An update a long time coming...

Wow - is it true that it has been 6 months since I've last posted? Really? How does one summarize 6 months of one's life, especially when this is what has been joyously monopolizing every second of every day for 5 1/2 of those 6 months:



Yes, the 3rd P has turned my life upside down, inside out and, at the same time, on the straightest path to "this is exactly what I have always wanted in life" I have ever known.

Kate Hannah was born on July 4, 2008 and my life will never, ever be the same. In the most ridiculously sappy of ways. I love this kid with every fiber of my being and, when I say love, it is like no love I have ever experienced before in my life. I love chocolate, I love coffee, even sleeping, eating, and laughing. I know I've also said that I love my dog, too, but all of those loves don't even enter into the same stratosphere as the love I first felt at 3:58am on July 4. And I felt that love after looking down and only seeing her mayonnaise-paste covered head. Just imagine how my heart grew when I actually got to look her in the eyes!

Life is good. I am in serious, serious need of a good night's sleep (I did say I loved sleep, remember), and could certainly benefit from a brow wax, good facial and haircut, but all I have to do is look at that little face (even a photo suffices) and I couldn't care less about anything else.

Tough as nails, dumb as a stump

The dog. The dog. The dog. Oh lordy, the dog.

Yesterday morning Max comes hobbling in (on three legs) from outside with the most pathetic and sad look I've ever seen. Crap, I think. He's broken his foot or something. I have to take him to the emergency vet (because it's a Sunday). I wait 10 minutes hoping he'll buck up. And he does. The whole days goes by and I see nary a limp from him. Phew. No trip to the vet.

Phew, not only because I don't want to fork over $500+ for a check-up only to learn he's stubbed his toe, but I'm home alone again, whilst the husband is off gallivanting around again. (Notice, if you will, a pattern. The husband leaves town, the dog gets sick and/or injured. This is a true fact.)

Hobbling and sadness reappear later last night. Does he have a sliver or something lodged in his toe? Can't possibly be a true injury because he's been fine. All.Day.Long. Hobbling stops.

This morning and no hobbling. Phew. Just an anomaly, I tell myself. Until late morning and the three-legged hobble rears its ugly head. What is going on? Call to the vet, and an appointment set for 3pm.

Vet checks him out and recommends X-Ray (the same vet who did the X-Ray four weeks ago - almost to the day - when the dog ate 17 rocks). Sure thing. I'll pick him up in an hour or so.

"He is quite stoic," she says. "He is in quite a bit of pain, but you'd never know it. He either has a broken or dislocated toe. I've sent the films off to the radiologist who will examine the films more closely and then we can decide the course of treatment. In the meantime, I'll wrap his foot and you can bring him home as long as you keep him calm and off the foot."

Are you kidding me? My dog. This dog . The dog. The one that never sits still ? "Um, okay," I say. "I can try, but can you recommend some trick to keep him calm and off of his foot? This dog pretends to be Superman on a fairly regular basis, and his favorite pastime is seeing just how much air he can catch when he leaps off the retaining wall..."

Pick dog up at vet. Poor, pathetic dog. Foot is wrapped in a boot-like bandage and he has one of those cones wrapped around his neck. But he must have no depth perception because he comes banging down the hallway, bumping into everything imaginable. Misses getting his head through the doorway. BANG! Hits his cone-head on the wall. BANG! Runs into my leg. BANG!

All I can do is laugh. Hysterically. I am snorting and crying from the laughter. And wish I had a camera on me to immortalize this moment, because I know it won't last long. He is, after all, the craziest dog alive. He will figure out how to get this bandage off before tomorrow.

I struggle to get him in the car because this lack of depth perception is causing several issues. BANG! BANG! BANG! This is quite a sight when you consider the dog with his bandaged foot and a cone head, coupled with me in my about-ready-to-give-birth state, trying to foist the pathetic dog into my hoopty rental mobile.

But I was right about the bandage. Even with that damn cone-head, he's managed to chew the complex wrapping made of tape, gauze, cotton batting, more tape and more gauze, off the foot before I have even pulled out of the parking lot. Some good that stupid cone-head contraption did me. By the time I'm home 5 minutes later, the bandage is half eaten and he's now figuring out a way to get the cone off of his head.

Into the house we go. I finish getting the collar off of Max, even though he did a pretty good job of it himself. And off the dog runs. Hobble, limp, run. Hobble, limp, run. Hobble, limp, run. Jumping up on the chair, off the chair, back on the chair. Barking, hobbling, limping and running all over the place.

Yep, I'm doing a great job keeping him calm and off the foot.

Car Accident + Insurance Companies = Suck

Original car repair estimate: $6500
New car repair estimate: $8500
Amount insurance company is willing to pay: Approximately: $6700 (after my deductible)

Auto body shop is suggesting a small claims lawsuit because what the insurance company is refusing to pay for is illegal.

Insurance company called to advise that my rental car coverage will max out before my car is ready. (And did I mention that the rental is a complete hunk o' junk? A jalopy from the 80s? It's not like I'm driving around in some swanky automobile)

And I was rear ended while stopped at a stop sign.

Oh, and the baby is now due in 4 weeks. Good thing having a baby is not an expensive undertaking or anything...

This is awesome.

Navigated the Gauntlet

A few years ago, I developed the sudden urge to sew. Never sewed before, and I'm not really all that creatively inclined. But, nonetheless, I decided to sew. I borrowed my mom's sewing machine and went to town practicing my sewing skills. And suddenly the house was filled with piles of fabric sewn together that looked like pockets. I decided that I would start a company "Extra Pocket, Inc." and thought www.extrapocket.com would be a great URL, and I'd use the tag line "because everyone needs an extra pocket." I figured if someone could make millions on the concept of the pet rock, surely my extra pocket business plan would be a success. I still think it's a brilliant idea.

But, like all of my whims, my sewing days were short lived.

Flash forward to about a year ago and I decided it was time to revisit the sewing idea. So I bought a machine of my own. I really like sewing. I may not excel at it, but I thoroughly enjoy it. And I started cranking out random sewn items in pretty short order.

My husband, seeing how quickly I was completing project after project, "threw down the gauntlet" on me and challenged me to make a quilt. And I accepted. Of course it took me a while to find a) the right quilt pattern and b) the fabrics to make said quilt. I found both at a small quilting shop in a town called Hailey, ID when we were on vacation last fall. It is an Amy Butler pattern and Amy Butler fabrics. I really enjoy Amy Butler designs and fabric, so was thrilled.

I started working on it almost immediately and got pretty far along. But, like all my whims, it was cast aside for other things. I actually made it through most of the winter making zero progress on the quilt. A stupid thing, if you think about it, because winter is the perfect time to sew and winter is the perfect time to need a quilt. But alas, I did not finish the quilt, so there it sat in the closet, beckoning me every time I opened the closet door.

With the baby's arrival seriously approaching, my husband kept saying "Are you going to finish that quilt? When are you going to finish that quilt?" So this past weekend, I decided it was high time to complete my challenge and successfully complete the challenge. And guess what? I did. And I'm really pleased with the result and proud of myself for navigating the gauntlet.

My Poor Car... (aka The KaWANGo Update)

So I finally dropped my car off at the body shop today so that I don't have to be embarrassed by the hoopty my car became after last week's accident. My once beautiful car now looks like a junk yard dog. Here is what I learned:

- The back end is so badly damaged, the trunk won't even open
- Because the trunk won't open, they can't tell the full extent of the damage
- It appears that the frame is bent, but they can't tell how badly because the back end is so twisted and they have to take the car apart to figure it out
- The current estimate based on what they DO know is $6,500
- This estimate is likely to increase (how significantly is to be determined) once they can get the - now hoopty, once beautiful - car dismantled.

Thank goodness for insurance, and deductibles of $500. With le bebe's impending arrival, this is really the last thing I need.

Frustrated, Stressed, and Annoyed

That pretty much sums up how I'm feeling these days.

The end.

A brilliant mother

My sister just sent me the transcript of a recent conversation in her household:

Sister: "I'm making the summer chore chart right now."
Niece: "Yay!"
Nephew: "Can we clean the bathrooms now?"

This is a true story. My sister is brilliant.

KaWHANGo!

That was the sound I heard on Friday at 4:15 pm when I was waiting patiently for my turn at a 4-way stop on my way to a relaxing pedicure appointment (I took a 1/2 day from work... don't worry, I don't usually skip out of work early). But, even though I was a mere block away from parking my car safely, I was rear-ended (quite hard, I must say) by a huge SUV whose driver either:

1. didn't realize it was a 4-way stop intersection and I hadn't budged from my totally stopped position,
2. saw a mirage and started to go even though I hadn't budged from my totally stopped position, or
3. was talking on a cell phone and didn't see that I hadn't budged from my totally stopped position.

Whatever the scenario was in the car behind me, my poor little car bore the brunt of the collision. The backside of my compact car became even more compact and the SUV had nary a scratch. Harumph. An even bigger harumph considering the woman who hit me was driving a rental car because her car was being repaired after she was in another car accident two week's prior. Hmmm... maybe someone needs a refresher course in the basics of driving a car?

Now, when an 8-month pregnant person, whose car has just been smashed and launched into an intersection, gets out of the car to inspect damage and exchange information, you can only imagine the horror, shock and disbelief on the person's face who just rammed into said pregnant lady.

• An afternoon off of work to get her car washed and a pedicure: $50
• Cost of repair on European car after getting rear-ended: $10,000
• Look on face of person who rear-ended a pregnant lady: Priceless

No joke on the car washing... I had just driven off the car wash lot on my way to my pedicure appointment when I got KaWANGo'ed. Now all that exists is a sad and pathetic back side of my super clean car.

Now, when you're 8-months pregnant and are in a car accident, guess what happens after you file a claim with your insurance company? That's right. You get to make a run to Labor & Delivery to ensure that your wee one is still safe and sound after practically getting thrust out of its safe hiding place about 5 to 6 weeks too soon.

So off we went on our trial run to L&D on a Friday night. Luckily, the trip in to the city was effortless and the kind hospital people were gracious and accommodating. And, luckily, my own doctor just so happened to be the on-call doctor that night, so I was able to see her instead of some strange doctor. All is well and good, though, and baby checked out just fine. Baby was somewhat relaxed, apparently, as its heart-rate was in the 120s, which would spike to the high 130s every time it kicked and/or moved. Luckily it was moving quite regularly as I saw the spikes happen at pretty decent intervals. I didn't have to be admitted and we went home.

Hopefully the next time we head to L&D is when I'm actually in Labor and actually ready to Deliver. Please let that be in approximately 5 to 6 weeks from now. Not too much sooner than that, and not too much after that.

Only two pieces of evidence of a car accident: a smooshed car and a sore back. Not that my back wasn't sore to begin with due to standard pregnancy protocol, thank-you-very-much, but now it's a slightly more intense and targeted soreness. Guess I have a valid excuse to get a massage now...

And they're all made out of ticky-tacky

We are having a minor face lift done to the house (at a major expense), which includes a new garage door, new front door, new paint and some general aesthetic touches so that we can migrate away from the ticky-tacky look of a house that was built in the late 50s and whose exterior hasn't really been upgraded since then.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one...

Our ticky-tacky box was yellow. No joke. Only difference is that it's not built on a hillside.

Apparently selecting green, pink, blue, and yellow was the safe bet back in the day, because when you fast-forward to 2008 and have to choose a color, the possibilities are endless. And confusing. And frustrating. "this has too much red in it." "that one is too light." "too dark." "too much green." And on and on it goes.

A mere 18 cans of trial paint later and today the first coat is going up.

We were looking for a somewhat neutral, beige-y, earth tone, brown "but not brown" color that we hoped would give us the quasi essence of a Craftsman style house. Mind you, when you live in a ticky-tacky house made of stucco whose floor plan was clearly taken straight from the Sears-Roebuck catalog of 1958, going Craftsman simply by changing the color is a monumental (and, really, unattainable) task. But, humor me here. We don't have $2M to buy or build our Craftsman dream house, so paint it is.

Did I mention that the first coat is going up today? It's exciting, yes, but also slightly unnerving. I had closed the blinds in a futile attempt to shield the dog from the "bad men working on the house" (in his mind, not mine), and am trying to keep the psychotic furry one from losing yet another screw in his head (please don't eat any more rocks...). But I have just realized that the doors and windows are covered on the outside by tarps and plastic, too. And I feel like I've been quarantined after being exposed to radiation. And it's really hot in here now. And I'm starting to feel claustrophobic.

Lordy, I hope paint color #18 was the right choice. I hope our beige-y, neutral, brown "but not brown" color has miraculously made our house look like a large, rambling Craftsman dream home. Even though it will always be 1,200 sq ft of 1950s Sears-Roebuck ticky-tacky.

Beach goers

We are constantly planning excursions through which we hope to gain maximum value of exhausting the dog for minimal time investment. Dog parks, we've discovered, don't really do much on the maximum value axis, since Max doesn't do much when we arrive. He pretty much just sits there waiting for us to do something. We usually run around a little bit, in a futile attempt to engage the dog, but then we realize we aren't dogs and this is, after all, a dog park. No sense in humans pretending to be dogs. Our dog, on the other hand, takes great pleasure in pretending to be human.

The beach, on the other hand, provides an amazing ROI when it comes to wearing out the dog. We used to drive all the way to Muir - a long, windy road - to get to a dog beach. But one day we realized that Crissy Field is a significantly shorter drive and Max (for whatever reason that we can't explain) runs harder, faster and longer there than Muir. Talk about ROI.

Sunday was one of those ROI days. A trip to Crissy Field early Sunday morning resulted in a full 45 minutes of non-stop running, fetching (a task virtually unheard of until Sunday), and romping in the water. 45 minutes may not seem like a huge span of time, but this dog was worn out at the end. An excellent recipe for getting some peace and quiet the remainder of the day. We were a happy group of P's this weekend.

Dog, bebe, and dinner

Max is officially over his Fred Flinstone phase and is back to normal. Of course, back to normal for him is an effervescent hyperness that is endearing only after he's come back from the brink of death. That dog has spunk, I tell you, and is more like a cat with nine lives when you consider the trials and tribulations he's encountered - and survived - in his relatively short time on earth.

Baby seems to be doing well, too. I had my 32 week appointment yesterday and le bebe had a heart rate in the 140s (phew... I always get nervous) and my blood pressure was "excellent" at 110/60. The doctor did confirm my continued observations, however, and that is that I have the strangest looking bump ever: long, oval and totally flat down the front. In terms of keyboard keys, it looks more like this ] instead of this )

Last night was "new recipe" night at our house and, thanks to Giada De Laurentiis and her book, "Everyday Pasta," we had a scrumdiddlyumptious meal (don't be fooled, "new recipe" night is not a regular occurrence at our house. I just so happened to be get inspired) . Well, I thought it was scrumdiddlyumptious. The husband contingent liked it well enough, with the exception of the artichoke hearts. Never mind him, though, since he's a veggie-phobe. And, after nearly 4 years of marriage, I've finally stopped taking offense to him picking vegetables out of dishes that I lovingly prepare and flicking them off to the side in disgust.

If only I could eat Giada's recipes every night and look like her, because her food is delicious. Unfortunately, I would look less like a petite, beautiful Italian woman and more like this:



But I digress. The recipe was fantastic and enough to feed Jon and Kate plus 8 with no problem whatsoever. I will make it again, with a few modifications (namely substituting the frozen artichoke hearts for canned so that I can cut them into smaller pieces with the hope of tricking the husband into eating at least one). Clearly when I make this again, I will be cutting the ingredients down to at least half...

Rigatoni with Sausage, Artichokes, and Asparagus
3/4 cup drained oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes, sliced, 2 tablespoons of oil reserved
1 pound of hot Italian sausage, casings removed (* I used mild Italian sausage and it was good)
2 (8-ounce) packages of frozen artichoke hearts
1 cup asparagus, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
2 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 3/4 cups chicken broth
1/2 cup dry white wine
12 ounces rigatoni or other tubular pasta
1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
1/3 cup chopped fresh basil
1/4 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
8 ounces fresh mozzarella, cubed
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat oil reserved from the tomatoes in a large, heavy frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook until browned, breaking up meat into bite-sized pieces with a fork, about 8 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage to a bowl. Add the artichokes, asparagus, and garlic to the same skillet, and saute over medium heat until the garlic is tender, about 2 minutes. Add the broth, wine, and sun-dried tomatoes. Boil over medium-high heat until the sauce reduces slightly, stirring occasionally, about 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the pasta until tender but firm, stirring often, about 10 minutes. Drain pasta.

Add the pasta, sausage, 1/2 cup of Parmesan cheese, basil, and parsley to the artichoke mixture. Toss until the sauce is almost absorbed by the pasta. Stir in the mozzarella. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve, passing additional Parmesan cheese alongside.

(Recipe from Everyday Pasta. Copyright 2007 by Giada De Laurentiis) Thanks, Giada!

Dog + Rocks = Not Good

Have I ever mentioned that I love my dog? I mean, I adore that beast with all my heart. Ever since I started working from home about a year ago, he has become my constant companion and shadow. He is great. A bit spaztic and hyper, yes, but he makes up for it with his unwavering love and devotion. He makes me wish I was human being who was that committed to pure and unadulterated love of everything. (except he's not a fan of squirrels and doves and cats...)

We have been having some minor work done to our house which is really annoying and disruptive and unnerving for our spaztic, hyper dog, so we have been sending him to day care whilst the house is getting its little face lift. Drop him off at 7am, let him run wild to release his inner beast, and pick him up again in the afternoon, when the crew wraps up for the day.

This has been going swimmingly. We thought. When I drop him off, he is so excited to go inside and play with his pals that he doesn't even look back to say "Bye, mom" when I walk / get pulled through the front door. Zoom. He's gone. But he's equally as happy to see me when I pick him up in the afternoon, so all is forgiven and we have the happiest reunions ever. Every day this happens. I love it.

I think we may have overstepped our drop-off, pick-up, reunion boundaries when we not only put him in daycare, but also boarded him for the weekend when we went to Tahoe (see below post about crazy chipmunk encounter). We pick him up on Sunday to the same routine as always:

Us: "Hi, Max, old buddy, old pal!"
Max: "Hey! You came back! Whoopie! I'll jump up on you so that I can lick your face!"

And all is right with the world.

Except we get home and feed him dinner. He doesn't eat. "Huh?" we think. Max not eating? "Maybe he ate just before we picked him up," I suggest. "Maybe he's just really tired," the husband contingent surmises. We shrug our shoulders and carry on.

Monday morning. Didn't eat breakfast. Weird, odd, and worrisome. But he certainly had no issues with scarfing down the handful of dog biscuits I was handing out in lieu of breakfast, so perhaps I'm just being paranoid.

Monday night. Runs through the door straight to his bowl and inhales every last morsel of food in his bowl. "PHEW," I thought. Now we're talking. Max is normal and all is right with the world.

Until early Tuesday morning. I wake to the sound of Max vomiting so I leap out of bed and find 9 (NINE) decent sized rocks in a pile on the floor. Are you kidding me? NINE rocks?

I take Max out of daycare. I call the vet. I watch him like a hawk. I call the vet. Max doesn't really move all day. Highly out of character for my dear boy. I worry. I call a different vet. I get an appointment.

Max goes in to the vet's office and suddenly springs back to life. "Oh great," I think. "I am just one of those paranoid worry warts. Max is fine."

Vet inspects him and says "I should X-ray his stomach to make sure there were only 9 rocks in there. Is that okay?" Like I'm gonna say no. Off Max goes to the back room for further inspection. 20 minutes pass. The vet comes out.

"I don't know how, but we got really, really lucky," she says. "He has 8 more rocks in his colon." EIGHT rocks. But thank goodness they made it to his colon (apparently), because the rocks were somehow able to pass through part of the stomach that they shouldn't have been able to.

Who the hell eats 17 rocks? And how the hell does someone not notice a dog eating those 17 rocks?

All I know is that my poor, sweet dog is suffering, and I believe it is because he was a lot more stressed about the daycare situation that I would have ever thought. He is okay for now, but he is still not great.

But I suppose it's really hard work to pass EIGHT rocks through your body, so I'll continue to watch him like a hawk and hope he poops 'em out tomorrow morning.

I never, ever, ever thought I would be up for inspecting dog poop. But tomorrow I will.

I love this dog with my whole heart, and I really need him to be okay tomorrow.

Chipmunk in da house

So, we're sitting in our house in Tahoe this weekend, enjoying the fact that we're being completely lazy and non-productive. I mean, that is the whole point of spending time in Tahoe.

The weather is amazingly beautiful and very unseasonably warm - temperatures in the mid 80's while the folk in the Bay Area are suffering through a massive heatwave - so we have the doors to the back patio open to let the sunlight and slightly warm breezy air fill our souls with mountain goodness.

I am hunkered down on the small sofa, engrossed in some fascinating story on one of the websites I stalk (I think I was reading the Celebrity Baby Blog at this particular moment in time), while the husband contingent was on the large sofa with a dueling laptop reading Sailing Anarchy and watching some sporting event on TV.

Suddenly, this flash of darkness comes flying around the corner and into the living room, only to disappear as quickly as it appeared. I think I jumped 10 feet off the sofa (much faster and higher than I've moved in months, mind you) and screamed "Oh my GOD! What was that??!!" And the husband jumps over the back of the sofa to see a tiny little chipmunk scurry out of the doors back to the patio.

We run over to the doors, to make sure he really did run out of the house and not under the sofa, or into the kitchen, or someplace other than the vast wilderness he calls home, only to find him sitting in the corner of the deck with his eyes popping out of his head and his heart visibly beating 1000 beats per minute. And then he saw us again and bolted for the trees. Poor little guy.

Who knew that a 32-week pregnant lady who is grasping her MacBook Pro, while hanging from the rafters for dear life, while screeching at the top her lungs would be a scary sight to see?

It's true what they say, though. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the girl. City Girl colliding with Mother Nature = heart racing, adrenaline pumping good times. And that was the most excitement I had all weekend.

Poor little chipmunk. I think he may be scarred for life.

G'bye for now

This is the most I can see of my feet when I look down these days. And I actually have to stick my rear-end out and lean back to get this view.

I look forward to seeing you soon, feet.

Hey, big spender

I can't believe I completely forgot to write about my fantastically exciting weekend. Well, the entire weekend wasn't necessarily fantastically exciting, but I did make two big purchases that made me smile. The first:

When REI has a 20% off sale and the stroller you want is part of the sale, you really can't pass up that kind of bargain.

Now, I realize that the orange may be a bit garish and I may tire of the color (hopefully not!) but I have this thing for orange right now. Which is odd, really, because it is so 70s and so reminiscent of my childhood where we drove around in an orange Volvo station wagon, sat in orange vinyl chairs at dinner, had orange fuzzy flowered wallpaper in our house and, well, you get the idea. I grew to loathe orange. Despise. Detest. But, somehow, I found myself jumping for joy at the purchase of an orange stroller for the babe. Perhaps I'm just setting this kid up for the kind of mental torture and embarrassment that my parents subjected me to when I was growing up.

On to the second purchase of the weekend:

Whoopie!! I have been thinking long and hard about upgrading to a digital camera for some time now. Yes, it's true, my rusty-trusty Nikon SLR that I have loved (and still love, by the way) for so many years is, in fact, a film camera. Like the kind that you have to send away for processing and wait days on end to get back. There is something so satisfyingly nostalgic about opening up that envelope filled with memories. But, I have finally joined the ranks of the 21st Century, much to the delight of many friends and family. Now I no longer have to hear: "WHAT?! You don't own a digital camera? What is wrong with you?" As if not owning a digital camera somehow made me some sort of leper.

I won't go into the drama I had to endure to actually acquire the camera. Long story short, I bought it at Best Buy, was sent home several hundreds of dollars later (unknowingly) with a box that contained no camera only a lens. Which was followed by a trip back, a grilling session tantamount to the Spanish Inquisition (um, yeah. I'm totally lying. I took the camera out and am trying to weasel my way into getting two camera bodies for the price of one), and finally arrived home after much discussion and debate with the fine people of Best Buy with my camera. But all's well that ends well.

Oh, and here is a picture of dog that I took with the camera. My very first picture ever taken with this wondrous new joy of technology.

He's such a pretty boy.

My, how you've... grown?

We had a follow-up ultrasound today to ensure things were on the up-and-up relative to me and my ability to deliver the baby. Yep, things are looking good.

Of course we were super excited to see the babe at t-minus 30 weeks, thinking we're really going to get a good sense of what he or she will look like when babe makes its grand entrance in 10 or so weeks. Hmmm... maybe not.

While the general health and growth of the baby are seemingly perfect, we also seem to have a very active and stubborn baby all at the same time... le bebe was kind enough to share a brief (brief = nanosecond) snippet of grabbing its toes, opening its mouth, and sucking its thumb. But if you blinked, you would miss it. This picture was taken mid-blink:


Another of le bebe is a very distorted and fuzzy shot of its face:


This is in stark contrast to the ultrasound we had a mere 11 weeks ago, when baby was mellow, forthcoming and cooperative. My guess is that baby was sound asleep at that last picture-taking session. Just look at the cherub then:

So sweet and docile. That little trickster.

Guess today's experience means that our little one is not feeling quite ready for prime time, since its hands completely covered its face for about 99.6% of the time. I say this stubbornness means it's a girl. My husband disagrees and says this behavior is all boy. We shall see...

The Diggingest Dog

Max the dog does everything with a sense of purpose. He walks everywhere like he's on a mission, he monitors the backyard like he's protecting us from the doves and squirrels, and he hunts. Hunts for moles and mice as if he's not sure when or where his next meal is coming. Even though he is fed twice a day like clock work.

Here is an example of Max on a hunt:


Usually these hunting excursions happen on walks or hikes or jaunts to the dog park. And usually he isn't successful. But sometimes he is, and it's always surprising and slightly disturbing when he pops his head up out of a hole that he has dug with a live beast in his mouth. One time he even caught a baby shark. But that is another story for another day.

Things were unusually quiet around our house this morning. The normal routine is Max wakes up and demands to be let out sometime between 5:30 and 5:45. This is to patrol the backyard to make sure the doves and squirrels are not planning some sort of coup. Then, he comes back inside sometime between 6:00 and 6:30 to make sure that we are getting up.

So, I get up at 6:30 to make coffee without a prompt from Dog. As I do so, I realize there is no Max lying beside the bed. No Max resting on his cozy chair. No Max to be found. Actually, I think to myself, I haven't heard Max bark at the doves and squirrels for quite some time. And then I look outside. His head buried in the ground, dirt flying, much like the above picture.

Noticing that the plant he's digging around is starting to fall victim to Max's one track mind of "Must. Get. Beast." I coerce him inside with the promise of food - hoping to distract him enough that he'll forget that he's on a mission to capture the beast beneath the surface. All is well and good, except that I forgot to close all doors to the outside world. He escaped back outside to complete his mission.

The plant used to look like this:


Now it looks like this:


Max didn't capture the beast, and now we have to buy a new plant. But at least he's happy.

Offically 3rd Trimester

This past weekend I "officially" became a 3rd trimester mom-to-be. I can't begin to describe how thrilled this makes me. While it's true that I haven't had a difficult pregnancy (yet... knock on wood), there is a lot of fear and uncertainty that comes with the excitement and anticipation of pregnancy. So with each milestone, I breathe a sigh of relief.

But for all of the fear and uncertainty, I love being pregnant. I adore it every second of every day. True, there are some inconveniences associated with being knocked up: I can't drink alcohol, I am forced to side sleeping, I have heartburn, etc., but these are all incredibly minor things that I am more than happy to "suffer" through for all the joys that come with being pregnant. And I truly do not mind that I'm getting fatter with each passing second. I am approaching whale status and couldn't care less.

I am sure that I will look back on this next statement sometime over the next three months and cringe, laugh or tell myself I was a naive fool, but I really wouldn't mind being pregnant forever. That is how much I love being pregnant.

Funny story: This past Saturday, I stopped by Safeway to buy a 6-pack of O'Douls. Fake beer. I am a mid-30s, married, 6+ months pregnant lady, and it was 90 degrees outside. I get to the check out line and am asked for my ID. "You do realize this is non-alcoholic beer," I say. "I don't care, the computer is asking for your ID," she says. Um, okay, as I happily hand over my driver's license. I was clearly born long before this young thang, and she immediately realized it the second she looked at my birth date. "Uh, thank you, Mrs. P. Have a good day," she says sheepishly as she hands me back my ID. And I happily float/waddle/sloth my way out of the store.

But I suppose it's a bit of a compliment to be mistaken for Juno when you're in your mid-30s, married, 6+ months pregnant and it's 90 degrees outside. I haven't been carded in about 5 years, and let me tell you that I looked about 10 years younger then than I do now.

The Friday Five

My (current) five favorite baby things. Bet you can't guess I like the color green:
(and my apologies in advance for the kindergarten quality of the photos. We're upgrading the digital in two weeks)


the rocking chair (really? who knew)


turtle booties


mod circle stroller blanket


a teeny weeny little outfit


itty bitty socks

The excitement of things to come...

It should come as no surprise to me that I am starting to find myself in massive nesting mode, in anticipation of the arrival of Baby P. And it should come as no surprise to me that I'm loving every minute of it, given that I've wanted nothing more than to be a mom for longer than I can remember. But somehow, I'm a little surprised.

The latest fixation I've had in my full-on nesting mode is to locate and purchase a rocking chair for the nursery. Some people say it's a gigantic waste of money, others tell me it's a lifesaver and I will often find myself sleeping many a night (I mean, hour or so between feedings) in that chair. I choose to side with those who tell me it's a necessity. I mean, hello. This is an opportunity to buy something after all.

So off we trot to our favorite "hidden" furniture store to buy a massive dresser and massive armoire for our bedroom, that will hopefully fit all of the clothes and miscellany that currently reside in the closet of what is soon to be baby monkey's room. And, of course, we have rocking chair on the list of items to search for and hopefully purchase. I, of course, have already decided that the rockers at Pottery Barn and Land of Nod are "it" for me, but the husband half of this union is not altogether too happy with the respective price tags of said chairs.

Well, we found a chair we loved (and, to the husband's credit, for a lesser price than PBK or Land of Nod). But even better, we found a fabric that was perfect for us. You see, we tend toward very bland (er, neutral), simple pieces of furniture in our home, so one would think that we would be the first people to stand in line for a beige-colored, twill-covered rocker. But, this is not one of those times. The fabric we liked was green (!) with a pattern (!). Alas, the rocker we liked did not come stocked in that fabric. The nice people at our favorite "hidden" furniture store were going to see if it could be done: that rocker in that fabric.

Bless them. They succeeded. And then I got the price... well over $1,000. Gulp. Double gulp. Apparently the fabric we liked was a "premium" fabric, which means "premium" price tag. And the rocker is, therefore, immediately stricken from the list options. "No way, Jose" the husband said. Poor, sad me. I had convinced myself that this was the rocker of my dreams. I imagined myself sitting in it, rocking my newborn to a peaceful night (I mean hour) of sleep.

But I can be quite determined when I want to be, so off I went on a multi-hour, multi-day search into the vast and varied world of the Internet for a rocker in that fabric that would come in on, or under, budget.

Bless the Internet. I found it. Well, not the chair, but a pretty darned comfortable looking chair, and I could order it in the fabric. At no additional fee for "premium" fabric. And at a place that offered free shipping. (And anyone who has shopped online for furniture will tell you, shipping costs are not what one would consider to be cheap.) So I placed my order. I received confirmation of my order. I am told my chair will arrive in "approximately 6-8 weeks" from date of order. That was last Tuesday.

Yesterday (Wednesday. One week and less than one day after placing my order), I receive a phone call from a delivery guy telling me that he's going to be at my house in 20 minutes with my chair. I can not even begin to tell you how excited (and stunned) I was to receive this phone call. I mean, I'm not expecting the thing until mid-May! Not that I'm complaining at the speed or efficiency of the company from which I ordered my chair. No way. Never.

So my chair is perfect, if not ever so slightly on the "minty" green side of things. But it's perfect nontheless. Comfortable, quiet and safely waiting in what will be baby monkey's room in about 13 weeks:


And here is a close-up of the fabric:


So, I am happy once again.

The End.

Chug a Lug, Pooh Bear

One of the important tasks I have assigned myself is to drink the recommended daily amount of water for humans. So, 64 oz (or 8, 8oz glasses) a day. For pregnant women, it is recommend (by "them") that we drink upwards of 12 glasses a day for optimum health of mom and baby. That is 96 oz or 3 full liters for those of you who are as math challenged as I am.

I think that is a lot of water, but people who have gone before me in childbirth and baby rearing say that's nothing compared to the amount of fluid one has to consume when breastfeeding. I tend to imagine a water buffalo when I think about the amount of water I will be attempting to drink in a few months. Although I'm not exactly sure what a water buffalo is, other than Chevy Chase made reference to one in a scene from every guy's top 10 movie, Fletch.

So, as part of my aforementioned commitment to guzzling water, I made a pledge to my Nalgene bottle that we would become better acquainted since I really needed to step up my intake from a paltry 32-40 oz. I have had my Nalgene bottle for more than 4 years and have used it heavily as a source of fluid intake. It has been a great thing, you see, because it holds a full liter of water in its pretty blue vessel. And that is something that a lazy water drinker needs: a whole lotta water staring you in the face with no excuse not to drink. Not only that, but the Nalgene bottle is a fabulous thing for the environment: I am not contributing 5 single-use bottles to the recycling bin (and possibly trash heaps) every day. The amount of waste these single-use bottles create and the negative impact they have on our planet is too disturbing for me to think about.

I have been doing so well with my water drinking mission, consuming 3 Nalgene bottles full of water a day (and I won't go into the details of what goes in, must come out...). All until yesterday when I was watching the Today show while eating my breakfast and they did a segment about how horrible it is for people, especially women of child bearing age, especially women who are already pregnant, to drink from these bottles. What?!

Apparently, consuming things from plastics that have a 7 in the triangle can leach harmful toxins into your system which can cause brain damage in unborn babies. Especially if the bottles are old, and you regularly run them through he dishwasher, because the high heat of the dishwasher does some very bad thing to the chemical composition. Well, hello, I drink from the dang vessel every day. I would hope that I am washing it in the dishwasher regularly.

Now, I'm no scientist and I admit to not doing a ton of research into the actual amount one would have to consume from said tainted Nalgene bottle, but I do know that I am 6 months pregnant and am heavily into mother hen nesting mode and even the remote possibility that I could be causing harm to my precious baby (when I'm trying to do the right thing by my precious baby, mind you) is just too unthinkable for this irrational mother to be.

I have immediately ceased my water drinking ways from my trusty old blue vessel and have had to resort to plain ol' glass from which to drink water. Not a bad thing, but it only holds 12oz of water. That equals 8 trips to the Brita every day, and I've already told you I'm a lazy water drinker. So I have come up with a brilliant solution, which is set to arrive at my doorstep in approximately 10 days:


Do you hear the angels singing? Hallelujah for Sigg! Not only will I continue to do right by Mother Earth but also by my baby's developing brain! And the best part is that it is still blue and still holds a full liter of water. Hooray for me!

Friday Five

Five TV shows I like:
- Lost
- Friday Night Lights (please don't cancel it, NBC!)
- NCIS
- Dirty Sexy Money
- Real Housewives of Orange County (yes, total guilty pleasure)

Five TV shows I loathe (of the laundry list of shows I loathe):
- American Idol
- Big Brother
- Dancing with the Stars
- Wife Swap
- Extreme Makeover: Home Edition

Five Songs that have been stuck in my head this week:
- Bubbly, by Colby Caillat
- 1234, by Feist
- American Girl, Tom Petty
- Homeward Bound, Foy Vance
- Stronger, Kanye West

Five reasons I'm glad it's Friday:
- The weekend, duh.
- I get to sleep in tomorrow
- Monday through Thursday are just a memory
- Dog got a loooong walk today
- Near beer tonight!

Snap out of it!

I've been a little cranky lately (maybe "little" is an understatement). I don't know why, but I am. Moods are an interesting thing. There is no specific reason for me to be little miss cranky pants, but I am.

Anyhoo, last weekend when it was all rainy and dreary outside, I decided to embrace my inner nerd and do a puzzle. I really dig puzzles, which is totally perplexing to my husband. A man who has the attention span of a gnat and has to be "doing something" every second of every day. And, to him, doing a puzzle is tantamount to doing nothing.

Plus, he swears I can never finish any project I start, which is totally not true. Except for a quilt that sits in pieces in our guest room, a few scarves I've started to knit, several embroidery projects and a couple of books that lay on the nightstand. But besides that, I totally finish things. Heck, I finished off a pan of brownies just today. So I had to finish that puzzle, dammit. Even if only to prove that I can finish something beyond a big plate of food. And, finally, last night I did.

Notice any resemblance to the puzzle I chose to do and my current state of mind? Hmmm...

Crab season begins this summer...

Baby P (or Bean, or Monkey, or Peanut as we have been known to call "it" since we aren't finding out if "it" is a boy or a girl) is due to make its grand entrance sometime in mid July, making it a Cancer baby a.k.a. a Crab. While I'm a Capricorn and big P is a Gemini, I love Cancerians (is that even a word?). My sister, good friend in Australia, former boss/now friend, and a few other folks near and dear to my heart were all born under the sign of the Crab. They're just all around cool people. And I'm pleased as punch that the newest/upcoming member of our family will most likely join that esteemed crowd of all around cool people. Because as we all know, Monkey will be cool simply by association.

So, riding a bit on faith that baby P will not come more than three weeks early or 10 days late, I bought a little outfit to showcase my sense of pride at the upcoming arrival of Crab season. And I don't care if Monkey is a girl and the outfit is blue. We've already established that the baby is cool, and cool people can do just about whatever they want and be even cooler. Besides, haven't you heard? Blue is the new pink.

Introductions

What's this "3 Ps and a Dog" thing all about anyway? Well, it's all quite simple. First, our last name starts with the letter P. Pretty baseline if you're not so much of a creative type like myself. The 3 Ps consist of big P (my husband), little P (that's me) and baby P (who is still in the process of baking). Dog is quite obvious. He's a dog as you can see from the post below. And I liked the play on words "three peas in a pod" since we're kind of a tight-knit unit here in the P household. So there you have it - "3 Ps and a Dog" - we're just one not so big happy family.

But there is also a back story to the P theme that deserves a mention. Before I officially became a P, my future husband was waxing poetic one night about this fantastic team building exercise he used to do with new teams at work. It was really a personality typing test, along the lines of a Myers-Briggs test, where people were categorized into one of four main groups. Each group was assigned a corresponding letter (one of which was "P") and then sub-categories, additional letters, etc., etc., etc.

Suffice it to say, with my short attention span, I immediately glommed on to the concept of a "P" personality, which had something to do with a person wanting to always have harmony, balance and peace with all people. Someone who doesn't like confrontation and would rather compromise to keep all persons happy. Someone who would rather another person make decisions to ensure the balance of harmony and peace.

"Go no further," I said. "That's me. I'm a P."
"But you have to take the full test to see who you really are," he said.
"I don't care. I've decided. I'm a P."
"Oh, all right," he said. "You're a P. You're just a little P. Be that way."

Now, aside from the glaringly obvious - this is an example of the fact that conversations in our house would clearly bore most people to tears - if you think about it, my end of the conversation exhibited the opposite of what a P really embodied. But that's too bad. I'm a P, so just deal with it.

The beauty of being a P is that when I really don't feel like making a decision (Where to go to dinner? What should we do on Saturday night? Do you like blue or green better?), I can always lean on my P-ness and say "Honey, remember that I'm just a little P. I don't know and I don't care." Which if you knew anything about me at all, you would know that I really do care and I really do have an opinion about most everything. Sometimes, though, a girl just wants to be told what to do. So I have created my own realm of cop-out-ness that I can lean on when I'm having a moment whereby someone can tell me what the right decision is and all will still be right with the world.

Welcome to the life of the 3 Ps and a Dog.

Chairs are cozy

The Dog contingent of the "Three Ps and a" was adopted through a rescue organization a little more than three years ago. He was not what one would describe as calm, relaxed or even cuddly. More like the Tasmanian devil. However, given our incessant need to treat him like a human and demand that he accept attention from us and like it thank-you-very-much, he's turned into the best, softest, most huggable dog on the planet. And now he owns the chair in our living room. As evidenced by the fact that these photos were taken on different days, at different times. I love our Dog.

Look ma, I can move!

Getting ready for baby:
Step 1 - Make baby
Step 2 - Grow baby
Step 3 - Spend more money than you ever thought possible on things you never even knew existed... Today we are spending our cash on new closet configurations for baby. But where are we supposed to put all the stuff that it already in the closet?

On a related baby note, we had our mid-pregnancy ultrasound last week and were truly amazed at our Monkey's development. It moves! It kicks its head! It has big feet!

[Update: the truly adorable photos of Monkey's feet and cherub-like face have been removed due to the fact that there was too much personally identifiable information on the photos. And I'm not technically savvy enough to edit the personal details out. Stay tuned...]