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.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 9, 2008
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.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
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...
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...
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