she was feeling better and optimistic that she’d get to go home the next day (which, in an effort to not keep you hanging on too much longer, she DID.)

Me and Jaye, circa July 1982

For dinner, Trevor and I met our aunt Jaye and cousin Maddie at Macaroni Grill. Let me just tell you how much I freaking LOVE being related to these two ladies. Kinship is a very real thing when it comes to us, so spending any amount of time with them is a treasure. Maddie was born when I was right around the same age that Jaye was when I was born, so I’ve been able to ponder in amazement at how Maddie is growing up. It blows my mind that she’s about to be twelve. I guess this is what happens when kids grow up so I’d better buckle up for the ride that Bebe will take us on.

Me, Maddie, and Trev

The day wiped me out. And I still had a freaking job interview the next day. Whee……

How I Spent My Shower Vacation: Part Two

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So, with the shower over, my mom loaded me back into the car in a semi-comatose state. To be sure, we were both exhausted. Me, because, duh, and her because she had chaperoned a dance the night before at the middle school where she works. Good times. We got home, ordered some pizza, and vegged out. I was in bed asleep by 9:30. Such is the life of a seven and a half month pregnant lady.

And I’m not complaining.

I awoke the next morning around seven-thirty and called Ben and was regaling him with tales of the events of the previous day when my mom knocked on my door and told me she needed to speak with my brother Trevor (who was also there) and me right away. At first I thought she was just going to ask me if I wanted to go to church with her, but the ashen tone to her face and the presence of her BBF Pam quickly told me something was up.

She told me that she had gotten no sleep because she had been bleeding through the night, and now Pam was about to take her to the ER. I was alarmed, to say the absolute least. I was also frustrated because I knew that me going with them to the ER was pretty much out of the question, being ripe with Bebe and all. I’d have a lesser chance of catching our death at a sewage treatment plant.

So all morning my brother and I waited on a verdict to what the heck was happening. My mom had had a bout with diverticulitis about fifteen years ago and thought that this was probably just that rearing its ugly head. Pam called and relayed my mom’s message that she’d be back that night and we’d all have dinner with my Aunt Jaye and my cousin Maddie just as we had planned. But then, around noon, Pam called again and said that my mom was going to be admitted to the hospital for the night.

What the heck? 

There is very little more frustrating and upsetting than not knowing why something’s awry with a family member or close friend and knowing that there’s nothing you can do to help it. So I just did what I could do: I polished silver with Trevor. It’s so weird what we turn to when we just want to preoccupy ourselves. On the night of my dad’s funeral, my friends and cousins and I went to see Jurassic Park III at the theater. What else can you do? Well, possibly see a better movie, but that’s beside the point.

Cameron was (thank God) still in town, so she came over and kept me company. I really don’t know what I’d do without that girl. Pretty much the instant she walked in the door, I burst into cathartic tears and she and Trevor both held me between them. It was safe and good. They are safe and good. We went and had lunch and basically just waited to see what was going to happen next.

Finally I heard from my mom, who was unsurprisingly upbeat. When stuff like this happens, she always seems to take on a laid-back attitude. This is probably because she’s experienced very real major catastrophes in her life, so she’s able to take the minor ones with a proverbial grain of salt and deal with them with a precisely-measured amount of levity. It may also have been that she was so tired, but she didn’t seem too concerned about the whole situation other than the fact that I was there and she had planned on, duh, seeing me and not being in the hospital. She told me to just enjoy my time in Memphis and spend some quality time with my brother, which I did.

Trevor and I headed up to the hospital around five to bring her some things and check on her. She was tired, but she was comfortable and upbeat so we couldn’t help but be so too. She was fairly certain that it was all a GI issue and that she had diverticulitis or colitis, so that was a huge relief for me to know that NO she was not going to be a new test case on House. The instant people start speaking medicalese, I get so stressed out because I infrequently know what the heck they’re talking about, so the fact that she and Pam – a cancer survivor – were so laid-back about the whole situation also put Trevor and me at ease.

We left and went to Chili’s. I mean, that’s what you do, right? Polish silver and go to Chili’s.

So that was our day. I conked out again around 9:30 and just waited to see what the next day would bring.

How I Spent My Shower Vacation: Part One

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Last Friday I left Fayetteville for my baby shower weekend in Memphis. So as not to attract too much attention to my very pregnant belly, I clad myself in billowy scarves and jackets and – hurrah! – no one commented on my state at the airport. Honestly, I don’t think I fooled anyone, and you’ll see why later in the post when you see pictures of my bump at the shower*. But both of my flights were so short (only about 45 minutes apiece) that it probably wasn’t worth it to the airlines to get too nervous about me pumping out a baby on their tiny regional aircrafts. So crisis – err, minor annoyance – averted.

*Dear Lord, she just used the word “bump” to describe her physique. What is the world coming to? I apologize and swear that I won’t be abdicating my blog for a stint at Us Weekly anytime soon.

Jerry likes to sit on tables to remind us occasionally that he is a dog, contrary to popular belief.

The next day brought the shower. I actually got a decent amount of sleep the night before because when I got to my mom’s house on Friday night, we watched TV in her bed and I completely conked out there. Her little dog Jerry (we use the term “dog” very loosely because Jerry is indeed a little man) wedged himself between us and his breathing served as a nice substitute for the calming tones of Sleep Sheep. You’ll recall that leaving Sleep Sheep with Ben during my trip was a major point of concern, but as usual Jerry came to the rescue.

So I awoke as refreshed as I could be for the day. I was a little sad when my Aunt Janice called to say that she couldn’t make it because she woke up with a really bad cold that morning and didn’t want to contaminate me, but one thing I’ve learned from life in general is not to work myself up too much over disappointments, no matter how large or small they may be. Very few things are ever really as bad as they seem at the time. I love my aunt and I’ll see her again.

My mom and I loaded into the car and headed over to the lovely home of Mary Beth, my besfrinn Cameron’s mom who generously opened her gorgeous home for our soiree. This place makes me so happy I can’t even stand it. Not only is it an amazing space because of the time and creative energy Mary Beth and Cameron’s dad David have put into it, but it is always filled with love and warmth. I equate it with genuine love and relaxed hospitality, also the hallmarks of their family. Mary Beth’s sister Ellen also made the trip from North Carolina to join the shower, so her presence there made it extra special.

Ellen and Mary Beth, our hostesses for the day

The food was fan-tas-tic. This really was no surprise to me, though, because Cameron is herself quite a gourmet and she gets it from her family, who were incidentally the people who converted me to Indian food years ago. My multi-talented friend Melissa made some wonderful punch that I wouldn’t mind having on an IV drip if it ever comes to that. The pentacle of deliciousness at the party was the grasshopper cake: chocolate with minty icing. Yeah, SO GOOD.

Om Nom Nom

I love my friends for about a gazillion reasons, and they found yet another way to endear themselves to me at the shower by choosing games that were neither gross (ie, putting smashed up chocolate bars in diapers) nor embarrassing to me (making guests guess the diameter of my midsection). My old friends from college Melissa and Emily choose fun games that I LOVED, especially the one where guests were instructed to put a paper plate on their heads and draw a portrait of Bebe.

Plate Heads

The one that ended up winning was the portrait on the right, featuring what appears to be Bebe in the middle of a heave. Pretty accurate, no?

Gamemaster Emily shows off the finalists.

Needless to say, Bebe is now fully-equipped to enter the world due to the generosity of my family and friends. She now officially has more clothes than B and if things continue at the rate that they seem to be going, soon she’ll have more than me, too. Lucky gal! Seriously, she got a pair of Toms. TOMS. I want Toms, too!

For my cool, hipster philanthropist baby

A little embarrassed for not knowing what the heck this thing is

I am clearly not an active parent, though, given the fact that I didn’t even know what several of the items that were gifted to us even were. I opened the Bumbo seat which I have since been instructed helps the baby learn to sit up properly, and announced, “Yay! A toilet seat for the baby!” Everyone quickly and worriedly corrected my gaff as if I were ready to set the baby up and let her poop in it right then and there. I have a lot to learn.

Luckily, there were a *couple* of recognizable items. Namely, the beautifully smocked dresses and collars my mom made for me nearly thirty years ago and has saved for our Bebe. She brought a beautiful pink dress and some collars to the shower, but it’s just a sampling of the myriad of truly stunning clothing she made for my brother and me back when we were small and will soon be passing to Bebe. Seriously, folks, I can’t begin to describe what a treasure these items are.

So, yeah, it was an awesome shower. I think that’s pretty obvious. My friends and family made it exactly as I would have hoped it would be. They understood when I started zoning out near the end, in need of a substantial nap. Now THAT is love!

Aunt Patrice, my MIL Sidney, me, and my Mom

Gotta be honest, though, and say that the icing on the cake for the day was having besfrinn Cameron at the shower. If you follow my blog with any regularity, you know that she’s the sister I never had and I love her like mad. If Miss Bebe is anything like her Aunt Cameron, I can assure you that all will be right with the world.

*****

Stay tuned for Part Two. Let’s just say that the weekend certainly took an unexpected turn the next day. And no, I DID NOT go into labor. Geez, guys, trust me, you’d know if that happened!

Notes on the 32nd Week

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There are lots of similarities between the first and third trimester. Barfing and nausea become your calling card. Your body aches in places it never ached before. I mean, my shoulders hurt. My shoulders! I’m waiting for my toenails to also jump ship. They’d find a way to punish me.

Also, you’re exhausted through and through. The only time I remember feeling this tired in the past was when I was pulling all-nighters in grad school trying to translate Sir Gawain and the Green Night from ye olde English and then attempting to come up with something intelligent to say about it in class. If you think coming up with content for something as straightforward as a pregnancy blog is at times tenuous, just think about trying to impress professors whose CVs are as long as your undergrad thesis. Who knew that medieval scholars can wear you out at the same frequency as a wee little baby in utero?

But for me, the biggest similarity between the first and third trimester is the everyday realization that WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A BABY! I seemed to have kind of gotten over our impending Bebe in the easy-peasy second trimester, but now I am reminded every single day that she is going to be here so soon and once she arrives I’ll know her forever. It’s crazy! It’s awesome! It’s crawesome! Even though pregnancy itself is a little old-hat by now, the idea that this little person who I’ve thought so much about over the last months is really materializing and will be in my life and in my arms soon is overwhelming and exciting.

So, a few notes:

I ordered more maternity clothes. Why? Because I grew out of the first round. When my mom and I went shopping for maternity clothes back in October, she kept saying that my body was going to expand in ways I thought absolutely impossible. As much as I hate to admit it because I still suffer from residual teenage angst, she was right. I am getting big. Bebe is getting big!

But I still reserve the right to be the ONLY person – aside from my doctor who can advise me objectively about my weight gain – who is allowed to comment on my size.

To the La Brea bread slicer lady at the grocery store: Keep your thoughts to yourself. And give me that loaf of ciabatta while doing so.

To the H&R Block tax consultant: I don’t care to discuss my girth with you. It’s weird enough that I’m discussing with you, a complete stranger, exactly how much money we made last year. If you found out any more sensitive information about me, I’d either have to kill or marry you, and I’d really prefer to do neither.

To the Subway “Sandwich Artist”: I am fully aware that I look about ready to pop, but I promise I won’t hold you responsible when that Veggie Delite you’re about to hand over does it.

Pregnant women are not public property and are not up for discussion. If we volunteer information about how we look, it is always always best to be supportive and positive in your comments. Even if a pregnant woman is indeed gaining a lot, there’s not a lot she can do about it because she can’t just try to reduce by putting herself on a low-carb diet and having an hour-long cardio workout everyday. No one – whether they’re perfect strangers, family, or anyone in between – has the right to make flip, inconsiderate comments about a pregnant woman’s size and what they perceive to be her progress. Her body is doing some really amazing things right now and should be respected.

I’m going to have a baby shower! On Friday I’m going to Memphis for my shower on Saturday. My besfrinn Cameron’s awesome mom Mary Beth is throwing the shindig for Miss Bebe, and some of my closest friends and family who I don’t get to see too often are going to be there. I’m a little cagey about traveling by myself, but since I’ll only be there until Tuesday and I’ve gotten the go-ahead to travel from my doctor, I realize that I’m just busying myself with one more thing to worry about. Bebe’s still got some cooking to do and won’t be making an appearance for a few more weeks.

The extra room is actually looking like a nursery. I am by no stretch of the imagination good with “transforming spaces” or whatever Nate Berkus would say. The only reason I liked the way we had things at our apartment in Chicago was because the apartment itself was old and had character and was easy to decorate because it was so antiquated. By contrast, our current apartment has the personality of oatmeal. And that’s not even being fair to oatmeal because all you have to do is stir any number of delicious embellishments into it and it becomes awesome. No amount of cinnamon, butter, strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate chips, coconut, or banana could redeem the place where we’re currently residing.

However, the nursery is now officially coming together. Over the weekend, B and I got to work on putting the crib and changing table together. Yesterday I hung some posters that we got when we were in Korea and put Bebe’s little swing rocker together. It was so easy! It is so cozy and a cuteness extravaganza!

The Four Loves

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So, for Valentines Day, I had planned on telling you how to make a Red Waldorf cake. This one, in fact:

T-shirt clad radishes do not have discerning taste.

I made it yesterday afternoon and B and I tried it after dinner. He didn’t say so because he’s just that nice, but I have to admit that it just wasn’t good. It was sorrily dry and the red sprinkles read sad when they bled into the icing. This is what happens when my go-to cookbook doesn’t have a recipe for a red cake and I have to resort to D-list recipes from a clearly inferior book of recipes. So, for a truly good V-Day treat, I will again refer you to my besfrinn Cameron’s blog Krug the Thinker where she posted yesterday with a delectable- looking recipe for fudgy walnut brownies.

So, as is my custom these days, I woke up around four AM and selected from a variety of things to stress about. Last night the chosen topic was what the heck am I going to blog about for V-Day since the cake didn’t turn out well? And since lately I have had little to no qualms about regaling you, my darling readers, with awkward tales from my adolescence, I decided to go that route. I think there’s something about being a living, breathing, pregnant land barge that makes me not care too much about embarrassing myself. I’ve got to get in the tried-and-true habit of mortifying my little baby upon her arrival.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent in this abbreviated history of me and little Cupid.

Apply Depp to young hair. Be idolized by eight-year-old classmates.

As a little girl, I was a crusher. There was always some boy in my class who I attached my anonymous affection to on the first day of class. It was as natural as bringing in two boxes of Kleenexes on the first day. But the first substantial crush was with Surfer Boy in third grade. For an eight-year-old, this kid had an incredible mass quantity of blonde hair which he styled to perfection, I’m sure, with incredible mass quantities of Depp. In addition to awesome hair, he was nice and popular but not stuck up at all.

Obviously, if he were to have ever found out about my secret love for him, I would have been literally struck dead with mortification, per the rules of little girl crushes. It was in my absolute best interest to keep my devotion under wraps, so as not to die and all. But I could tell my Mimi about him. How dangerous could it be to tell one’s grandmother about one’s love? Come to find out that Mimi was actually FRIENDS with Surfer Boy’s grandmother. Ah, the web of grandmothers in Memphis is one of clout. I hoped that Mimi could put in a good word for me with SB’s camp and possibly draw up the documents to arrange our marriage, but apparently her jurisdiction did not extend that far. My secret love for SB went on and on and on until seventh grade. If he ever found out, he never said anything. I like to think that he was aware that breaking the silence would have killed me, so in effect he was just trying to save my life. How dreamy.

So fast forward a few years to First Real Boyfriend when I was sixteen. Bats&*t, crazy, frenetic, all-devouring first love. First Boyfriend was in a band. Like, really. And he went to public school. And he kissed me for the first time in the back of a van. And my dad hated him. And my friends were very divided on whether this new character in my life was a good thing or a bad thing. I think the jury’s still out on that one.

Yeah, so it was LOVE.

ALL-CAPS LOVE. How could it not have been? He freaking brought me roses when I had a tetanus shot, for crying out loud. I was enraptured and dumbfounded at my luck for having a boyfriend with a guitar. The relationship was commemorated with a great deal of poetry that couldn’t take any other form than that of pure teenage free verse.

Can you imagine how it ended? With me in a puddle at the end of my ten months of bliss with the news that he had dumped me for another girl named Emily from his vile public school. Yeah, so guitars and wide-legged pants can’t be trusted. There’s a free lesson to you, Miss Bebe.

College. The first years of college for me were basically an eclectic mix of faceless beer-scented guys who were occasionally punctuated with boys who may have actually liked me regardless of my dubious affiliation with a sorority. My girlfriends told me that if I ever wanted to get a real boyfriend, I had best stop talking about Beowulf and obscure electronica at parties. Pretty good advice, actually. But dorks die hard and since I didn’t run with an similarly elite dorky crowd (or even like beer at the time) I didn’t really have any luck in the relationship department.

I eventually met a guy one summer who worked at the same art supply store as me, and we actually got along quite well. But then things got real two months into our relationship when my dad passed away unexpectedly. This poor guy had actually been on a cruise during the whole ordeal of the death, wake, and funeral so when he returned, it was all news to him. Yeah, kind of a buzzkill for me AND him. Suffice it to say that a relationship built on Spiderman and Gorillaz is not one that carries over well into bereavement.

But then. But then. But then.

Sweet B circa 2003

Who did I meet but a young man named B. And it was all over. That sweet smile I saw from across the classroom when we met in Contemporary Lit is now the smile I start and end all my days with. I love him so, so much as every year passes by, and I’ve learned so much about myself all because of him. He loves me despite all the failed cakes I’ve made, he out-dorks me in his musical and literary tastes, and he helped me make a Bebe.

He is my own private Mary Poppins – practically perfect in every way.

Why Horses Scare Me

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On our first date, B decided the best way to romance me would be to take me out for Mexican food and rent The Ring, which I had never seen. He was correct in thinking that Mexican food was a sure way to my heart. He ordered the special, some peanut paste/ chocolate chicken concoction that he hoped would assure me of his adventurous, grown-up palate. Nice job taking one for the team, Bubs. I had enchiladas and didn’t have to have a follow-up meal later in the evening.

Our screening of The Ring was not such a hit. He based his choice to rent the movie on a Ring movie poster that was inexplicably hanging in the college Writing Center where I did my work-study. I’m not even going to attempt to figure out the scenario in which someone thought a poster for a horror movie would be good decoration for a room in the basement of a college library where students go to get their dangling participles fixed. Anyway, I had mentioned that I had never seen it, so he took that as meaning that I wanted to see it. It’s incidents and misunderstandings such as these that I am so glad the dating war of attrition finally came to an end for me.

So on our first romantic encounter, B and I watched The Ring. Yeah. Clearly I eventually got over his gaff, as I’m sitting here eight years later with his baby happily pummeling my uterus, but I still dwell on it. It was that horrible horse scene that stays with me. Little did B know that horses are to me what clowns, black-eyed dolls, and drowning are to the general population. They scare the bejesus out of me and I would prefer sticking my hand in a terrarium full of spiders than interact with them. So that image of the horse in The Ring jumping off the boat and drowning is beyond horrifying to me.

My base fear of the horse archetype is irrational on its own. But the groundwork was laid early on. First of all, the first movie my mom ever took me to in the theater was “My Little Pony: The Movie.” A quick IMDB search yielded the information that this cinematic classic was released in 1986 and featured the vocal talents of Danny DeVito, Cloris Leachman, Rhea Perlman, and Tony Randall. It chronicled how Ponyland or wherever the Ponies lived was taken over by a witch-brewed tidal wave of Purple Smooze (NO, Google image search, I did not mean Purple Schmooze). If the Smooze touched you, you became grouchy all the time. Basically the g-rated version of Ghostbusters II. It horrified me so much that I ranted and wailed and had to be removed from the theater. So much to look forward to when I become a parent myself.

THIS is what you get when you search for "Purple Smooze." The horror of ponies and little girls everywhere.

And THIS is what you get when you search for "Purple Schmooze." Not so scary unless you have fears of blue cartoon men cupping your boobs.

There was a lull in my horse life for a few years after that. My best friend Kendra had horses at her house, but luckily she also had a Super Nintendo and a video camera that I insisted we utilize in our play in place of the horses. Being a good friend, I think she comprehended my fear of her horses and never insisted on doting on them when I was around.

But with adolescence comes the trying of all fears. At thirteen, I was obliged to participate in all Youth Group activities at my church. Any reluctance I had towards attending the Tuesday night meetings were dashed away with my parents’ promise that if the group of young Presbyterians took weekend trips, I could surely go. And who wouldn’t want that? There was one young studmuffin in the group who was on the swim team, and any opportunity to play Uno into the night with him (and twenty other kids) would be heartily embraced.

So off I went one fine early-December afternoon with the youth group to Chickasaw State Park to pray and – gasp! – ride horses in the woods for the weekend.

I didn’t see it ending well, but I had to do what I had to do.

Saturday morning, our group saddled up and we were lead into a trail in the woods. You know how there are a few things that everyone seems to know about riding horses? Like if you show them you’re nervous they’ll be nervous too? And that you should make clicky sounds to make them go? And you shouldn’t curse at them? So, I didn’t know those things, as my childhood exposure to horses had been mostly focused on avoiding them.

We entered the woods and Horse quickly started lagging behind the rest of the group. Of course it did. OF COURSE. In the two years that had elapsed since the beer-in-lunchbag incident, I had developed an acute awareness of my nerdiliciousness and figured that if I called to the rest of the group for assistance with my horse, I would forevermore be known as the Girl Who Can’t Ride Horses. It’s these kinds of reputations that stay with you, after all.

So Horse and I lagged. And lagged. And lagged. Until the rest of the group was out of sight.  I started yelling at Horse.

“Why don’t you just go?! I realize you may have nowhere to be, but I’ve gotta make the most of my time with the senior high kids!”

Horse didn’t have much of a response to this, having no conception of the value I placed on chatting with sixteen-year-olds about Coolio. I hopped off of him and decided to lead him along. He would have none of it, and right then annoyance turned to fear. That same fear I had experienced in the movie theater not so long ago.

I am seriously going to be left here with this dumb horse forever. My Christmas is ruined because Horse doesn’t like me. My parents are going to have to haul their butts out to Chickasaw to spearhead a search committee for me, all because of this stubborn animal. 

What felt like hours elapsed. It was probably like fifteen minutes, but similarly to Baby-Time, Being-Stuck-With-an-Immobile-Horse-in-the-Woods-Time is also equally distorted. I teared up with irrational tears and started planning my new life as a neo-Mowgli in the woods with the animal that clearly hated me as much as I hated it.

I dried my tears quickly when an eleventh-grade guy from my group came up behind me with his horse also in tow.

“I think my horse is lame,” he said.

Lame, I thought, is what all horses are.

But then I realized that the few years he had on me had enabled him to use the word correctly, as in his horse had broken its leg. Since eleventh grade boys were pretty much the gold standard of competence in my eyes, I was massively relieved that he had joined my sorry situation. Perhaps we could together eke out a paltry but sufficient existence in the woods forevermore.

Just when I had come close to completing the plan for my new life in the woods with the eleventh grade boy, we turned a corner to the corral. The amount of trees in the woods belied the fact that we had probably only traveled about a mile in a circle. This was good news for me because I dreaded having to fashion clothing out of leaves and bark.

Our group had made it back about twenty minutes before, but they hadn’t stayed behind to wait for us. No. They hadn’t even noticed our absence.

No, they had stayed behind because upon reentering the corral area, one horse had become spooked and its rider had fallen off. This ignited a chain reaction of all the other horses becoming spooked and their riders falling off too. Hospital runs were made (albeit only because kids were involved and they had to take precautions.)

I guess I kind of got off easy on that one.

But I still don’t like horses.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

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Thirty-two weeks. Eight weeks (give or take) to go. It seems like only last week we went to Walgreens to purchase the EPT That Changed Everything so I’m really beginning to comprehend how relative time is to this whole baby-making undertaking. Bebe’s going to be here very soon, and after that, everything will change. As if everything hasn’t changed already. In baby time, she may as well come this afternoon. We’d be ready. Kind of.

Maybe "the nursery is coming together" is a bit too generous a statement.

The third trimester has been full of all those hallmarks that come to mind when you think of  the Institution of Pregnancy. I’ve got the look: I’m a whale, having gained thirty pounds since the beginning.* The nursery is coming together. Enrollment in a childbirth class is in the works, and I’m beginning to iron out the details of my birth plan. B is giddy and talks to my belly several times a day.

*The doc said I’m right on track with my weight gain. I don’t believe this is possible, but what-evs.

So I’d say that Bebe and I are doing a pretty good job of fulfilling all the mandatory requirements of being a Mother With Child. We’re slogging through and playing the parts I suppose we should be playing. Face it, that’s what you do when you’re pregnant for the first time: you take cues from others and the media about what you should be doing because you have no clue yourself. At least I don’t. But I’m used to being pregnant now and here’s the thing that I love the most:

I’m mellowing out. 

I think back a few months ago and I shake my head at how I could get myself in a tizzy over the minutiae of what I assumed parenthood would entail. Luckily for me, I have a blog where all my naivete has been chronicled. Today I was reading topiclessbar’s post Odd Thoughts on Having a Kid and I was reminded of a post I wrote way back called Baby Mix where I freaked out over Kiddie Culture and my soon-to-be induction into the world of The Wiggles. With all due respect to my October self, I now have to tell her to calm the frick down. No one is going to force this stuff on you and your Bebe. Pregnant Me pantomimes parenthood and assumes that what I see other people doing is what I’ll be doing too once Bebe arrives, but there’s not a lot of truth to that.

No one ever said I HAVE TO listen to The Wiggles. And here’s the thing: no one ever said that I’m not “cool” anymore if I do. Our family will work itself out and we’ll develop our own little culture. A good mixtape always includes a bunch of weirdness that somehow meshes with itself, so B and I can play our stuff right alongside The Wiggles if we so choose. Our family is changing and so is its soundtrack.

Granted, Little Alex shouldn't watch The Wiggles. But I've gotten over it.

In the meantime, though, I am still going to think about all the music I want to fill our home with. It’s a lot more fun to do this than it is to interview pediatricians, yet another amusing duty of the third trimester.

Arcade Fire – Tunnels

Just because. I may be in the minority on this one, but I think very little explanation is needed on why children – nay, EVERYONE – should be exposed to Arcade Fire.

The Go-Gos – Our Lips Are Sealed

This song has always made me think of Bebe. I mean, way, waaaaay before I became pregnant with her or even met B, I would hear this song and think of the girl who I might have someday.

The Smiths – Panic

A playlist should have something for everyone. This one is for B whose fascination with Morrissey knows no bounds and would possibly concern me if I weren’t completely convinced of B’s well-established manliness.

The Rolling Stones – Jumping Jack Flash

We have made a decision, B and I have. It’s weighty and contentious and not for everyone. Given the choice between the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, we’d have to take the Stones. Don’t be a hater.

….And a lullaby….

The Smashing Pumpkins – Luna

The Smashing Pumpkins get me emotional like no other band does, and this song is just so sweet I can’t handle it! The theme variations from Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness are also extremely soothing and lovely and will be a mainstay in the nursery; we’ll wait a few years to expose her to the shredding. One day I will tell the lengthy tale of my affair with The Smashing Pumpkins.

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What would you include on your family’s playlist?