All Nighter

To deal with my wicked morning sickness I am using a combination of Promethazine at night, Zofran in the morning, anti-nausea preggo drops, and PSI wrist bands. With all of these remedies combined I still feel nauseous most of the time, but thankfully I'm only throwing up about once a day now instead of six times. For some reason I still don't feel like clicking my heels with delight, but I am trying to be grateful for the blessings I have. Like a new growing baby.

The Promethazine causes extreme drowsiness, which is why I take it at night. I tried taking half pills during the day, and ended up drooling into my keyboard for long stretches of the workweek. Last night I forgot to take it. And no sleeping occurred. I was awake as a chihuahua on espresso. Thankfully, (read deeply embittered sarcasm in that word) Dumpster was restless most of the night too. My tossing and turning was accompanied by the grunting and snuffling of a bulldog shaped like the world's largest sausage trying to squeeze himself under our bed. Like trying to stuff a salami in a mail slot. Then he got an itch and scratched himself right up against our bedroom door so it thunked against the wall at machine gun fire tempo. Then he found his bone and tossed it across the room for himself a couple times. And then, I will not share with you the awful noises and smells he made.

The moral of this section of the story is: although bulldog puppies are preeminent amongst God's adorable creations, at some point they grow up, and then, it's like owning a biochemical weapon with a tongue. He is an assault on all the senses.

I am now debating with myself if I should endure some more nausea and stop taking my night drugs or continue on in comatose bliss, less sicky.

It concerns me that I can't sleep without this drug now. And it also frightens me that if I'm so wigged out by it, what the baby might be feeling. Any intelligent comments on this dilemma would be greatly appreciated.

Satan's Panties

This post is based on two basic premises: 1)We don't do laundry that often, and 2) our dog has some severe psychological issues.

Living in America with a vast availability of comparatively expendable wealth and places at which to expend it, Justin and I have enough clothing to take us through at least a week or two without needing to do laundry. I'm sure we could go a good deal longer, but some of the combinations we would have to devise might leave the general public scratching their heads. At the end of every clothing rotation, once I've been through the comfy cottons, the seamless solids, and even the fun prints, are the red undies. Don't you blush for shame; we all have them. They are red and lacy and monstrously uncomfortable. Once intended for sexier purposes, they now merely serve to squeeze one more day out of any already maxed wash cycle.

Dumpster, our special puppy, has this unusual habit of transporting our dirty laundry one article at a time to the living room every night, and making himself a little nest of mom and dad's clothing. His favorite items are dad's socks, mom's unmentionables, and Noah's onesies. It is super annoying.

Friday was a rushed morning. We had someone coming in to clean our air vents, so we were trying to move furniture and pull covers off. In the rush of it, Dumpy snoozed away on the couch, on a small selection of our dirty clothes. I returned home that afternoon, after allowing strangers in my home all day to clean and dis-in-microbial-fect. There spread out across our couch, leaving no room for doubt as to their identity, were my lacy, red panties.

What do you do at that point? I'm sure this is the real reason the British claimed Australia. Every young British maid, whose knickers got left in public view, could run away to a hot desert land, where they would never again have to face polite company. Although I'm sure there are a few deranged kangaroos that probably make a habit of stealing frocks and bloomers to make little beds out of. There is a Dumpy in every bunch. Except maybe this Ririe bunch if he ever does that again.

Bye Bye Oil Can Mania

We used to watch a lot of television. Not that we would sit obsessed with the screen; it would just be on while we did homework, or ate, or let our tired brains dissolve. Now we have a child, who is not only far more entertaining than any show we could watch, but also absorbs time like a sponge. With this bouncing little time muncher and another on the way as well as nursing school, working three jobs, and being worshippers, we've decided to get rid of cable. We have Netflix to satisfy our depravity as needed. Cable is just one giant waste of money. (Or so we say now, but just wait until the Utes season starts, and we don't get any of the games. -shudder-)

There are some things I will miss. Perhaps not with the same nostalgia I hold for my carefree childhood days, but miss in that, "remember-how-we-used-to-have-time-to-watch-THAT?" kind of way.

You know you need a life when you watch American Pickers. Since I assume the very best of all three of my readers, I assume you have no idea what American Pickers is. Allow me to educate you. It's these two Iowa farm boys who travel all over the back roads of the country collecting old junk rusty gold. They meet people who haven't shaved since the signing at Appomattox Courthouse, and they dig through tetanus infested barns looking for motorcycle engines they can blow $42,000 on. It's quite boring, honestly. I wouldn't have ever watched it at all, except, at least once an episode, they say it... Sometimes it's a variation. Sometimes they try to just slip it in. But it is always so worth it...

"This would be a really great piece for someone who collects mid-1930s Fleet-Wing oil cans."

...

...

That's your target market?!?!

Who are these people???

Where did they get $300 to pay for a rusty oil can???

The fact that people with this kind of taste and disposable income exist in this God-forsaken land renders me utterly speechless. And then I die laughing. Oh, I will miss that fifteen seconds of each American Pickers episode. It always makes the other 2805 seconds totally worth it.

This is Frank and his beloved oil cans.

A Proper Tea

I’m not the tea party type. Lace gloves make no sense, tea has never been comforting or satisfying, and I believe sandwiches should not be finger foods, they should be foot longs. Growing up, my favorite color was olive green (the kind found in camo), my favorite pants were two sizes too big, and my single greatest joy was showing up the guys in… everything. Sitting and chatting with the girls over a steaming brew with little dried out biscuits sounded rather like punishment or at least a waste of a Saturday better spent looting, pillaging, or otherwise pirating.

But somehow, the tomboy got herself put in charge of the Ladies Spring Tea at church.

This evening I am off to purchase lace doilies, fake crystal bowls, and bright table clothes. I will spend some night soon figuring out how to make tissue paper flowers. (God help me.) Cute little scentsy door prizes need to be acquired soon as well. I will decorate with flowers and ribbons and glitter. I will set plates with little tarts, adorable cookies, and bite size cucumber sandwiches. I will play Celtic stringed hymns in the background with little bunny slides flashing on the power point screens.

And a little part of me will die inside.

Only to be reanimated Friday evening as I kick dirt, swing a bat, masticate unsightly amounts of Big League Chew, and throw like anything but a girl.

Because God made me a woman, and then He made me an athlete.

Catch Up

Since I wasn't blogging for awhile, allow me to catch you up:

For his eight month birthday Noah decided to have a cage pillow pen wrestling smackdown brawl with all his fluffy friends. The aftermath:

 

The sad thing is, even though he was wrestling inanimate objects, I'm not sure who ended up winning.

Whilest I was not blogging several other things of note occurred:

• Justin got his second 4.0 in nursing school. Am so very proud.
• I threw up... lots.
• We saw our first ultrasound of new baby Ririe.
• I threw up some more.
• I took on the Ladies Spring Tea at our church.
• I had 8 migraines, which caused me to throw up.
• Noah progressed to army crawling faster than the Flash can run.
• And I threw up.

10 pounds later, I am still blessing my God for working miracles in our lives. There's just much less of me to worship Him.



Announcement

I am aware that it has been nearly an eternity since I have blogged. It is difficult to write about anything else when there's a quite large something on your mind that you aren't allowed to blog about. However, the secret is out, so I can once again, merrily tap-tap-tappity on the keys.

There I stood at home plate staring down a pitcher, who I can only imagine had my utter destruction in mind. He'd already thrown a nasty twelve foot arc that only by grace was called a ball. I'm sure he was quite secure in his belief that before him stood another little girl, a bunting pansy, a softball wall flower. Poor lad couldn't have known that before him stood an Abi. A real Abi, the kind they don't make every day of the week, the kind they watch because she has no good in mind.

I glared. It's a bad habit. There's some wickedness in my subconscious that demands in the midst of battle I glower like a Greek in the face of the Persians. I'm sure it is no where near as terrifying as the picture in my mind. In my mind this is the glare that sent a thousand ships back the way they came, tails set firmly between their legs. In reality, Justin snickers every time he sees it and tells me how adorable it is. But I persist never-the-less, and glare I did with intense ferocity at said unsuspecting pitcher.

He let the ball fly, I swung the bat, and from the recesses of my primitivity came a grunt that would put Sharapova or Williams to shame. And that ball went. Far.

After I easily hit first, I turned to my brother-in-law and begged him for a pinch runner. He got the ump's attention, but kept throwing me strange glances. There was some atrocious to-do about getting me a runner, and in the end I don't imagine the rules were followed by said ump. Finally, my husband stepped in and defended my honor: "Give her a break! She's Pregnant!"

Well, that wasn't subtle. Nor conducive to game winning. As half our bench scraped their jaw out of the dirt, confusion ensued. It was a clever way to announce it, but I imagine the inning might not have ended on the next play if we weren't all so flummoxed.

So yes, I'm pregnant. And wishing I were dead. While quite amazing at hitting softballs, Abi's are not very good at being pregnant.

I'm sure amidst the first pregnancy as Eve held her swimming head over a hole and wretched up every good, bad, knowledgeable, and stupid fruit she had ever eaten, Adam (annoyed his own self at having to pull weeds all day) commented, "Well, that's what you get, Miss 'I-gotta-try-that'." And she promptly kicked him in his sheep-skin covered jewels, just to be sure she would not have to endure this havoc again any time soon.

Sister-in-law

I'm very shy. This may come as a shock to those who only read my blog. But it's true: take away my keyboard or my pen and paper, and suddenly I'm utterly, socially awkward. I don't know how to carry on conversations, and I am not terribly good at being friendly. Throughout my middle school / young adult life I was told that being quiet is a fault. No, being unable to experience reality in the way you want because you cannot engage people in dialogue is a fault. Being quiet is a rare gift. Those two things are very different.

The point is this: I'm rather fond of my sister-in-law. She probably doesn't know it, but I think she is sweet, and fun, and very bright. If I were capable of making friends, I think I would try to make friends with her.

And this is why. This appeared on her facebook page last week:

"Not much makes me more upset than being told I'm a grumpy pregnant lady. Maybe, just maybe, I'm grumpy because you're a Weiner, and I just so happen to be pregnant at the same time?"

 

Brilliant.

Spring Rain

The drought has ended. The spring rain of baseballs has returned to soak our dry and weary land with their precious entertainment-giving flood.

The end of college bowl games to opening night of the MLB season is the sports dead zone. Absolutely nothing of interest to decent sort of folk. I've heard rumors of something called March Madness. The only madness is that this kind of basketball-ish behavior can persist for an entire month. Just play a final and end it. I know the NBA is playing. But in terms of real sports, nothing what-so-ever of interest.

(If you are a basketball fan, you must understand I never had a chance. At the tender young age when wee lasses are so impressionable [which I recognize is almost every age] I hugged my friend dearly as she sobbed in her little golden tutu. Her daddy decided to go to watch the Utah Jazz in the NBA finals instead of coming to see his baby girl dance in her ballet recital. I immediately concluded that any sport which could cause human beings to be so callous to their own little princesses could not have any value to the human race. I now know that people go to football games instead of their son's little league games, I know they flock to the stands of baseball games as young tuba players look expectantly to the audience hoping mommy might come. But basketball suffers one further blow to it's morality: it has LeBron James and Kobe Bryant. With such upstanding individuals as the stars of a culture, I don't understand how anyone who attends a basketball game can really stand to look at themselves in the mirror the next day.) Cause I'm not dramatic at all.

But the drought has ended. And with what a glorious rain: Boston leading the AL East with 5 and 2! What brilliant hope! Noah is thrilled too as you can see.

In My Defense

At the end of a non-majors creative process class I taught one student wrote in his paper that he couldn't understand why anyone would ever study dance at a university. He was a chemistry major. A nice proper profession. I wrote out a brief defense of my decision, the field, and aesthetics in general on the back of his paper. He never came to pick it up. In the off chance that a chemistry major I knew two years ago for the span of a semester would ever stumble upon the blog of a dancing, Christian mom, who looks vaguely familiar, I now present my case.

The chemistry major, the aspiring scientist, the undergraduate physicist, enters the lab with the goal of conducting experiments. They learn how to make rational science happen. However, the goal of this practice is not truly to follow scientific method and prove a hypothesis. The undergraduate student does not produce original research. They recreate the experimental process of their predecessors. Success is not determined by the actuality of the results proven, but whether those results match previous endeavors. You can know if you have made a mistake. You can know how it should all turn out. As far as I understand it, the undergraduate scientist does not have to think, they have to replicate and regurgitate. I don't begrudge them this bliss. It is not a dangerous road.

The first day I entered the modern dance department as a Sophomore in the program, I had to create three movement phrases and manipulate them into a short work. These works we then combined with other students to make more complex pieces. The first day I was a dance student I fashioned something the world had never seen before. Original research, at 19 years old! It wasn't brilliant; it won't appear in experimental theatres along the dark alleys of New York, but it was new. And it mattered.

There are those who believe art is unnecessary, that we cannot live without experimental pharmacology, but could endure the millennia quite happily without Poe, Forsythe, and Cage. I propose quite the opposite. At this point, the young scientist can make no contribution to the field that will in any way prolong our lives. How could he/she when original research doesn't really occur until masters or even doctorate work? Even the most accomplished physicist, the leading minds of our time, our Hawking, our Haroche, our Gurdon and Yamanaka cannot cure us of our mortality. We all still die.

When I first read Bukowski, I flew. When I first moved with Koester and Handman in ways I had never imagined, I thought perhaps I understood immortality. Yet, it was when I first created, fashioned and sweated, built and devastated, when I took that thing from nothingness into fullness, that I transcended. I locked eyes with my God and understood a small breath of what it must be to fashion a gazelle and watch it run, to carve a waterfall and feed a valley, to mold a child and hear "I love You" from her lips. Science continually reminds us that we are dying. Art has a far better chance of making us immortal.

Ellen Dissanayake is credited as redefining art as "making special". Art takes the everyday, the ordinary, the plain, and makes it special, a little more alive, a little more lovely. If this is the case, I choose a short life without penicillin, I choose a minute reality without genetic engineering, I choose a brief flicker on this planet free from mechanical lungs, spinal rods, and slicing needles, if it be a flicker more beautiful. Of course I don't have to (and haven't) lived without science. But I don't have to (and haven't) and won't live without art.

Screaming in the Night

Three nights ago, I woke up to Noah fussing. I waited for him to get it out of his system, flip to his other side, and let the sleepies steal him back to a land where I assume he dreams of bananas monkeys. No theft to dreamland occurred. He kept right on crying. With a sigh I threw my legs out of bed, padded into his room, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. I gave him a pacifier and pulled his head out of the corner of the crib. He was still a mite bit unhappy, but I had to go to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door I heard it. It was the kind of screaming we usually associate with some combination of zombies and apocalypse. It was the kind of screaming that means needles, and death, and turnips are only moments away, their sharp pincers snapping. And it would.not.stop.

I scooped up my Little Man. Screaming. I stroked his head and bounced. Screaming. I sang, pleaded, prayed, tried the paci, tried his monkey friend, tried changing his diaper. Screaming. At this point Justin came in and asked, "What on Earth is wrong?" The side of me so consciously aware of the fact that it was after midnight spat, "Well, if I knew I wouldn't be holding a shrieking little banshee at 2:00am." The side of me that actually speaks and loves him so completely cried, "I don't know!"

Allow me to share the ridiculousness of my own mind in the seconds that followed:
   He's never screamed like this before, ever. Something is really wrong.
   He's ok. Babies cry.
   Not like this. Hormonal pregnant women being tortured with cruel implements don't cry like this.
   What if I have to take him to the ER?
   What if they find something wrong?
   What if they don't, and think I'm a bad mother?
   What if they take one look at my over-sized Bradley Hathaway t-shirt and Yellowstone      Huckleberry shorts and won't even let us in the hospital?

About this point, Justin had put Little Man in his car seat and was swinging him back and forth. In a few minutes he was calm enough to stop crying. A couple minutes after that he went back to sleep. He survived until morning, and lived a semi-happy day. . . And no one had to see my Huckleberry shorts.

And Justin once again proved that I married up.

FYI: it's teeth. He's cutting teeth on the top and just wants to be sure everyone in the valley knows how miserably unfair it is.