You are always on my mind

I sat down, as I often do in front of a computer, and began thinking of things to write about.  I starred at my screen and typed out two words which were promptly deleted.  A desire burned inside me to deliver a message of significance.  I wanted to say just what you, my dear reader, needed to hear in this moment.  I typed another now deleted word or two and tried to focus.  Dashitall.  All I could think about was eating chocolate frosting.  Thick, fudgey, rich frosting. By the spoonful.  I turned away from my computer and ventured to the kitchen for a drink of water, which did nothing but increase my need for the craving.  I resumed my seat at the desk and turned to other blogs for topic inspiration.

Birthdays.  Everyone was having birthdays and posting pictures of their delicious cakes, which seemed to be predominately iced in luscious peaks of chocolate heaven.  I thought back to my kitchen just down the hall.  I mentally scanned the nearly empty fridge.  I pictured the supplies stashed in pantry.  My eyes began to well up as I realized the only chocolate in the house was hot cocoa mix.  I pictured that stupid thermostat at 90 degrees which it's been for most of the week.

My forehead began to sweat.  No, hot chocolate might have killed me.  I considered eating the powder with a spoon and cringed at the thought.

I leaned against the back of the chair and inhaled deeply telling myself that I didn't need chocolate.  What I needed to do was write about something that would uplift you, my dear reader, and make you want to be a better person by, I don't know, not littering, speeding only in desperate situations, or not to take cake from distracted children.  Did I just write. . . cake. . . with chocolate. . . (gulp) frosting?

This is going to be a long afternoon.

Three words: Feng shui

Feng Shui.  I can't say I've ever believed in it before, but I'm beginning to.

After I found out I was pregnant I began thinking of places to put a crib.  While some people are firm believers of sleeping in the same room with their baby, I'm not one of those people.  We have two bedrooms in our little apartment, so it's not really a necessity anyway.  But as I surveyed our spare room I began to realize there was no room for a crib.  Our book shelves and computer desks took up too much space.

So I stewed.  Like potatoes and carrots.  And when the flavors of ideas had sufficiently steeped the solution fell right into my lap.  Switch the rooms.  Genius, I know.

One long Thursday Paul and I began the daunting task of sorting, packing, lifting, moving, and organizing until our personal belongings and bed were neatly stashed in the little bedroom and the master bedroom sported its new office look.  It all made sense to my little mind, but something felt wrong.

The room with the bed was not my bedroom.  It was just a room with bed.  I avoided going in to the new office and stationed my laptop in the living room instead.  I kept asking myself, "What have I done?"

Then I had my birthday last Sunday, and I received a most beautiful and generous gift from my family.

My own sewing machine.  It was love at first sight!

And just like my old dryer, I immediately started dreaming about the adventures we would share.

We would watch scary movies in the afternoon (because that's the only time I can successfully do that without wetting myself).  That sewing machine could warn me when to close my eyes and tell me when intense parts were over.

We would exchange secrets about our fears, joys, insecurities, strengths, favorite coworkers, hidden candy, smells we hate, what wakes us up at night, the color white, giant squid dreams, chihuahua dogs, five letter words that start with 'M', television shows that have too many seasons, and how cute my husband is when he's drinking apple juice.

We would sneak in the pantry and eat spoonfuls of peanut butter until lip-smacking noises would stifle laughter and metal utensils would clink against the empty glass jar.

We would sit together at my laptop and blog about the men cleaning out the gutters or the Spanish chatter of my landlady cutting overgrown branches from her favorite tree just outside our window.  Or maybe we would write about how uncomfortable we both think industrial carpet can be.

We would take long, luxurious walks around the block in the cool breeze of the afternoon while listening to Jason Mraz or possibly Michael Buble.

We would even pay bills together so we could have light, heat, insurance, phone service, and all sorts of modern conveniences that we'd enjoy while carrying out our various activities.

But most importantly, we would sew!  We'd create glorious quilts and pillows and curtains and baby clothes and pot holders and a bushel of fabricy goodness!

There was just one little problem.  I had no place to put my beautifully new friend/machine.  Fretting ensued.  Sorrow followed.  Then, I was blessed with a solution to my dilemma.  Switch the rooms back!  Though not entirely. 

We can keep the computer desk across from the door in one corner and a sewing desk can sit beside it.  The other side of the room can host our comfy bed and once again resume its role as 'bedroom'.  MY 'bedroom'.

The spare and smaller room will be the library/baby room.

This allows prime sewing time while the baby naps without disturbing infant slumber with the whir of the presser foot.

Now, the tricky part. . . convincing Paul.

Creating is a work of art

I miss making cakes.

I miss stirring up the batter and sloppily scraping the bowl, preserving a generous amount of bowl lickings for myself.  I miss the mystery of not knowing how exactly the cake will rise or fall and the challenge that accompanies trying to fix it.  I miss mixing batches of white fondant and kneading in color until my hands and the dough are tinted to my satisfaction.  There is a joy that comes with a smooth crumb coat and pride that forms with the perfection of the fondant draped delicately atop my cake.  The challenge and creativity of design satisfy something deep inside. . . the need to create something original.  Something beautiful.  I miss all of it.

But I'm creating a person now and it requires much more time and energy and commitment than cake.  Yet, I still desire the outcome to be beautiful.  I've heard repeatedly that your own children will always be the cutest to you.  And I believe that.  But I've met women who post pictures of their little darling or hold them up for you to look upon the face they incubated for nine months, and they say, "Aren't they the cutest?"  Sometimes they are, which inspires most women to reply, "Oh, she/he is adorable!  What a cute baby!  So beautiful."  And the list of wonderful googliness goes on and on.  But occasionally you are shown a baby that is not, (how shall I put this?), very pleasing to the eye.  When asked what you think of this baby you may find yourself saying, "She/he is so. .  special and. . . precious!"

Precious doesn't always mean unsightly, but when accompanied by a 'special' or 'bless her heart' it's time to be worried.  You have just birthed an ugly baby.

I am afraid.  I don't want to be one of these poor women who brag and showcase their little piece of "eye candy" while everyone tiptoes around subject as to keep any postpartum monsters at bay.

Paul and I were cute little kids.  Why am I so worried?

I will show you.  On a rather boring day off last fall I sat at my mom's house in front of her computer.  She was in the shower and I needed amusement so I ventured toward the Photoshop icon on the start menu.  Everything started off so innocently.  I wonder what my future kids will look like?  I searched though our reception display pictures and found two that should be easy enough to blend.  That is where it started to get ugly.

And I mean really ugly.

Meet Dorris

And Sally

Agatha

Harry

Bill

Larry

Ahhhh!  Perhaps we should have adopted. . .

My little ramen baby

 It seems odd that the noise that nearly stopped my heart was a heartbeat:

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was short, but definitely there.  The baby kicked the doppler before squirming away, so the midwife poked around on my lower abdomen until another thump thump pierced through the air.  I smiled a smile as wide as my face and then some.  There is really a little person inside me.

I technically knew that before.  No period for months, positive pregnancy tests, puking, fatigue, bloating, food aversions and cravings.  I had to be pregnant.  But without feeling the baby move or seeing a real baby bump, it often didn't seem real.  But that beat was sure evidence that there is something inside me, and it's alive.

It even has a personality.

A feisty personalty that loves to kick dopplers.  I think it knew I don't like anything medical and was acting out to protect me.  Maybe. . . you never know.

I can't wait until I know the gender so it doesn't have to be an 'it' anymore.

And I have some more big news:

Hi. . . my name is Kayla, and it has been two days since I've had a bowl of ramen.  Whoa.

I'm entering my second trimester this week as well as celebrating my birthday.  I can't think of a better gift than decreased nausea.  I've been testing the water the past two days to see what my limits are.  Although, I still have to eat often, I won't die if I don't get my ramen first thing in the morning.  I may never eat ramen ever again if I can help it.  I have dreams my baby emerges not as a carbon based life form, but an MSG creature.

I'm trying to get some exercise too.  I feel bigger than a barn and I look it.  My body is changing.  Hips widening, belly protruding, but not in a pregnant-looking way.  It's more of a 'I'm so bloated I may start floating' sort of way.  And I don't quite understand it.  In the last month I've only gained three pounds.  And went up two pant sizes.  For THREE measly pounds.  But a good deal of walking (and prunes) should help (I hope) with my new fluffy tummy so people will touch my baby bump instead of patting my bloat.

Pregnancy makes you loose all sorts of pride.