You're hot then you're cold

We gave up and slept in the living room last night.  No amount of fans redirecting air around corners and through doorways could get our room cool enough for deep sleep.  I gave up first.  While thinking Paul to be sufficiently unconscious, I tiptoed down the hallway, narrowly missing a fan, and collapsed on the couch in front of our air conditioning unit, which I promptly turned on 'high'.  It was not long before Paul emerged without a word and sank into the other couch.  We both sprawled, stretching out our appendages exposing all of out sweaty nooks and crannies.

Armpits, kneepits, elbowpits, it was the pits.

I laid awake for a while counting the heartbeats in my abdomen until I realized I was on the longer of couches.  I raised up and looked at Paul cramped up on the love seat.  I touched his shoulder gently and whispered his name.  He didn't answer.  I rubbed my hands through his soft hair and returned to my spacious sofa.  Before long I, too, drifted off.

My dreams were vivid.  Smells were potent and sounds were penetrating.  I was in Taiwan in a supermarket.  Everyone spoke English.  Some one dropped a bag of malt balls and I tried to help clean up.  They were angry.  I felt confused and wondered into a toy aisle full of miniature tennis rackets.  No one spoke English anymore and I was frightened.

I woke up carving malt balls.

The living room was very cool so I turned the cooler off for a time.  I imagined my electric bill and couldn't fall back asleep.  My body ached and whined when I walked into the kitchen to check the time.  It was 6:23.  I laid back down and stared at my ceiling fan, wondering if it needed dusted.  I missed my bed.  I missed cuddling with Paul.  He was so far away scrunched up on that little couch.

I tried not to cry.

My stomach ached with pain, and I realized my body was upset by late night brownies.  I squirmed around until the feeling subsided.  It was time to get up.

I'm starting to dread my ultrasound.  I fear that the upon examining my baby the nurse will excuse herself and retrieve the doctor who will inform me that my baby is missing it's limbs but otherwise seems like a healthy floating torso.

Or my baby is neither boy nor girl, but a happy combo of the two.

Or that my baby has some other complication that will affect their life in a severe way.

And somehow, that will be my fault.

But I'm hoping in eight days time I'll be lying on my back looking at a healthy baby on a screen and knowing whether I'll be taking a son or daughter to the park to swing next fall.  And I'll have two of my favorite people with me to share the experience.  The only thing that could make that better would be a slurpee.

Blue raspberry would be nice.  Just saying.  :)

Validation

Yet another blog written late on a hot Saturday night:

I don't feel like writing about myself at the moment.  I'm just too boring.  So, I'm going to write about you.  That's right, YOU, my dear reader.

You are a special human being with such potential.  Your smile, well, just look at it!  It lights up a room.  Don't forget to smile often and laugh out loud.  You have amazing hair.  Go ahead, run your fingers though it and say aloud how attractive it is.  Because it is.  And it compliments your eyebrows perfectly.  Those eyebrows that look so balanced on your well-proportioned face.  Your eyes, unique to you and the windows to your soul give you dimension and help you connect with others on equal ground.  What a nice quality!  Your eyes are understanding, yet firm when it's needed.  They communicate a point so perfectly that words aren't always needed.

Your words.  I don't want to discredit those in any way.  They are powerful too.  I can be feeling sad and it only takes a couple from you, either spoken, written, or typed to perk me back up.  I know there are others you are reaching out to verbally who appreciate the concern and attention.  Way to go!

Stop for a moment and listen to the noises around you.  Hear that?  You heard it so masterfully.  Whether it's the sound of nothing or the squawks of my ramblings you are very good at hearing them.  When the microwave beeps or a dog barks you should feel proud of how well did hearing.  Because you are a good hearer.

Sniff.  Just do it.  Sniff.  See how capable you are of sniffing.  This is yet another skill that you seem to have down.   Think about all those times you had a cold and there were no tissues in sight.  Sniff.  Think about when you felt so emaciated by lack of food and smelled something scrumptious outside a restaurant.  Sniff.  Think about that time when you sat by that guy with really hairy arms and an incurable case of B.O.?  Sniff.  Your amazing little nose did all that sniffing.  How I wish I could sniff like you.

And your skills at getting dressed are most superb as well.  I bet you've never showed up to a public place unintentionally and completely naked.  This is because you have a well-developed knack for putting on a shirt and pants to cover you from perverted old men with "missing" dogs, police officers with ready available citations, and to protect you from the weather elements.  Bravo!  You just keep doing your thang!

The way you hold your fork is something to be proud of.  It's so comfortable in your hand and scoops and stabs just as it should, being the perfect aid for food consumption.  And you hold it so well.  Don't let the way others are holding theirs get you down.  You got a good thing going on!

I know you have days where you feel worn out.  Each new trial bears down and you don't feel like you have the best qualifications for the task at hand.  You do.  I believe in you.  You have so much to give and share.  Just don't ever forget that.

I hope your week is splendid because you are splendid.

Lots of love,
Kayla

When I write late at night. . .

Today is my sister-in-laws birthday and Paul and I will be heading out soon to celebrate.  I knew today would be busy so I wrote a blog entry last night.  I read over it this afternoon in horror.  Alas, I don't have time to write something new so. . . enjoy some moody ramblings:

The fireworks have commenced and there will be little sleep for the next couple hours as the loud cracks and whistles pierce through our open bedroom window.  I'm wishing desperately that I had slowed down a little on the last book I devoured leaving at least a couple chapters for this evenings late night.  Alas, I am bookless and bored.

I once read that to be a good blogger you must be self-absorbed.  You must believe that you are so important that people lay awake at night wondering when your next post will be.  I'm a terrible blogger.

Because I'm having a really difficult time loving myself at all right now.  I feel like I've been transported back to junior high and every insecurity I've ever had has come to pay a visit.  Hopefully it's a visit.  I really don't want them moving in.  I find myself self-conscious about the way I walk and laugh and speak.  I wonder if people are looking at the new crop of zits sprouting on my chin.  I feel fat, slow, clumsy, and anxious.

I want to write about my baby.  I want to write about feeling it move for the first time this week and scheduling my ultrasound.  Then I feel annoyed at myself and wonder if others are too.  I think I talk about it too much.

I think talk too much in general.  It's driving me crazy.  I'm driving me crazy.  I hate being stuck inside this brain and drowning in this whirl of negative thought.  Everything irritates me and yet, I feel lonely and long to be with people-- people that love me-- people I could hurt and bring down with my growing pessimism.  I don't want them to see me like this.  I don't want to see me like this.  AH!  The confusion. . . Make it go away. . .

Hormones.  Got to love them!  I woke up this morning feeling like the eighth world wonder.  Go figure.

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.