Politics and Potties

Election season is finally upon us, after about 2 years of hearing about it constantly, and I have to say it looks like a total freakshow. I'm an Obama supporter, as you may have already guessed, and I'm feeling so fervently pro-Democrat this election that I stare into cars with "McCain/Palin" bumperstickers, as if trying to see into the drivers' souls. Or to shake my head disapprovingly at them. I just can't take it anymore! I mean, what is wrong with people in this country that we've elected a total jackass for two consecutive terms and are hearing the Republican message yet again? You know, I think McCain is actually a great candidate for the Republicans. He's sort of this straight-shooting, fiery, all-American guy with this rockin' military record (I mean, could we hear MORE about the POW experience? PLEASE?), and he has seemed, in the past, to genuinely think for himself. But no longer. I see him on the t.v. now and he looks like a worn-out old sack of potatoes with pancake makeup on. He's obviously exhausted from the campaign trail, and I can see that he's caving to the hate and fear-mongering conservative machine. He's sold his soul to Karl Rove et al. And he's got his ridiculous sidekick - an embarrassment to successful women everywhere - in her Naughty Monkey pumps. I do not know what is worse - the cheap shoes and party pony, or the fact that, in last night's interview with Katie Couric, she could not name a single publication she reads regularly. Excuse me? What if this woman became our president? It's not so unlikely, considering the looks of John McCain these days. He seems about to keel over at any moment. She's a terrifying heartbeat away from that, and everyone is so, so proud that the Republicans have a "lady" on the ticket. It's very, very awkward to see McCain and Palin in an interview together - they don't seem to know each other at all, and McCain keeps looking at Palin out of the corner of his eye as if he's afraid she might say something dumb. Guess what? In any case, I'm so watching the VP debate tomorrow night, just as I would watch a live train wreck were that to be televised on primetime.

I must take a break from politics for a while, or I will go nuts. My daughter started her preschool two weeks ago, and she's in heaven there. This year she goes two days a week, and I go with her only one of the days (the other day the other half of the moms go to help out the teacher). Some of the other kids are freaking out that their mommies aren't there certain days, but not my daughter. She's like, Bring it on! She's entered the state that, being my daughter, she will be in for the rest of her life, and that is the "Momentary Pretending to Have a Different Life State." She's like, "La-la-la, I'm a princess, and my dollies are my children, so of course I must put them to bed and I cannot come to dinner right now." Or, "La-la-la, I am a dinosaur in his nest, so this is where I pee instead of the toilet." Or, "That's not my mommy over there - you're my mommy. Can I go to your house and you can fix me a snack?" In my life it's, "La-la-la, since no one saw me eat that half-sheet of brownies, it didn't really happen." Or, "La-la-la, since I am fabulous I MUST have that (insert entirely unaffordable clothing item here), and I of course don't have to worry about how much it costs."

Anyway, Olivia loves school. She has attached herself to the teacher, and makes sure the teacher knows about everything she's doing. She also gets a kick out of the potties at school, and the fact that she can reach the sinks and squirt her own hand soap. Never in my life have I gone through so much hand soap or toilet paper as I have with a pottytraining toddler. These two items are the source of endless fascination for Olivia. Who needs a Teletubbies book or "Everyone Poops" when you've got paper that unrolls forever right next to you? The other thing she is very excited about at school is snacktime. She runs right up to the teacher when we arrive, asking, "Where's my snack?" and is very insistent about it all morning, and when the snack does show up she eats it all up; every . . . last . . . bite. Last year I had to struggle with her to get her to stay on her bottom on her seat and not wander around during snacktime. Not this year, boy. This year she sits right there and puts her napkin in her lap and pours her own water and studies every single cracker and piece of fruit as she consumes them. Then she wants seconds. Sheesh! Everyone else leaves, goes to the other room, music time starts. The mom in charge of snack cleans off all the tables and starts spraying the tables to sanitize them, and there's my daughter, still methodically eating her snack until it's all gone. I want to cheer for her and hold her up for everyone to look at - a shining example of good, healthy eating. But, sadly, no one is there to notice. They've all gone off to sing the "Cuckoo Clock" song.

My baby boy is doing great. He's such a jolly little fellow, really. He just wants to hang out and smile at me and squinch up his big blue eyes. He just seems to beam love and happiness. I really don't know what I did karma-wise to deserve such a peach of a child, but if there's one thing I've learned about happiness and contentment as a parent, it's that these things are always fleeting. I'm sure I'll get mine soon enough with him. He's going to be digging up the gay guys' gorgeous landscaping next door with his shovels and dump trucks when he's three, or smoking pot and running around with the class ho in middle school - just you wait. He turned 6 months old a couple of weeks ago, and I started feeding him "real" food. He can't seem to get enough of it, and squawks now if not invited to sit up at the table with us and be a part of things.

I think every day about whether I want to have another baby. I know, I know - it's crazy, it's too soon to worry about that. But I am a planner, and I'm somewhat perplexed that I'm not completely decided about this issue and planning my life around it. Aside from the fact that I don't know if I could mentally or physically handle a third child, I'm obsessed with the idea of having to get a mini-van. This seems like it would be the absolute end of any semblance of a stylish existence I may still cling to. But it also would be kind of awesome. Here's the thing; if I could just have a mini-van, but I wouldn't ever have to look at it from the outside - like, I would be somehow just beamed into the inside of it and settled all comfortably into my seat, I could totally rock the mini-van. Because I think the inside experience of a mini-van is exceptional. It's like riding around on a big comfy couch. And now you can get the mini-vans with DVD players and giant built-in coolers. Almost like you don't even need to leave your living room. But I just can't stand the way mini-vans look from the outside. Even in black. They just seem to scream, "I've got a big fat ass, and I don't care!" There are no chic mini-vans. But I continue my search . . .

School Days

For a so-called stay-at-home-mom ("SAHM"), it seems that I am hardly ever home these days. I thought that what with August ending and our weekends no longer being PACKED with activities, I would have some time to just chill with my girl. But no. Now we have preschool, and OB appointments, and study appointments, and YMCA for mama's exercise and daycare. And at night, I have meetings for the preschool, and book club meetings, and neighborhood association meetings. Etc., etc., etc. The weekends are now about the only time we have at home, together, but of course those get swallowed up often by time spent with extended family and/or friends we haven't spent time with in too long. Time is at a premium, and while I want my little one to be able to taste all of what is out there for her, I also don't want her life to actually become stressful at 21 months. She is a little bitty person with a short time here so far. She moves slowly through the world, taking her time to notice each thing (often for the first time!), to remember its name, to take in its presence with all of her senses. Today we went to Subway for lunch after I went to the lab at the hospital to have my blood drawn, and she sat right down at our table and started staring at the ladies at the table across from us. "Hi, ladies!" she said, and she kept on saying it ("Hi! Hi!") and swinging her legs in her chair and smashing her chip with her fingers on the table. She was right there with a big grin on her face, soaking up life, and I can honestly say I do believe she's had a big day today. She got to press the buttons on the elevator, she got to look at the pictures in the lobby, and she got to sit in Mama's lap while the lady took Mama's blood with a needle (and she's the one who got the lollipop afterward!). I suppose this is all to say that I need to be mindful of the fact that I do not need to structure every moment of her days in order for her days to be well-spent. I think we as mothers - as parents - can get too caught up in all of the "activities" that are out there, and feeling like we need to sign our children up for each and every one. My daughter's favorite thing to do right now is to sit at the dining room table with some play-doh and plastic cookie cutters and just make snakes and noodles and stars for a little while. She wants to put the play-doh right up to her nose and take a giant whiff and say "Yucky!" and break it all apart, only to stick it all back together again in a big hunk. This does not require me to change her clothes, put on shoes and socks, get into the car or out again. She requires only a hand to get up into the seat of the chair, and someone to get the play-doh and toys out for her. And she's in heaven.

We go to the co-op preschool through South Seattle Community College once a week. My daughter thinks this is the best place in the whole wide world. When we go to "school" there are stations of fun activities set up for her to play with, and she can just run around like a crazy person checking each one out. Her favorites are the play-doh table (of course), the sensory table (changing each week from water to rice to silky scarves), and the larger play area where there are things like slides and tunnels set up for all the kids. Then we have snack time, which is a little more challenging, as my daughter has to sit in a chair at a table and eat her snack, which is different from all the other kids' snacks, so she usually thinks she would rather have what some other child is having instead of her own thing, and also she wants to get down and go roll around on the mats some more with her orange slice instead of sitting in her seat, because she is just so gosh-darned excited to be there. Then we have music time, which involves all of the kids shaking little maracas and bells to songs like "Shake My Sillies Out" and sitting in their mamas' laps to sing more interactive songs. And then comes the most magical moment of the whole week for my daughter, in which she can hardly contain herself and literally squeals with delight: we sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" with all of the lights turned out, laying on our backs and looking at twinkling Christmas lights on the ceiling. For my daughter, this is IT. She grows quiet and still as a snail, and you can almost see her whole little body trembling with anticipation for the special song. She cannot stop talking about it all week long, and will positively tell anyone she meets about this experience.

I honestly wasn't sure if I wanted to do co-op preschool with my daughter (it does cost about $50 a month, plus some other small fees throughout the year - plus I have to do a "job" for the co-op, which requires more of my time, and we have to attend a once-a-month parents' meeting/training), but this visceral excitement my daughter shows over going to her "school" has sealed it for me, and I now feel bad if we are even a minute late. It also gives me confidence that my daughter will be okay leaving me eventually to go to "real" school, as her experience with the whole idea has been so positive thus far.

I wanted to also talk today about "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style," which I have been watching on Bravo each week (gosh it's been a long time). Here's my review so far: honestly I find it a little bit disappointing and lame. I was so excited for Tim to have his own show, but it quickly became evident to me that this is not at all Tim's own show; Tim is pretty much just the name, and the bitch for Bravo and Macy's hyper-advertising. I mean, every time the fashion-challenged woman goes shopping for her wardrobe, she has to go to Macy's. I honestly cannot think of a worse place to shop for an entire wardrobe, particularly if you're not sure of what you're doing. Macy's is a very scary place to me; it just seems to go on and on and on and no one ever seems to be able to help me with what I need. I went shopping there last spring for a new foundation, and I swear to God, the saleslady was like, "Well, here are all the shades - go ahead and try them on and see what you like best." Um, hello! I can do that at Bartell's! If you're charging me $50 for foundation, you'd better be sitting me down in a comfortable chair, giving me a hand massage, and applying that shit from a new bottle with special sponge applicator, followed by a full makeover. Anyway, that's my rant about Macy's. The other issue I have with this show is that Tim and Veronica Webb (certainly a fierce 80's supermodel but not a very likeable co-host and handholder to these women - I mean, would you want to go underwear shopping with a 6-foot tall ice queen? Okay, I guess I would, too, if she was taking me to La Perla and buying me whatever I wanted.) are just not hard enough on these women. My favorite makeover show ever was the BBC's "What Not to Wear" with Trinnie and Susannah, both fashion editors at Vogue. Those ladies were hard-CORE! They never held back, and hounded the women through their shopping experiences until they were breaking down, sobbing in the dressing room, but they actually did get them to get it right in the end. Plus, they were on British television, so they could say wonderful things like "That jumper makes your tits look like absolute rubbish!" AND, when they showed video of the women weeks later on that show, the women still had it together, for the most part. Tim's show is disappointing because the women all seem to go back to their old hairstyle and never seem to get the makeup on the right way again. I wish they didn't just recruit all of their women on that show from New Jersey, because I totally want to be on it. And I would be Tim's star student, except that I would be a little bit demanding, I'm afraid. I would be like, "And when you open the magic armoire, Tim and Veronica, I'd like there to be a Ferragamo Python Flap-Top bag and some matching pumps. That will be just what I need to inspire me for my day of shopping. What's that? Oh no, darling - of course you can't get those at Macy's! And I won't be doing any of my other shopping at Macy's either. We all know that Macy's sucks. I know you two would never shop there, and I want to be just like you."

In other news, the new ANNIE LENNOX album has come out!!! HOORAY!!! "Songs of Mass Destruction" looks like a winner - now I've just got to get my ears on it, girl. Lord knows I need something in the car besides the "Curious George" soundtrack and the compilation of random annoying children's music my daughter loves.

What else is new? Oh, well - fall is here. Boy, is it. It's raining and pouring here in Seattle and the leaves have turned overnight. Because of the chill in the air, I was inspired to make beef bourguignon and zucchini gratin (ooh la la!) for a great big family dinner, and it ROCKED. Thank you, Julia Child and Barefoot Contessa. More on Ina Garten later, as she is one of my all-time idols and I just want to go to her house in the Hamptons and sit by the fire, sipping whiskey sours, and having all my flowers arranged by a bunch of super-friendly, preppy gays. What a life.

Enjoy the new chill, and enjoy all of your fall and back-to-school memories.

September Morn

My daughter is sleeping as hard as she can right now, catching up from a day of running around the beach on Whidbey Island with her cousins and all of the excitement of trying to process everyone she met at my husband's family's mini family reunion out there. She is quite the social butterfly, ever concerned with where everyone is, how everyone is doing, and whether they need a "big hug." She wore herself out, poor thing. I wore myself out yesterday, too, being stressed about spending time with my husband's relatives and whether or not they would like my guacamole or my orzo salad (they always do like my dishes - why do I worry about this?) and whether one of his aunts would get in my business and say something terribly rude and offensive to me (she always does - why do I worry about this?). I guess I was just anticipating having to be "on" the whole day long (i.e., smiling appropriately and making sure I don't have lettuce in my teeth or a stain on my boob, limiting my political commentary and/or not stating that George W. Bush is a big fat dummy, and taking care not to say things like, "Why of course I modeled nude in college - it was for art!", plus chasing after my baby and trying to make sure she got SOME rest throughout the day so that she didn't erupt into tears at the drop of a hat or smack one of said aunties in the face because she was SO exhausted). But of course, it all went fine. I think I got out of there only mildly offending some of the Catholics/Republicans.

Anyway, these mornings when she sleeps in are so, so sweet for me. Now that the summer's activities finally seem to be winding down, I can actually sit back with my delicious americano (thanks, baby) and enjoy the weather we're having. It's the perfect temperature today - there's not too much sun yet, but the air is mild and pleasant. And the smell in the air - I always say it smells like California when it smells like this. I grew up spending a few weeks every summer at my grandparents' house in L.A. I woke up every morning there to the smell of their home, my grampy's Winston cigarettes and my grandmother's piles of fabrics next to the sewing machine in the sunlight. Their house was filled with beautiful, musty pieces from their young life in New England, and my grandmother flung the windows and doors open every morning to capture some of the last cool air. The smell of California for me is that smell - a cozy house with fresh iced tea in the refrigerator, a new jug of Arrowhead water in the dispenser, cat food in the bowl on top of the washing machine off the kitchen, and the essence of the sun warming all the world outside, promising another day filled with small adventures.

I can smell that smell now almost. I can smell the water and the salt. I can hear the sea lions far off barking to each other like that's the most natural thing to do right in the middle of a huge city on a Monday morning. I see a hummingbird out my back window and I wonder if many of these birds are going to try and get down to California before long.

Perfect

My daughter must be recovering from a rockin' weekend this morning - she's napping like there's no tomorrow, after waking up at 6am. Her naps are somewhat unpredictable these days, so it's impossible to map out my schedule around them. Add that to the fact that I am extra breathless and worn out from pregnancy, and there's not a whole lot that gets done during these quiet spells.

The last time I was pregnant, I remember having a very clean house all the time. I did a lot of cooking and threw elaborate dinner parties for my husband's extensive family. People asked how could I do it - wasn't I so exhausted - and the truth is I was, at the end, after all of the guests had gone. But I was exhausted in a very satisfied sort of way, not an, "I'm never f%&*ing doing THAT again" kind of way, like I would now. I used to believe that a pregnant woman was a woman who was about to be a mother, therefore she was a woman who needed to have her shit together. and keep it together until the last child was married off, at which point she could run off to Israel and join a kibbutz. Add this to the list of "Now I know better's." A pregnant woman is a woman who needs to chill out as best she can for nine months before beginning the Ironman triathlon of motherhood. A mother is a woman who tries to hold on to her femininity, her womanhood, her shit, once a child takes over every last aspect of her life. If she can run a brush through her hair once a day and prepare a meal once in a while, as well as talking her children out of tantrums at the grocery store, she has succeeded, to my mind. If she does all this PLUS goes around in shiny shoes and pressed pants and her shirts tucked in to reveal a lovely waistline, she is a freak and I don't want to be around her.

Which brings me to this question: Why do women want to be friends with women who share their same faults or weaknesses? Or, why do women come together over weaknesses? I heard Naomi Wolf speak at my sister's college graduation (she went to a women's college), and she addressed this. She challenged the graduates to surround themselves with strong, powerful women instead of seeking out women who would make them feel better because they were so lame (I paraphrase here). I've always thought about this, and here's what I think: Strong women, powerful women, are strong and powerful because they have weaknesses and because they've sorted them out or muddled through them to get to their strengths. I feel somehow that a woman who can't admit to her weaknesses is a woman who is trying to operate in a man's world, thereby isolating herself from her sisters. The man's way is to show a superhuman-ness, a strength-and-power-in-the-face-of-all-adversity kind of face, to the world. The woman's way, I believe, is to find connections with other human beings. To show that she cares, empathizes, with their struggles as well as their triumphs. A woman rises and falls, really, by the number of people who seek her out to share a thought, a feeling. A man rises and falls by how strong people perceive him to be.

So, I agree with Naomi Wolf ultimately. Women should seek out women who are strong, in the way that women become strong. We shouldn't seek out persistent losers, or women whose self-worth relies on the tidbits men throw them. We should love each other, build each other up. We should celebrate the lovely chaos of motherhood. Certainly there are some women who just innately have it together, even in the face of childrearing, and I really shouldn't hate them for it. I shouldn't wait for the facade to start crumbling down around them, either. Why do we do that, women? Why do we see a very slender woman and whisper to each other that she probably goes and throws up in the bathroom after she eats? Why do we see a very attractive woman and reason with ourselves that she must have a daddy complex or a drug problem or a huge ugly mole on her butt? I know it's because we're jealous, but why are we jealous? Because we fear that everyone's looking at that woman, thinking about how gorgeous/skinny/talented she is, and they're forgetting about us. Again. So we must reason that if we insert some negative thoughts into the atmosphere around the woman, somehow it will all balance out back in our favor again. But do we really want to be the one everyone is looking at and thinking about all the time? Do we really want to be that woman? God, what a chore that would be.

Are men not concerned with what people think of them? I don't believe this, but I do believe that the problem is more pervasive for women. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the shape of my belly (even pregnant!) or the clarity of my skin or the smell of my breath or whether I've sent a thank-you note out fast enough to someone or whether so-and-so liked my cooking or what I will do next to build my perfect-life resume somehow. In my moms' group, we meet once a week at different members' homes, and we all tell the other moms that it really doesn't matter what shape their house is in when we come to visit - all that matters is that we get to be with them. But each week we go to the home of some poor mother who has busted her ass to get the house all cleaned up and child-proofed and plates and glasses set out and cupcakes baked and frosted for the other moms. I am perhaps the guiltiest one of all, I'll admit it (maybe it's something about having an excuse to actually get the house cleaned up, for my own sanity). No one has yet just said, "Aw, screw it" and just left their floors unswept and told people to get whatever out of the fridge for themselves. We are all perpetuating the lovely myth of homemaking/hostessing perfection.

I'm not sure where this discussion started, or where it ends appropriately. I think about Hillary Clinton, and whether this country is ready for a woman president. Perhaps it is not the woman president - perhaps it is just Hillary that people may not be ready for. What makes a woman a great leader? I think it is when she is not afraid to lead like a woman, connecting with people through the wilderness of pain and misunderstanding, sharing her own faults honestly. Hillary is a bit of an enigma to me. I really don't get the whole thing with her husband - I happen to like Bill fairly well as a leader, but I think he completely dishonored his wife when he went around humping interns. And Hillary should have treated his actions as such. Instead, she seemed to go into super-robot mode and get to church more often and talk about their counseling. Blah, blah, blah, as my daughter says. No. He was a dick, and you should at least separate from him for six months and take a nice long vacation to Tahiti if you're in a real marriage. It all left me feeling like she was even more ingenuine than I had originally thought. Like Hillary is in nothing but a power-marriage, and the whole thing with Bill is swept under the rug so that her own campaign can go on and she can use his clout for her own political gain. But the problem is, I've lost the connection with Hillary because she never showed me a face of pain or anger along the way. She never went on Oprah and said, "I know what women feel like who have been cheated on, because I have lived through that experience myself." Maybe a man doesn't have to address these kinds of issues when running for office, and maybe that's wrong. But in my mind, a woman grows with each pain she endures and lives to tell about.

Pickling

I've been gone - off the radar - for almost a week now. My apologies. I've been mired in the swamps of nausea and exhaustion. I've been living on small pieces of cheese and saltine crackers, watermelon and ginger ale. It's been hard to imagine getting back to normal, and I've been getting a little freaked out at it all. I also went to Portland to visit my family while my husband went to eastern Washington on a fishing trip. A lot has been going on.

I went to the doctor on Friday for a checkup/ultrasound and to hand over some more blood, and they told me that my due date is March 20th, which puts me at about 8 weeks along tomorrow. Soooo, another couple of weeks of this feeling crappy crap. I've had enough. It was heartening to see the baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound, though. I remember that my daughter's heartbeat was very fast, and my mom and all those women my mom's age told me that meant I was having a girl. But this heartbeat didn't look quite so fast, so I can't help but to think that maybe I'll have a boy. That and this yucky morning sickness, which I don't ever remember having with my daughter. I feel like I've been just sitting around this time, watching my daughter play, with minimal movement. I feel like she must be so disgusted with me after a while, saying "No-no!" and "Not for babies!" from my perch on the couch. I am disgusted with me, that's for sure. She is such a sweet little girl, though - so patient and coming over to me to say "Kiss!" and to pat me on the back every so often. What a peach.

This morning when I went to use the toilet and she went over to her little potty, I told her she was going to try and go potty like a big girl today. I took off her pants and her diaper, and sat her on her plastic pot, but she kept getting up and walking around. I think she understood that I was asking her to produce, but I'm not sure the message got across that she needed to aim her production at the potty. Finally she walked over to the corner and peed standing up and said, "Mama, potty!" She was very proud of herself, and I praised her, but then I took her hand and tried to lead her mid-pee to sit on her potty. She managed to get one drop in the pot, so I would say that she's officially christened it. I am very proud of her. I probably should do some reading on the topic of potty-training before I go whole-hog with her, but I would say that was a very successful introduction.

What else? Speaking of whole-hog, I attempted to make pickles this weekend at my parents' house. I went with my mom to Sauvie Island, to a farm stand, and bought a bunch of pickling cucumbers and jars and vinegar and spices, and got started on my project on Sunday. My sister took the baby to the children's museum, so I had a few hours to myself. Let me just say that, as with every home-made item, there is an awful lot of prep time compared to the actual time of completing the task called pickling. You have to wash and dry all the jars, screw-tops, and lids. Then you have to wash all of the cucumbers really well (and I had 20 lbs.!). Then you have to set up all of your ingredients and set out like four pots with boiling water and your vinegar solution. Then you have to sanitize each jar by dipping it into boiling water (oh - and don't forget the tricky task of getting the jars back out again without cooking your hands!). And THEN you can pack the pickles and spices and pour the solution over them and screw the tops on and put them back in the boiling water to get the lids to seal. Whew! A lot of work for about 18 jars of pickles. And I have this fear that none of them sealed right so they're all going to go bad. We'll see - I'll let you know. It did feel really good, though, to start a big project like this and see it through to its completion.

I also saw my best girlfriend from high school this weekend. She has moved back to Portland from doing her OB/Gyn residency at Duke, and now has a 3-year fellowship at OHSU. What a smarty-pants. She's getting married to her long-time boyfriend this month, and she's anxious to get going on starting a family herself. It was so nice to see her - she's one of those friends where I can go months or even a year or so without seeing her, and then I see her again and we just catch right back up. There's never any awkwardness, and she and I share the same principles of etiquette. That is to say, we are considerate of one another's needs and situations, and we don't say rude things to one another - amazing! We went out to dinner and dessert and the food tasted wonderful and I didn't feel sick once - Hallelujah! But she did say to me something that has been on my mind since I saw her. She said, "So, are you going to come back to Portland ever?" And I wasn't sure what to say. And it made me feel sad. You see, I'm still at that stage here in Seattle where I love living here, and I love the friends we have made and the life we've built for our family, but if the opportunity presented itself and the cards were right, I'd move back there in a heartbeat. You bet your boots. Because that's where I'm FROM. I LIVE in Seattle, but I'm FROM Portland, and my struggle thus far has been to create more of an identity for myself in Seattle. I suppose it will just take time, blah blah blah. It may also take getting a job outside of taking care of my daughter, eventually, or doing something where I am having an impact on a community greater than my household. I want to love Seattle in the same way I love Portland, but I'm not quite there yet. I love various people in Seattle, but the city itself is still fairly foreign to me and holds little interest right now, aside from child-friendly activities and the occasional need for a good restaurant for a date with my husband. In Portland I have a whole city that I love - every last pocket - as well as the people (including my own family and a couple of childhood friends) who I love there. Anyway, it's still a challenge.

We saw "Young Frankenstein" last night. It was very good, although quite long and my husband and I kept getting sleepy. We are such old people now! Megan Mulally was hilarious in it, as was the guy who played Young Frankenstein himself. As always, it was very fun to go out and share an evening of adult activities. As parents we need to keep reminding ourselves that this is key to self-preservation and the preservation of our romantic relationships. Amen.

Cinderella

We picked up a bunch of VHS tapes of Disney movies at garage sales lately. What a score! It seems that we're the only family left in West Seattle with a VCR, but hey, that works for me. I love that I can pop in "Babe" or "The Lion King" or "Mary Poppins" at a moment's notice and have my daughter transfixed for a few golden moments while I do something like, say, go eat some Lorna Doone cookies.

That damned Lorna Doone! She's always in my thoughts lately, with her buttery shortbread goodness and instant hit of comfort to my stoic Scottish soul. If I don't slow down with her I may well exceed my 2-8 pounds' allotted weight gain in the first trimester which, honestly, I do not need to do this time around. Dammit! She's the best thing going since the Girl Scouts went away with their Trefoils last spring, though. Maybe I've accidentally discovered that hydrogenated cottonseed oil is the cure for nausea.

And Disney movies for me are a good way to make those big fat pregnancy tears fall down my cookie crumb-dusted cheeks. Good Lord - the opening sequence of "Lion King" never fails to leave me bawling. All that stuff about the zebras and the elephants (oh God, the elephants - one look at an elephant, especially a Disney-animated one, and I am a mess) and the circle of life makes me just whimper with joy and angst for the plight of those fictional animals.

This morning we watched a little bit of "Cinderella." The angry feminist in me was dreading the moment my daughter laid eyes on this film, the ruin of all girls' ideas about success and happiness in life, right? But oh, what a story! The ultimate makeover movie, really - Cinderella and that fairy godmother of hers sure showed those bitchy stepsisters who was really hot. And oh yeah - she gets the prince, too. I think there is some good to this story, if you really watch the movie again. There is nothing wrong with really, really wanting to go to a super-fun party at the big castle and looking awesome. And it's not as if Cinderella is some total dunce in the meantime. She does talk to the animals, after all (you don't just learn that overnight!), and she's taught herself how to sing very well and seems to have very good manners and a positive outlook in spite of her circumstances. She deserves to have a great time once in a while, I think. So she is the prettiest one at the ball - someone has to be! Are we always going to hate that girl, or are we going to applaud her for getting her whole package together quite well? I say congrats, Cindy! You're a gem!

This brings me to my own love life. Or my married love life. I believe that, ultimately, I have been very lucky in love. This is why it is also difficult for me to be so cynical about love stories. I dated a lot of guys before I met my husband. I was "trying on" lots of different styles of guys. Wait - that doesn't sound right. I was trying out different personas, perhaps, through the guys I dated. Which I'm not sure says a lot about my aspirations for myself in my early twenties. I dated mostly cooks and musicians (bassists), though there were one or two trust fund babies thrown in there so I could get some cool jewelry and nice dinners out. Let's be honest. I dated a black guy who was way into Steely Dan - very strange. The last guy I dated was an ex-Marine who had a rockin' bod and was a yummy mixture of Portugese, Japanese, and Puerto Rican, but was also, as it turned out, a great big homophobe. So that was it for him - yuck.

And then I met the one. I will spare you the details (people really should more often about these sorts of things, I think), but the bottom line is that we clicked. Just like I had always heard it was supposed to happen. I started talking to him, and he was talking, too, and we were listening intently to one another and we didn't want the conversation to end. We must have had about fifteen cups of coffee between us on that day, and he kept getting up to pee about every five minutes. He wore a silly trucker's cap on top of his head and his jeans sagging down his bottom and he was somewhat tattooed (enough that my dad, who answered the door, kept looking at me sideways and swallowing like he was either going to cry or crack up). He smoked the same cigarettes as I did and thought I was very interesting, and more importantly, he remembered what I said and thought about it and commented on it at a later time. It honestly was like I had always known him.

There were many hurdles to get over, not the least of which were law school in another city for me, the bar exam, and his penchant for late nights of role-playing video games with his geek-o friends. But we always came back to each other, because we always had to. For me it was like finding a long-lost close family member - you say, "Oh! This is the part of my heart that has been missing all along, even though I didn't know it was missing!" I love my husband with all of my heart. He is my heart. And the two babies we have made are my heart too. I never knew I could have so much love, and it only feels like there is more to come.

Next week my husband and I celebrate four years of marriage. I want you to know, love, that you're never getting rid of me. I have settled into this with you and it feels right as rain and you're it. You make me so happy and so sad and you make me just live my life to its fullest. Thank you for all of your gifts to me - I only hope I can share half as many with you. I love you!

Condos

My daughter knows the word "condo" now. It's because her mama and daddy talk about the condos constantly, and tsk-tsk the development up and down California each time we travel that way. We are house snobs now - we have the luxury of owning our own home on our own property, and even have a yard where our dogs can run around. I don't know that we have all that much against condos or townhomes, really. We just don't like the way THESE condos around here are shaping up, for the most part. They seem to be getting slapped up without much regard for the history and future of our community; they are unabashed symbols of capitalism. They are land-hogs, stretching their structures all the way out to their property lines, and all the way up to their coded height limits. They make me feel yucky. And P.S., What kind of people are going to live there? That also makes me nervous. And don't go telling me this is "affordable housing." These places are starting around $4-500K. So it's not going to be friendly, middle-class families who just want to live in a nice community. It's going to be single-ish, couple-ish upper-class-ish people who are choosing to spend their money to live someplace tacky, a.k.a. TACKY PEOPLE. Ugh.

I am not sad that structures like the burned-out Schuck's or the nasty Hancock Fabrics building (hey - isn't that also a Schuck's?) are getting torn down and revamped for mixed retail and living spaces. I just want to see more consideration taken for the values of the community when the new structures are designed. I have learned (and please correct me if this is inaccurate) that according to city restrictions, developers constructing buildings with eight townhomes/condos or less in this area do not have to go through any sort of community design review process prior to initiation of their projects. Ever notice that a lot of these places going up, particularly the really generic, disheartening ones, are exactly eight townhomes big?

Now onto the subject of Whole Foods. Honestly I have mixed feelings about this whole thing, though I'm not exactly sure how this is really going to affect me because I shop mostly at Safeway and Fred Meyer and WinCo (do you know about WinCo? An amazing place! I will save this topic for an entire post!), and generally more cheaply and inorganically. I know, I know - I should buy organic, blah blah blah, especially now that I am pregnant. But find me a store that sells organic for only slightly more than regular price, and washes off the dirt for me (why does it always have to be so dirty? I still believe it's organic without seeing the soil still on the leaves!) and I will go running with my hemp bag to load up. Ha ha. Until that time, it will be me with all the other rag-tags in our sweatpants at the Safeway, buying our non-dirty produce and discount meats. Not to mention the human drama that unfolds each time I shop there. Yesterday I saw a guy in the Safeway wearing a t-shirt that said "Hola Bitchola," shopping right next to a little old lady who had been bussed in from the nearby rest home. They smiled pleasantly at each other. Now, tell me when I would see that at PCC!

Sure, I love to go to Whole Foods occasionally when I visit Portland, and look at all of the gorgeous fruit stacked up perfectly, the tantalizing sausages in the meat case, the amazing fish section. I love to go to the cheese section when I have a little dinner party, and try fourteen samples of fresh cheese from all over the world before I pick one. And I love to look at all of the lovely desserts and the prepared foods section to get a little snack and lots of ideas for what I might whip up at home. It's a beautiful experience, really. And cheers to all those people who can do their weekly shopping there, buying bags and bags full of that awesome produce and meat and 360 brand rice cakes and bottled water and flax seed oil. You will probably go to heaven for filling your bodies with only the freshest, purest foods. But I do not believe that most of us can shop there like this. So I guess I wonder how these three stores - Whole Foods, Metropolitan Market, and PCC - are all going to survive in our little old neighborhood. I would hate to see Metropolitan Market have to leave West Seattle, for example, as I feel this is a wonderful, local community-minded business (although I do very little shopping there, either. It is a great place to get the occasional coffee, though! And of course the samples. And it's a good place to see some West Seattle gays.).

So, we shall see. Happy Friday, by the way!

Pregnant

Last week Wednesday I found out I was pregnant. Apparently, I'm about six weeks along now, and the embryo (or is it called a "fetus" at this point? I forget) is supposedly about the size of a peppercorn. I'm not exactly sure how far along, as my cycle's been all out of whack for a few months, so they have estimated from a blood test they took last week. Thank you, phlebotomist, for the lovely brown bruise I'm now sporting on my left arm.

I've had few symptoms, except for a monster headache that started about Sunday evening and stayed with me until Wednesday. Oh yes. I used to really be the Headache Queen - like get these horrible hormonal/migraine headaches that took over my entire body and would cause me so much pain I would vomit - until I had a child. Then they pretty much went away. Now they're back, apparently. With my last pregnancy, I managed to avoid coffee, alcohol, litter boxes, artificial sweeteners and most of that other "bad" stuff like the plague. I did still indulge in sushi at Azuma and stinky European cheeses. And I will again, dammit! And this time, I'm having a cup of coffee every morning. I've decided it's okay, and it's a hell of a lot better than getting a headache from lack of caffeine that turns into a migraine that lasts for three days. I did have to come to this on my own, though. I hate it when people shove their children in your face and say things like, "I had a glass of wine every day throughout my pregnancy with Beauregard, and look! There's nothing wrong with him!" Shut up - you're gross. As if your baby was this grand experiment about the REAL effects of alcohol on fetuses (all that stuff the doctors say is just a bunch of bunk, right?), and you've got living proof now that we all can have a cocktail with dinner every night. Blech.

I'm going to be talking (actually whining) about unsolicited advice from people when you're pregnant. Unsolicited comments in general. With my last pregnancy, I liked to play this trick on inappropriate people in supermarkets, etc., who would ask me when I was due. I liked to act really shocked and say, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean!" so they would have to stand there and flounder and try to think of how to now mask their idiotic comment. Some woman came up to me at Costco near the pillow section and she grabbed a body pillow and shoved it at me and she said, "You're going to need this." Shut up. Call me a grump (and I am kind of a grump today, and I will be frequently throughout the next nine months), but people need to censor themselves somewhat. A pregnant belly is not a cry for help, in and of itself. If I must cry for help, I'll just cry. Oh and I will just cry, too. Don't tell me anything about babies dying or conjoined twins having an operation to get separated or some child's plight with multiple sclerosis or diabetes or homelessness. I'll be a mess. I already am a mess, but you know, it will all just come out in your lap.

Anyway, right now this baby's just a peppercorn, so no one's talking to me at the grocery store usually. Except the elderly men who see my daughter and come up to me and say, "What aisle did you pick her up in?" Ha ha ha. I swear this has happened each of the last five times I've been at the Safeway. Maybe it's the same guy! And I always say, "I had a coupon," or "She was on special." Ha ha ha. What the hell is wrong with me?

And I am excited to house this new life. In general, my last was an excellent pregnancy. I cruised around (then waddled) for the entire blissful time. I was a little bit cranky and I got pretty tired of getting up to go to the bathroom all the time, but I loved having a big belly and I thought I looked pretty awesome. I also got really into the whole mother-one-with-earth thing. Not like Birkenstocks and all that - no way (see my last post) - I definitely still got my grub on at Jack in the Box and the taco wagon in Burien and wore heels that were too high for my pudgy legs. I just mean that I was continually amazed that my body could grow this other person, and I could be her first life source. That's pretty incredible to me.

Last time I knew it was going to be a girl. I bought her an outfit at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale (starts tomorrow!) before we even found out, and my husband yelled at me, but I just smiled because I knew. This time nothing strikes me right away. Perhaps I'm just being more reserved because now the chances are good again that it will be a boy. A boy would be good. I'm not such a boy kind of gal (one of two sisters), but I could learn how to do it for sure. I would try not to pressure him too much or dress him too effeminately, but I think I would secretly hope the whole time that he was gay. I'd be waiting at every turn to have "that conversation" about the gay neighbors or the man who wears foundation at the M.A.C. counter or the cheese guy at the market - you know. I mostly would just want him to learn to respect women, and to respect himself, and to not be afraid to do things like use lotion.

It's going to be different this time with a toddler in tow, I keep thinking. It already is different. What happened to that rule from last time about how you're not supposed to lift more than 20 pounds? Or you're probably not supposed to change poopy diapers or eat pieces of food that someone else has already slobbered on. I guess you don't have the same rules when you already have one. I keep trying to tell my daughter that mommy has a baby in her tummy, but she just smiles at me and says, "Owie. Tummy." Okay - I guess that's good enough for now. Another great journey begins. I'll see you tomorrow at the sale in the baby section. I'll be the one with the cup of coffee.