The Gutsy Girl

Making do

2012-02-16T15:12:00.001-05:00

Annie's Valentine's Day greeting, courtesy of Matt.

Every day I put my heart – my everything – in daycare for 11 hours. I hold my daughter tight and say, “You know your mommy loves you, right?” How many working mothers have said this before me?

I had a spectacularly bad day at work last Thursday. And then yesterday. My job is harder than I remembered. I cried. I have now cried at every job I’ve held. I’m not proud of this fact, but it is what it is: I am an emotional creature. I thought for maybe 30 seconds, “I do not NEED THIS, I do not deserve this, and I’m going to quit this f’in job!” but then I settled down, took a long shower, and went to bed to just get up and do it all again.

I bring magazines to read on my train ride home, but end up just staring at the person's head in front of me. I need a pause button: a timeout from my now life to visit my former life, just for an hour or two, where I had many less responsibilities. Where I wasn't pumping breastmilk all day long, and where, if I wanted, I could leave work and head straight to bed.

My day starts at 5:30 am when I rise and pump. At 5:50 I then go to my bathroom and get dressed, put on my make-up, do my hair, brush my teeth and take my pills. I do everything in the bathroom because Matt is still asleep, and because I'm stretched for time I have my outfit for the day already hanging on the door hook, and my shower already taken the night before. At 6:15 I exit the bathroom and wake the baby, whom I nurse until 6:45 am. I then pack my bottles for pumping, which Matt washed the night before, and her pre-filled bottles for daycare, and drive her to daycare. There I unpack her bottles, unpack her, talk to her providers, sign her in, and head to the train station. I'm at my desk in the city at 8:15 am. An hour and fifteen minutes after I arrive, it's time to pump again. I dutifully grab my pump parts and bottles and head to the fourth floor where they have a lactation room for working mothers. I also pump around 12:30 pm and 3:30 pm.

The baby is tired too. Matt picks her up from daycare and she is either asleep or irate (or irate because she's so sleepy, presumably). I nurse her for a good long while and then she's through with us. "That's it!," she says. "I had the boob and now I'm ready for bed!" My little girl, who used to look me in the eye and smile and coo now gazes off into space with droopy eyelids. Actually, she looks pretty stoned. Her head bobs to the left, a little more to the left, and she quickly jerks it back up again, fighting her fatigue.

This morning my daughter smiled slightly at me, but beamed at Fran, who watches her at daycare. I laughed and said I’d glad she’s finally getting used to daycare and that she likes it here (and that is so true), but cried on my way to the train station three minutes later.

A tug and pull that doesn’t cease.

Not that’s it’s all bad, because it certainly isn’t. My long commute is my time. Buying a coffee and drinking it at my desk is all me, too. I have missed that. I have missed conversing with my wonderful team members, and meeting my dear friend for lunch. And the continuous churn of the pump in the lactation room isn’t all that bad, either: I’m proud she’s only had breastmilk and I feel closer to her as I fill the next day’s bottles. I used to tearfully tell Annie that I was doing all of this for her. But I now know it’s for both of us.

So we’re making do: perhaps not gracefully and definitely not perfectly (and when was I ever graceful or perfect?!), and we both have our crying spells – me at my desk, her in her bouncer - but every morning when we pull into daycare I know both of us girls are making our way, together. And I am proud.

Work tomorrow

2012-02-05T19:59:00.000-05:00

The dichotomy of two very (white) things: one practical, one emotional. My freezer milk stockpile, above (go me!), and my bear cub, below.

Tomorrow I return to work. It's been a wrenching weekend (emotionally and literally): I had my first bout of food poisoning in my life starting on Friday evening. Saturday was a feverish haze spent in the bathroom and shivering in bed. Today is a bit better but I'm terrified about navigating my train commute sans bathroom (yikes!).

My hat's off to all working moms: I don't know how you do it, but I'm going to try my darndest.

Returning to work

2012-01-23T13:56:00.003-05:00

Annie at two months (1/21/2012)

Busy season at my workplace has begun again. I see coworkers' status updates ("Off to LAX!") and my chest tightens, I breathe heavier, and of course, I cry. I am a very good crier and do it daily. I do not want to go back to work, although I'm working on that.

I don't know how women do this: fight against basic biology, or I don't know, evolution. This magnetic pull to stay with you child: to breathe them - just inhale them - all day. To fight against every nurturing instinct. Whatever you wish to call it. Every part of me aches to be home with Annie, and lord help me I didn't know I could love this fiercely, but here I am sitting on the couch at nap time listening to "Annie's Song" by John Denver (I'm a bad cliche) and making myself miserable. I'm a ball of spit-up (hers) and snot (mine), and I think things like, "How can they understand her like I do? I'm her MOM!" and I realize I'm just spouting hooey bologna because for the most part I'm just floundering myself, grasping at newborn straws. Almost all of her cries end with me nursing to calm her, and I frustrate myself, knowing her caregivers can't do the same while I'm at work and I'm probably setting her up for daycare failure. And because I'm neurotic I think about that: I am contributing to my child's eventual status as being the daycare delinquent because she bellows for breast milk on demand and I comply. "Oh, that Annie," they'll sigh. "She and her mom are a real piece of work. Two codependent peas in a pod, those two."

My boss, a new working mother herself, told me, whatever I do, don't read the children's book "Owl Babies". Of course, I Googled it on the spot and it's about three baby owls who wake up one night to find their mom missing, and during the course of the book they growing increasingly sad and anxious that she won't return, but she does, finally, after a nighttime hunting trip, and says she will always be there for them. So I'm sitting there, reading this, and it's supposed to be good and therapeutic for kids who suffer from separation anxiety but all I can do is wail, "She's going to miss me! She's going to think I've abandoned her!" to Matt, who has absolutely no qualms with putting her in daycare. "I'm more worried about you," he said.

I am a mess.

And the funny thing is: I wasn't happy the first month holed up at home (talk about having your cake and eating it too). I wasn't born a mother during her birth: for me, it was a learned gig these past two months. Obviously, I still don't know what I'm doing - I'm been a mom for nine weeks for crying out loud! - but each passing day has become more and more a gift, until, suddenly, it's hard for me to recall the days before she was here. This is my new natural.

That's not to say I don't miss normal adult things. Oh, how I miss office gossip. That's a big one. I accost Matt nightly when he walks through the door. "What's new?! What's the OFFICE GOSSIP?!" I seriously say this. Matt is not one to gossip, but I think I'm a bad influence on him as he now comes home with a tidbit or two for me to chew on. I'm voracious, though, and always want more.

And I miss the momentum a job brings. I do not miss the work, but I miss how it got me out of bed and dressed everyday, onto a train, to a cubicle, and made me some money. Now I'm sniffing yoga pants to see which ones are the freshest to wear on my big jaunt to the grocery store.

Matt says I'm like an old person now when they complain about all they have to do, but "all they have to do" usually is comprised of going to the post office and picking up a prescription. He'll ask me what's on my and Annie's roster for the following day, and I'll actually say things like, "Oh, it's a busy day! I have a doc appointment and then I was thinking of walking around Target or something."

That's not to say I'm not trying to get out of the house. I have thought about infant yoga, but I'm already self-conscious enough walking into a yoga studio, so how the hell am I going to feel when Annie starts crying during downward dog? Can I plop out my boob then? I did find an infant massage course (yes, there is such a thing) in March that Matt and I may entertain. And then the other week I was determined to meet other deliriously happy but frustrated moms so Annie and I hightailed it to our hospital's breastfeeding support group. It did not go as planned.

I am an introvert but can put on a show if absolutely necessary (e.g. work functions). When I arrived it was obvious most of the women knew one another and I just sat there like a big tool. I wasn't sure what the protocol was until I saw they stripped down their kids and brought them to the lactation consultant running the show for the weekly weigh-in. So, between you and me, I thought a lot about how I wanted to be perceived at this thing. Thus, Annie was donning her Fuzzibunz. For those not in the know, they are cloth diapers. And for those really not in the know, yes, Matt and I are cloth diapering (so help me god when this kid starts eating solids). The cloth thing was totally Matt's idea. We use disposable on occasion (overnight trips, when she looks a bit irritated and I need to apply cream). I thought, finally!, a good use of my crunchy granola mom cloth diapers! I'll have the kiddo don them to this breastfeeding meeting where surely other crunchy moms will nod in approval! I really thought this and since these diapers come in a slew of colors, chose a fashionable mint green for the meeting.

So the protocol is you hand your diaper-clad kid to the lactation consultant, remove the diaper while your child is in the lactation consultant's arms, and then she will place him or her onto the scale. I'm not sure why the parent just doesn't plop the kid down, but that's how it goes. So there I was, taking off Annie's fabulous green Fuzzibunz, and wouldn't you know it, she decides it would be a marvelous time to take a pee. Onto the lactation consultant. I start screeching and apologizing and holding the diaper under her to catch the urine, but it was really just a hopeless mess. That's when the lactation consultant said nevermind, it's fine, but "isn't she quite the pudge!" The woman then placed Annie (poor thing was probably scared) onto the scale where she decided her work for the day wasn't done, and another good urination was in order. The other women in the group laughed and one said, "Oh, what a newbie! Well I guess she is christening the scale!" I just stood there and laughed awkwardly.

We haven't been back since.

So here I am. I go back to work in exactly two weeks. My team has been amazing and gracious regarding my pregnancy and now my return (like taking all over my overnight trips this spring! Thank you, thank you, thank you!). In fact, Annie and I visited the big city this past week to have lunch with them and attend a meeting. I don't know if this is just my kid or completely normal, but her poops are high-velocity power squirts that can put a room at standstill. Obviously, she graced us with one of these butt-blasters during the meeting. You have to love that in a baby; she'll have her whole life to learn manners and what is proper. When else can you just let it rip and look really pleased with yourself?

I really love that kid.

First snowfall (1/21/2012)

Asparagus and Zucchini Veloute with Parsley

2012-01-13T17:34:00.001-05:00

I know what you’re thinking: what is a veloute? Look, you’re obviously not cultured. I know this because I’m entirely uncultured and recognize uneducated provincialism when I see it, so I had to Wiki this bad boy and I found out it’s French, and is “is one of the sauces of French cuisine that were designated the four “mother sauces” by Antonin Careme the 19th century. The French chef Auguste Escoffier later classified tomato, mayonnaise, and Hollandaise mother sauces as well. The term velouté is from the French adjectival form of velour, meaning velvety.”

Oh. Of course.

Anyway, I’m thinking the editors of Vegetarian Times are really up on their high horse because this dang recipe is a SOUP, not a sauce. But it’s made in a roux form (lots of butter and flour) so I suppose I’ll let it pass. And I admit: it’s totally velvety. I served with good quality croutons (excellent in a pinch when no crusty bread is on hand) and a sprinkling of Romano cheese. I slurped that sucker up!

Asparagus and Zucchini Veloute with Parsley

Recipe courtesy of Vegetarian Times

1 16-oz. bunch asparagus, trimmed and coarsely chopped
1 ½ cups veggie broth
1 zucchini, coarsely chopped (about a cup)
½ tsp. salt
4 Tbs. butter
4 Tbs. flour
¼ cup finely chopped fresh parsley
Optional: bread, croutons, or cheese for serving

Bring asparagus, broth, zucchini, salt and 2 ½ cups water to a simmer in a medium saucepan. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer 15 to 20 minutes, or until veggies are tender. Transfer to a food processor or blender, and blend until smooth.

Melt butter in same saucepan over medium heat. Stir in flour, and cook 3 to 5 minutes, or until browned. Add pureed soup mixture, and cook over medium-low heat until soup is thickened. Season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with parsley.

Pad Thai

2012-01-04T18:12:00.001-05:00

I love spaghetti, so it's only fitting that I love the Thai equivalent of my go-to carbo classic, Pad Thai. I love me some Pad Thai! Every time I go out for Thai I say, "Kathryn, don't be so lame and order the pad Thai again, you fool," and, I shouldn't - I mean, heck, there are lots of green and red curries that are absolutely to-die-for - but I cannot squash the call of the this classic, and oh-so-simple, noodle dish. Oh man does it beckon. And when food calls your name, you must oblige. (I have this same philosophy when it comes to Oreos and really anything with a crinkly wrapper.)

Pad Thai is a street food in Thailand; it's cheap, quick, and easy. I read that it should optimally be whipped up in small batches, but I love me some short cuts, so here's a large recipe for the taking. You can add radish if you'd like, or tofu in addition to shrimp or chicken. Really anything goes. Well, except the tamarind. The tamarind gives it that slight bitterness and is an absolute necessity. I found a large jar of the stuff in the Indian section of my local grocer for about four bucks. I guess I'll be making a lot more Pad Thai with that, but I'm not complaining!

Pad Thai

1/4 cup fish sauce
2-3 Tb. brown sugar
2 Tb. tamarind concentrate mixed with 1/3 cup water
1 tsp. chili pepper flakes
1 package rice noodles (12-14 ounces, usually)
2-3 glugs of canola or olive oil
6-8 garlic cloves, minced
4 eggs, mixed (as if you were to make scrambled eggs)
1 tsp. salt
3 cups bean sprouts
1-2 bunches scallions, chopped
1 cup ground peanuts
Either: 1 lb shrimp/chicken/tofu, previously sauteed
1 lime, cut into wedges to dress dish
cilantro, to garnish (optional)

Prep rice noodles according to package directions (usually they need to soak in cold water for about 30 minutes).

Prep the sauce: over medium heat, blend fish sauce, brown sugar, chili flakes, and tamarind concentrate mixture. Then, in a wok or large skillet, add garlic and eggs to hot oil. Scramble the eggs. Then add your protein and noodles. Stir. Add sauce and salt and stir into noodles mixture. Noodles should soften quickly (2 minutes or so). Quickly stir in peanuts, scallions, and bean sprouts.

Serve with additional peanuts - if desired - and a lime wedge. Makes four large servings.

Winter walk

2011-12-28T15:54:00.001-05:00

Took the ol' pooch out for a walk this afternoon to try to get on her good side again. She was our first (and only) baby for 4.5 years, and was none too pleased when a human pup joined our little clan. Penny is the most gentle dog I know, and has never shown any aggression, but lately she has been sitting in her little corner looking lost and forlorn.

We both enjoyed our little outing: cold and blustery but it was wonderful to get out of the house, just the two of us.

Thank you, 2011

2011-12-27T21:30:00.000-05:00

What a difference a year makes.

Last Christmas we were nursing our failed IVF wounds, and this year we celebrated with our one-month-old daughter. That is some crazy stuff right there.

The more I speak about infertility (and I do because I'll never understand how the whole thing got so taboo, and I'm not one to hold back if you've noticed) more and more couples come out of the woodwork saying they did/are having trouble themselves. How the heck did this biological imperative become so damn hard?!

Matt and I decided we won't shy away from telling Annie how she came to be: we want her to know how very badly we wanted her to be here and how modern medicine played such a substantial role in her existence. I want her to know about the long drives to the clinic, the crazy scenarios we found ourselves in (me constantly in the stirrups, Matt having to, uh, give numerous samples in the clinic's multiple "male specimen rooms" complete with ample porn selections), and how we waited for the embryologist calls after the IVF extraction telling us how our little blastocysts were growing. On our first IVF attempt nothing divided past the two-cell stage, but Annie's cycle resulted in many beautiful eight-celled little buggers. In a way, this is her first baby picture:

I often wonder if the right or left blastocyst came to be our daughter. The whole thing is mind-boggling.

It's not lost on me how very fortunate I am. In terms of infertility our stint was not exceptionally long: we tried to conceive for a year and nine months before hitting the fertility jackpot with our positive pregnancy test. We started right outta the gate from my April 2009 surgery (literally - I remember asking my surgeon - and I swear this on all that is holy - "Can my surgery incision, like, bust open with a growing baby stomach?"). I am obviously not cut out for a career in medicine.

After a solid six months of TTC ("trying to conceive" for the fertile bunnies out there) we went to our ob/gyn who performed a few tests and put us on Clomid to regulate my cycle. After a solid year of TTC we met with our reproductive endocrinologist. And then after two monitoring cycles (one sans meds and one with), four medicated IUI (intrauterine insemination) rounds, and two IVF rounds I had a bun in the oven and about 10 fertilized cells in the freezer. It sounds so easy when I put it like that, but I will never forget the tears that cling to this process.

I recently saw this PHOTO ESSAY ON INFERTILITY on Slate, and I cried like a baby paging through the author's account of her journey. The slide with medications piled high on her kitchen table? I still have a stockpile in my closet and just recently threw out the refrigerated stuff during my eighth month of pregnancy. It's hard letting go of thousands of dollars of meds - even if they're expired and I'm already pregnant. The photo of her sticking herself in the car? Check! I distinctly remember sticking myself in the car in a dingy parking garage in Philly. The place had cameras set-up all around and I remember thinking the footage probably looked like I was doing something pretty nefarious as I stabbed my stomach roll. Everything about the essay rang true: the damn ultrasound wand (we knew one another in a very intimate way), the near daily blood draws and subsequent nurse phone calls going over all my levels and dictating next steps. When you're going through infertility the game plan can change almost daily: the medication dosage is constantly tinkered with or now they need to see you tomorrow morning for monitoring when you, say, have a morning meeting. (I can say a lot of things about my last job, but I'll leave it on a positive note and just say this: they gave me the utmost flexibility during my unending appointments, and for that I am grateful).

I'm not sure why I'm writing all of this. Partially I'm just taking stock of how far Matt and I have come. Partially it's in response to a few conversations I've had with other women TTC: this process is absolute drudgery and there is no time when it's more pronounced than during the holidays.

I want to wish everyone a very happy new year, and I hope anyone who may be reading this who is going through infertility will find solace in the possibilities a new year can bring: I know 2011 has flipped my world upside down in the best way possible.

Here we are today lounging on the couch; Matt took this photo to show off Annie's swanky new sock monkey pants her Aunt Priscilla knitted for her. That kid is gonna be such the little hipster.

Post-pregnancy: Crohn's and baby love

2011-12-17T12:31:00.001-05:00

This was the front of our holiday card this year. The photo is courtesy of Matt's super duper coworker who moonlights as a photographer, Jamie (check her out if you're in suburban Philly!), and the card is from Minted.

Annie is tucked away in her Moby wrap with Dad, so that finally (woohoo, finally!) means I have a few moments to type.

On Crohn's: I went through a good week where my digestive system was absolutely, pitifully out of whack. It started about five days after Annie's delivery, which was not very fun as I was still in the heat of recovery from my (sigh) episiotomy. You know you have a good marriage when your husband, very straight-faced, says after one of my bathroom runs, "Is your butt clean? (Thank you, honey.) You should soak your butt in a bath so everything can heal." (In truth, I ran several baths were I stole Annie's Burt's Bees bubble bath and I really do think it made everything better.)

Everything has settled down (I think I may have simply eaten some food that didn't agree with me) and I'm continuing with my maintenance medication, Pentasa. My GI said to up my dosage following my delivery, but because my symptoms are currently in-check, and I'm breastfeeding, I'm very hesitant to do so. There has been very little research on mesalamines and breastfeeding (although it is certain they do pass into the mother's breast milk), but due to the drug's category B status, there is currently little direct evidence of side effects to the baby except for an increase in diarrhea, although I still feel very "iffy" about the whole thing. I think it's all about a balance of what's good for her, and for me, and it's something I will discuss when I see my doc in a few weeks.

On Motherhood: I spoke to my boss the other day and said very succinctly, "I love her to death, but I don't think I'm in love with motherhood yet." I know it sounds harsh (and I thought about whether or not to even type this), but these past few weeks I've just felt out of it. I miss being a part of humanity (even the crush of my god awful commute at times!). I miss walking around the corner at work for a cup of coffee. I miss my alone time where I could cuddle up with a good magazine in bed. And even though I'm getting a decent amount of sleep, I am exhausted. Now when friends reach out (often over Gmail chat) I slowly peck out my responses with one hand, as I'm invariably holding and feeding her with the other. How comes no one writes about this stuff?

The last few days, though, have been an absolute ball of bliss and I'm so relieved: her personality is coming out more and more and I'm finally interacting more and more with the little bugger. I'm learning her grunts (and no, she does not coo, but grunts like an extra on The Walking Dead, and it's the dearest thing ever) and yesterday she had a blast grunting at her reflection in the mirror! She even smiled! We dance and look at the Christmas tree (she is absolutely, positively transfixed by the lights) and I'm starting to finally feel like more than a feeding trough. I think she's beginning to really know Matt and me, and by golly, I think she likes us! I return to work on February 13th, and I can safely say that date gets harder and harder to think about each and every day, and I've already had a few crying spells about it: 13 weeks just seems too young to put a little one in daycare. It doesn't feel right at all, but it's our game plan for now.

Well, time to feed (but of course!). Later we may go on a Trader Joe's outing and who knows what else the day holds in store for us. I do know, however, it will be wonderful: I'm loving these little moments with Matt and Annie (or Jo-Jo as he calls her).

Bathing beauty

2011-12-16T15:26:00.001-05:00

This photo absolutely terrifies me.

I think it's safe to say Annie's first real bath was a complete, and utter, success.

Fussy little one

2011-12-06T20:30:00.000-05:00

Oh, Annie. Today has been tough, and I know it only gets more challenging from here on out! Our little girl cried for most of the day and I'm afraid I've gotten into a, "What's wrong? What's wrong? Are you hungry? Here's the boob!" sort of rut. I'm stuffing my breast in her face every time she gets upset, and I swear the kid sucked me dry today. (TMI??)

Speaking of breastfeeding, I have been very lucky. She has latched without too much trouble from our first night and we only had one hiccup in our first week when my breasts became engorged and I had to bring out the pump for two days. I know, I know; I'm on TMI overload these days. But, whatever, it is what it is, and it's natural. I love breastfeeding! First of all, it's cheap, and I'd much rather spend our cash on adorable baby outfits - or chocolate cake and Target runs, in my case - than formula. It's also, of course, good for her and I love the convenience factor. And of course the closeness it brings between us (more so on my part because that barracuda is sucking away and doesn't have time to stare into my eyes the way I stare into hers).

Right now she's sleeping on my chest and I am TERRIFIED TO MOVE. Matt is out playing basketball and I have to go the bathroom. Yes, these are my "big" problems these days.

From one of the more quiet moments this afternoon - my two loves:

Welcome, Annie!

2011-12-02T13:00:00.000-05:00

This post has taken so long because I write in five-minute spurts; my little firecracker always has other plans! I suppose it mimics the pulse of my days now: I measure everything by feedings and diaper changes and hugs.

I adore this photo. This is Matt and Annie first thing in the morning. (I just realized he looks naked here. No worries though; I swear the boy is wearing boxers!)

It's Wednesday and Annie has been home for a week. Matt returned to work this morning, and although it's nice for one of us to return to a routine - a set schedule - I already miss the three of us holed up in the house and his gentle teaming style as he cared for Annie. I've always wondered how having a child would alter our relationship, and although it's too early to see the changes, and that only time will tell, this week's sneak peak is everything I could have asked for. I am so in love with my little family.

I went into labor early in the morning on Monday the 21st. My pregnancy was sublimely easy, but the Sunday prior there was a marked difference: basically, I was finally very uncomfortable. (Thus my charming 11/20 blog post!) I awoke at 3 am on Monday morning and went downstairs checking the news, leaving pithy messages on Facebook indicating the kid was never going to come, and then at 4:45 I started not feeling well. I knew this could be a precursor to labor, but also knew it could damn well be anything due to Crohn's. I woke Matt up and told him I wasn't feeling well and ran to the bathroom and lo and behold, my water broke (only after a careful inspection with Matt that I wasn't indeed just, you know, peeing or something). I showered and he took Penny out and finished packing and we made it to the hospital shortly before 7 am. My contractions were about four minutes apart on the ride over.

The business of being admitted into the hospital was almost as laborious as having the baby itself. We arrived at the 7 am shift change and there was a general nonchalance to the ward. Obviously, these ladies have seen thousands of kids being born, but I think we spent no less than 45 minutes on paperwork (even though I pre-registered and went through all these questions on an earlier visit). This was all fine and good, but the whole time I was thinking, "Shouldn't someone be checking the vajayjay or something?!" There was no vajayjay checking to be had! I felt I had to be at least 8 cm by this time. Obviously, when I was finally checked around 8, it was a measly 4-5 cm. Oh. I guess now I understand the nonchalance.

Let me stop here and tell you Matt and I had a birth plan. It was short and sweet but said things like I wanted to labor as long as possible (and stay on my feet) and then receive an epidural, if desired. It said I didn't want an episiotomy. It said we wanted delayed cord cutting, skin-to-skin contact immediately after the birth, and have the baby with us at all times. Now I will say this: None of this actually happened.

It was really balmy this past weekend so we took a quick stroll through the neighborhood.

Because I was progressing quickly and my contractions were now two minutes apart (and doi, because I'm a sissy), I requested the epidural at 8 am promptly. Obviously, an anesthesiologist isn't magically summoned and poof they're there, so we completed my paperwork, monitored the baby, finally checked under the hood, and they paged the doctor. By 9 am he was there with his epidural cart. He tried for 30 minutes and three different times to insert the epidural to no avail. It's a bit unnerving to have someone repeatedly stab you in the spine, but heck, I was focused on some pain relief here! Stab away! He thought he finally got it (apparently I have tight vertebrae) and went on to his next victim....I mean, patient. My pain didn't subside so he returned and after another 20 minutes said he'd have to find a colleague to attempt this. Then he muttered something and left.

At this point some may say, "Why didn't you just go the natural route?" I mean, I was progressing quickly, but here's the thing when you're progressing quickly: that shinizzle hurts!! I have the utmost respect for women who have natural births, but I feel I've been through enough physical pain with my Crohn's, and I had no desire to not take the more comfortable route to delivery. By 10:30 another anesthesiologist arrived and shortly before 11 the epidural catheter was in and functioning properly and I was feeling sweet, sweet relief. So much, in fact, I turned on the TV to watched a little "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" (for real, yo) for a few minutes. As I was enjoying my really sub par reality programming, my nurse started moving the fetal monitor around and frowning. Then she called in another nurse who did the same thing. I was scared and asked if the baby was okay. I remember getting upset and one of the nurses patting me and saying everything would be fine, they're getting the doctor and the slowed heartbeat was probably because the baby was so deep in my pelvis. Then the other nurse checked my dilation and she yelled, "OH, SHE'S READY!", and paged a member of the NICU team because "We have a meconium birth here!" and my doctor was in the room.

Matt was confused. I was confused. Our doctor, a man I hadn't met previously except for two minutes when I was admitted, instructed Matt to lift one of my legs and for me to grab the other and said, "Okay, now!" I distinctly remember saying, "What do you mean?! Push NOW?!?!" You have to understand in about two minutes I went from tacky TV-viewing to having a kid. I thought this would take hours! I had a whole birth playlist, damnit! I mean, the thing had Enya! That's some serious stuff, right there! We didn't even turn over our typed-out birth plan to the medical team since the whole morning was spent on the epidural fiasco.

"Yes, now!" he said. By now my nether regions were blissfully numb and I pushed. He seemed pleased and asked me to push again. Matt was there and staring at everything wide-eyed, but not making a peep. I had no idea what the situation was, and certainly wasn't getting any intel from him. The doctor then said to take one more push and the man grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and since were were in the heat of battle here and a whole nursing team was waiting (where did these women come from?!) I complied and felt what can only be described as being "opened up" and a lot of pressure. Due to the epidural, it was only uncomfortable and I saw Matt's face flicker with could only be described as dumb-struck man awe. There was a pause as the doctor aspirated the baby and then he said for me to grab the baby's arms and pull him or her out. I reached down and the baby slithered out and I can honestly say it was probably the most profound and surreal moment of my life. I know, I'm terribly cliched. And this is not good writing on my part, but it's impossible to capture that feeling and that moment. (Not that the whole thing was sunshine from the heavens or something. Matt commented later the room "looked like a scene from Dexter". Lovely.)

The nurse reminded the doctor we didn't know if we were having a boy or girl and he held her up and I swear on all that is holy I thought, "Now what is going on down there; that's not a scrotum is it?!" After a pause from Matt and I - the doctor -who thought we must have been serious grade-A twits, said, "It's a girl!" (Both male and female genitalia is swollen and appears over-sized upon birth. I even asked Matt if he was slightly confused for a hot second and he exclaimed, "YES!")

And so that is the story of how our 8 pound, 4 ounce Joanna Rose Hopkins came into this world at 11:15 am on Monday, 11/21/11. Only later did I understand the need for an episiotomy and having to deliver her quickly due to the risk of her inhaling meconium during birth. But in all, even though nothing really went according to my notion of labor, it was a picture-perfect delivery. And by that, I mean things happened quickly (and isn't that what you want?!). I labored drug-free for several hours and progressed at a nice clip, and when I did finally receive the epidural it was time to push. By 12:30 I was in my room enjoying an open-faced turkey sandwich (realizing my love of food - even hospital food - this should not surprise you).

And now here we are. It's Friday today. We were shocked Annie was a she; everyone said we were having a boy and you start to believe it, but I couldn't be more overjoyed to raise a girl. Matt is equally smitten. Facets of her personality are already making an appearance: she is often resolute and stubborn and gives us looks that can only be interpreted as, "Really? I mean, REALLY?" I think we have our work cut out for us, and I couldn't be more pleased or in love.

Mr Mom; Matt has Annie in our Moby wrap.

Joanna Rose

2011-11-21T23:09:00.001-05:00

This morning at 11:15 we welcomed our daughter, Joanna Rose, to our little family! She is 8 lbs 4 oz and 20 3/4 inches long - not quite the "monster baby" our doctors purported she'd be! She came swift and furiously, and we hope her life is filled with as much passion as her arrival. We couldn't be more in love with our little "Annie".

So much more to come, but thank you for your support, comments, and well wishes - it has meant to the world to me in our journey to parenthood (and here we go...eeek!).

Kathryn and Matt

Still Waiting....and waiting...

2011-11-20T10:34:00.001-05:00

I Google-imaged "late baby" and this image came up. I don't know what to make of it, but obviously it needed to be posted.

It took us almost two trying years to conceive, and nine slow months in utero, and now this sucker has the audacity to curl up with a good book and settle down for the long haul nestled in my pelvis. I am three days late, which I know isn't much, but lord almighty if it doesn't feel like three months.

"Your baby's head is right there!" exclaimed the ob/gyn on Friday. Since I see different doctors in the practice I pointed out that the baby's head has been "right there" for the better part of a month now. "But you're about 75% effaced as well!" Look, lady, I was like that last week. And the week prior.

Then my mother, who had both me and my sister early (and was resolute when she said I was absolutely going to have this kid early as well), said she was doing some research on late babies, and 1) that our baby was surely going to have a cone-head because he/she has been deep in my pelvis for so long, and 2) "you know that the later they get the bigger they get, right? And then sometimes they can't get them out."

Thank you mom!

I've tried everything to evacuate this kiddo:

1) Dutifully watching YouTube videos on pressure points that supposedly stimulate labor and having Matt be my personal masseuse.
2) Sex (having sex to try to get a baby out is about as equally fun as having sex trying to get a baby in, let me tell you that, particularly because it's often at 4 am when I can't sleep and Matt is awoken from deep slumber - hehehe).
3) Walking (this really only helps with the baby "dropping", but mine has been as low as it can go for a month)
4) Jumping up and down like a banchee
5) Making deals with baby, e.g. "If you come out now maybe I won't be so anti-video game." (Total lies, I will always be anti-video game.)
6) Taking the non-express train home from work hoping all the bouncing and shaking "will do something".
7) Crying and complaining

That's about it.

On Monday I have a non-stress test, which is just simple protocol for later babies, and monitors the baby's movements and heartbeat, ensuring everything is a-okay. At that time we'll schedule my induction, which will be sometime after Thanksgiving. I didn't think I'd be at Thanksgiving stuffed like a damn turkey, but there you go.

Matt is much more zen about the whole thing: "You had such an easy pregnancy and you should be happy our baby made it to full-term," he says. The only acceptable response to this is a death stare. Obviously.

Three bowls of soup and a baby (well, not yet)

2011-11-12T10:24:00.001-05:00

"The only way to expedite things is to have sex. Oh, and nipple stimulation," my doctor said. This is possibly the least sexy thing you can hear in an examination room with your doctor rummaging around your cervix. (And a great opener to a simple soup blog post!)

For the past three weeks I've been dilated at a measly 2 cm, which means...nothing. For the past two weeks I have been 70% effaced (effacement measures the thinning and softening of the cervix), which means...nothing (but you gives you a freaky mental image). For the last four weeks the baby has been "fully engaged", meaning it's at 0 station, or as far down in the birth canal he or she may go, and is "lock and loaded". Apparently this doesn't mean too much either. The baby can come today, or weeks from now. I am due in four days.

Now, first babies being late is normal, but let's get something straight, here: exactly one week after my due date is Thanksgiving. This bambino will NOT mess with my turkey dinner. Nothing keeps me from my stuffing, damnit.

Speaking of food, I've been doing less cooking but whipped up a simple Moroccan stew tonight. I love soups and stews because they are 1) healthy, 2) inexpensive, and 3) yield enough for at least 2-3 dinners (aka cater to my lazy-ass-ness). Of course, I make any stew less healthy serving it with baguettes (or tortilla chips if it's any sort of chili). It's just the Kathryn way.

Moroccan Stew

Recipe courtesy of Allrecipes.com
****I doubled the spices, and didn't really measure anything. But I guess that's the beauty of stews. The original recipe is below.

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup French green lentils

3 bay leaves

2 whole garlic cloves

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme leaves

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 teaspoon crushed hot chile flakes

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1 cup chopped onions

1 cup chopped celery

1 cup chopped zucchini

1 red bell pepper, diced

1 yellow bell pepper, diced

1 butternut squash - peeled, seeded, and

cut into 1-inch cubes

1 (8 ounce) can crushed tomatoes

1 (15 ounce) can chickpeas, drained

4 cups vegetable stock

1 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1/2 cup plain yogurt (optional)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint

(optional)

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)

DIRECTIONS:

1.	Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Stir in the lentils, bay leaves, and whole garlic cloves. Return to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer lentils until they are cooked but still firm, about 10 minutes. Drain well. Place lentils in a bowl; toss with olive oil, thyme, and 1 tablespoon chopped garlic. Remove bay leaves and whole garlic cloves; set aside.
2.	Heat 1 tablespoon olive in a large pot over medium heat. Stir in chili flakes, cinnamon, cumin, and coriander and cook until fragrant. Add garlic, onion, celery, zucchini, red and yellow peppers, and squash; cook 3 or 4 minutes.
3.	Mix in the lentils, tomatoes, chickpeas, and vegetable stock. Raise heat to medium-high until stew just begins to boil; reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer until squash is tender, about 20 minutes, stirring once or twice. Add the chopped parsley. Ladle into serving bowls and garnish with a dollop of yogurt, some chopped mint, and a pinch of cayenne pepper.

This stew is easy and inexpensive; lovely meatless wonder with the addition of the chickpeas!

I can't begin to describe the warm aromas when you add the spices (particularly the cinnamon). Such a great one-pot Sunday supper.

Take me to Marrakesh, baby!

My Matt

2011-10-29T05:40:00.000-04:00

If there's one thing I'll miss about my pregnancy it's how it brought Matt and me closer together. I've heard from so many people that you only have your first once, how exciting the time is, to enjoy every moment of it, but I never was able to appreciate that until now, in the sunset of my pregnancy.

Seeing Matt download audio books on happy babies, or practicing swaddling on that damn stuffed frog, or take my hand protectively as we cross the street, have made my heart swell: I have never been so in love. He will be a soothing source to our (probable) Scorpio baby: his calming demeanor coupled with his/her passionate intensity. That's what I like to think anyway. Two nights ago he told me he hopes our child is feisty like his/her mother, and I know I couldn't be with anyone better: someone who actually appreciates I go from tears to snark in twenty seconds flat. Someone who enjoys putting up with me. Someone who never makes me feel "less than" for my shortcomings.

I know he will be an amazing father, and I cannot wait for the ride of our lives to begin.

Matt figuring out the infant car seat and the car seat base.
(I still don't know how they snap apart.)

With disrupted sleep and a long commute, I'm lazier than ever.
Matt has been doing much of the cooking and I just had to snap a photo of this:
toothpicks in my chicken sandwich.

Using the last of our summer basil he mad a rustic bruschetta.
Lounging on the couch in dirty sweats I hardly thought I was worthy.
And again, a "10" for presentation!

Leech Baby!

2011-10-27T18:38:00.000-04:00

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been asked about my butt boil. I’m truly touched. My gluteus maximus is truly touched. You have been so kind to us both!

So my butt boil (coded “boil of the buttocks” on my office visit receipt – I can’t make this stuff up) is a measly nothing compared to its former self. My GI does not think I have a fistula and it was a freak occurrence. I pray and shimmy my behind to the butt gods! She warned me repeatedly about flare-ups post-birth, however, which is very common, and ordered some blood work. Today she called me with the results, and I can only say the following: I have a leech baby.

“Your albumin levels are exceedingly low,” she said. “My what?” I said. “Your albumin levels. And protein. Basically your general nutrition. Since you refused to get on the scale at your office visit, can you tell me how much weight you gained during the pregnancy?” My response: “I’m not sure; I stopped looking about 1.5 months ago.” (Hells no I wasn’t going to burden myself with that information!) Her response: sighing (although I really do believe she was sort of tickled at my idiocy). “Well,” she continued, “with Crohn’s and your surgery you’re already not absorbing enough nutrients, but now the baby is sucking everything else. I’m sure the baby is fine, but I wanted to ask how you’re feeling. It’s rare to see numbers this low. I’m going to fax them to your ob/gyn. It’s nothing to be terribly concerned about; basically, the baby is like a parasite, getting all the nutrients it can. I’m very glad you got pregnant at a time you were feeling well; this is why you have to start off on the best possible footing.”

My response? “I have a leech baby!”

I wrote this to Matt saying to feed me a Cornish game hen tonight with a side of steak. His response: “With the baby coming we cannot afford that but I’m sure Penny will let you have some of her special lamb dog food.” No one takes me seriously!

Now, I’ve been pretty tired the last couple weeks (this week it’s hit pretty hard), but that’s normal, and sleep is starting to be disrupted, and I’m busy at work. I told Matt that I am surely the world’s most amazing pregnant lady since I’m not only pregnant, but pregnant with a leech baby, and still am out and about. (He has yet to email me back after that one.)

Speaking of leech babies, our child has had many nicknames throughout the pregnancy. There was “monster baby” when we thought he or she was going to be a ten pounder. There is “alien baby” because we believe all newborns look like extraterrestrials. Of course, “Cletus the Fetus” was a popular one. The other day, after getting a higher heartbeat for the baby, I asked my ob/gyn if there was a cause. “Did you just eat breakfast?” she said. I said I had a banana and she said, “Oh, you must have a monkey baby!” She then got terribly flustered and apologized about five times for calling the kid a monkey baby, and all I could think was, “Look, lady, monkey baby is probably the best thing it’s been called this whole time.”

Today our baby is considered full-term. And I just can’t wait to meet that little sucker.

(Get it?!?!)

One month left!

2011-10-16T20:36:00.001-04:00

35 weeks! (In the work bathroom..what else?!)

A somewhat Crohn’s related post! I know, I know – what’s Crohn’s again? First, let’s get to the good stuff (because Crohn’s, any way you slice and dice it, is never the good stuff).

I’ve been measuring three weeks large (now I’m not sure how they can ascertain that with a tape measure of my jelly belly, but alas…) so Matt and I paid the ob/gyn a visit this past Monday for a measurement ultrasound. Matt, who has been downloading audio books purporting to make your baby smarter (and who knows what else) said he wants a child no less than nine pounds (as nine pounds is the optimal weight for a smart baby…obviously). Now, that skinny monkey isn’t birthing anything, so I’m not sure where he gets off. And lord knows I’ve got some bajunk-a-junk hips, but let’s not get excessive. On Monday, slightly before I hit the 35 week mark, the baby was measuring at 5.5 pounds, with an estimated birth weight of upwards of 8.5 pounds. I can handle that.

On another positive note, the nursery is completed! We went as clichéd as one can go when a baby’s gender is a mystery and did the room up in yellow and green. Here are some photos!:

Matt chose and applied the decals. Half because he should have some say, and half because I'm lazy.

And here he is holding a swaddled frog. He loves that frog. First it went with us to the breastfeeding class, and now he practices his swaddling on it. Look how he cradles it.

Well...at least he's getting into it and all...

Today we had our first run to the hospital. I hadn’t felt the baby move since yesterday (sorry, Mom, whom I spoke to on the phone this morning and didn’t want to alarm) and as the Eagles game started I told Matt we needed to call the doctor. (Perfect timing on my part, if I do say so myself.) Now, I’m not a hypochondriac or an alarmist, but every appointment they’re dishing advice about “kick counts” and it’s hard to count how many kicks you’re feeling when you feel, well, nothing. The baby’s movements have been getting less frequent and more subtle due to the lack of space to move around in, but they just gosh darn fizzled out. I tried everything: ice cold water, lying on my left side, half a box of Joe-Joe’s (Trader Joe’s version of Oreos – the sugar was to kick-start the baby, I swear!). After a good 12 hours of lazy baby we made our way to the hospital where everything was absolutely hunky dory. “It seems you have a happy baby,” said the doctor. Oops. “Better safe that sorry!” she said and then exclaimed, “Wow; you’re having a lot of contractions; did you just feel that?” Lordy I am not in tune with my body (or apparently baby) at all; what contraction?! Although contractions at 35.5 weeks are completely normal, that’s what made Matt and I hightail it home to finish the nursery. Up went a mirror, and I washed all the baby’s clothes and bedding.

Now, no Crohn’s post is without the icky, so let’s get started: a couple weeks ago I thought I had finally entered the holy grail of expectant motherhood: I thought I had myself a big ol’ hemorrhoid. The first thing I did was thrust my butt into my beloved’s face for a look-see. This happens more than you know. He diagnosed an “internal hemorrhoid” after some Googling. Two days later the thing started (bear with me here; this is educational!) seeping. Oh lord no. With a maxi pad on my butt I called the doctor who said to come in.

“It’s like…a boil. An abscess.” We obviously immediately dubbed the affliction “Kathryn’s butt boil”. She said it could be nothing; an aftereffect from an ingrown hair (no Brazilian waxes here). So she took a sample, and off I went.

Now, earlier this week I have been feeling a fair amount of discomfort: my jelly belly is now rock hard (the only time in my life I’ll have hard abs), cramps are frequent, insomnia, and my stomach is a mess. Being 35 weeks pregnant I think this is somewhat normal, and I’ve been traveling and eating out (restaurant food and stress) so of course things are a bit off. But on Wednesday the practice called and said the culture was odd in that it showed bacteria that is only found within the GI track. “You need to call your GI; this could be a fistula.” Well, smack my hiney, the Crohn’s is back!

As I write this (Sunday) I’m feeling better and carefully monitoring the butt boil (it’s the same if you cared to know, and of course you cared to know). I have a GI appointment this week so we’ll see; I was a woe-is-me sob fest mid-week but now feel defiant, or at least adopted an eye-rolling, “Well, isn’t this lovely” sort of attitude. This pregnancy was a proverbial piece of cake; minimal fatigue, no morning sickness, little swelling, and I frankly don’t get what all the fuss is about (I’d like to think I’m pretty hardcore, but Matt obnoxiously reminds me because of my size carrying a baby is easier than my petite counterparts, which I feel is absolutely true, but gosh darnit, give me some credit here!). So if my body is going to poop out in the home stretch, so be it: I think I’ve been pretty lucky so far.

Here's to the next month!

33 Weeks

2011-09-27T18:08:00.001-04:00

I’ve come to the conclusion that people who fly must decide that airport bathrooms are entirely inferior to those on the plane, because nary three minutes into our flight (three!) a stream of pea-sized bladder passengers were making their way to the lavatory in the back of the Airbus-whatever-whatever. I surely thought the flight attendants would say, “Get back in your seat and use Depends next time!” but no. We had JUST TAKEN OFF and were rapidly ascending.

I am a fearful flyer, particularly during take-off. Once we reach cruising altitude color comes back in my face, I unclench my palms from the arm rests, and I get with the program. I know it was early in the flight because immediately during and after take-off I put my fingers to my ears so I can only hear the low rumble of the engines (I don’t need to hear the wings moving, the landing gear retracting or any of that nonsense). My fingers were still at my ears when these people started the trek to the restroom, totally oblivious Philadelphia was still below us. I say this irked because I sit in the aisle seat, and their rumps are constantly butting into my face. I also say this as a 33-week pregnant woman: if I can hold it, so can you.

So here I am, jetting from Philadelphia to Charlotte to Tallahassee for work. The leg from Charlotte to Tallahassee is on a tiny plane, and by tiny, I mean medium-sized. I mean, the thing’s no Cessna or anything, but ten rows doesn’t quite work for me. My fear of flying has gradually increased with each passing year. As a kid you’re too dumb to know any better, and as an adult I’m too dumb to understand the physics of how a plane can stay airborne. Doesn’t it need to flap its wings or something?

Nearing the end of my pregnancy, I perhaps have a deeper sense of what can be lost in a tragedy. As in, when did we start discussing how much life insurance we’ll need? When did we hit the cusp of thirty years old? And how the heck are the two of us dunces going to care for a newborn in less than two months?!

Everything is coming to a happy head: I feel overwhelmed and positively giddy, and dare I say, ready. Last night Matt felt the baby for the first time: hard, seemingly petulant thumps on my left side.

It was magic.

White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake

2011-09-11T20:05:00.000-04:00

I love my husband dearly. But not enough to spend forty bucks on an ice cream cake for his 29th birthday in late July. $40 ice cream cake?! That is some ardent, first-year-together love right there! (Or something to save for the much lauded 30th!) Since we're more of the "Is this a pimple or a tick on my scalp?" type of couple (I seriously ask this at least 2x a week), boy was getting something else. So I made his other favorite dessert: a cheesecake. Matt adores cheesecake. That doesn't make him a sophisticate, because he equally adores pudding (even more so if they come in those little cups). He is a complicated creature.

I never made a cheesecake because, although supremely simple, they intimidated me (I mean, they crack!). Also because I know I cannot be trusted near a cheesecake. After reading a quickie primer on cheesecake perfection (bake with a hot water bath to reduce cracking) I made this super simple white chocolate raspberry ditty that is highly rated on All Recipes. Many readers suggested to just nuke the white chocolate chips instead of utilizing a double broiler (who DOES that anyway?) so I did. They also said seedless raspberry jam or preserves are just as good as cooking down the whole fruit, so I did that too. With those modifications this recipe is simple and fool-proof, and perfect piled high with summer fruit for a deceptively impressive meal closer.

***The recipe, in the original form, appears below. Again, I used raspberry preserves, microwaved the 1/2 and 1/2 with the white chocolate chips, and did not add additional sugar to the crust (like Oreos don't have enough sugar?! Pah-lease.)

Ingredients

1 cup chocolate cookie crumbs
3 tablespoons white sugar
1/4 cup butter, melted
1 (10 ounce) package frozen raspberries
2 tablespoons white sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1/2 cup water
2 cups white chocolate chips
1/2 cup half-and-half cream
3 (8 ounce) packages cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup white sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

In a medium bowl, mix together cookie crumbs, 3 tablespoons sugar, and melted butter. Press mixture into the bottom of a 9 inch spring form pan.
In a saucepan, combine raspberries, 2 tablespoons sugar, cornstarch, and water. Bring to boil, and continue boiling 5 minutes, or until sauce is thick. Strain sauce through a mesh strainer to remove seeds.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). In a metal bowl over a pan of simmering water, melt white chocolate chips with half-and-half, stirring occasionally until smooth.
In a large bowl, mix together cream cheese and 1/2 cup sugar until smooth. Beat in eggs one at a time. Blend in vanilla and melted white chocolate. Pour half of batter over crust. Spoon 3 tablespoons raspberry sauce over batter. Pour remaining cheesecake batter into pan, and again spoon 3 tablespoons raspberry sauce over the top. Swirl batter with the tip of a knife to create a marbled effect.
Bake for 55 to 60 minutes, or until filling is set. Cool, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 8 hours before removing from pan. Serve with remaining raspberry sauce.

This cheesecake should be called "Pseudo White Chocolate Cheesecake" because I ate half of these suckers before they got nuked.

Same thing with the Oreos. You know a sleeve of those things was gone before baking began. Duh.

For water bath (to prevent drying): Wrap spring form pan in foil and place in a jelly roll pan with about a 1/2" of hot water. Bake. Eat.

Tip: Arrange copious amounts of berries to hide any imperfections.

Poor Matt looks like he's enjoying his birthday treats alone. I swear: there were folks on the other side of the table. (Maybe.)

Happy Super Duper Belated Birthday, Matt!

Oh, Jersey...

2011-09-03T13:23:00.000-04:00

This week was stressful and we had some time off to burn. So to the shore we went!

We spent a quickie overnight in Cape May this week in an effort to burn some PTO days I thought I could add to my maternity leave (no just luck - fail!). Anyway, I did win REPEATEDLY at skeeball on the beach so at least I have that (and yes, we are 12 years old). Notice my row of tickets on the bottom of the photo. Yeah; that's right.

Poor Matt just doesn't get a break when it comes to my renegade camera tactics. Although he's getting panic-stricken over the baby timeline, I'm sure he's giddy he won't be the subject of every single darn photo from now on. We spent a good hour or so snoozing on the beach after a relaxing afternoon swim.

Matt said all we do is eat on vacation. My response: "And the problem with that is what?..."
We had a fantastic, romantic (SO NEEDED!) dinner the night prior - one of those several course shindigs that lasts for hours. A definite worthy splurge after a couple days of bickering and baby crunch time approaching.
Here we are the morning after carbing it up at breakfast.

I included this photo because of Matt's expression - doi. He said I was poking his ear with my sunglasses; boy needs to get a grip! Look, I love Matt, but that god awful beard and those sunglasses make him look like he should be on Sons of Anarchy or American Chopper or something. He promised me he was going to trim it today (still waiting...).
Here we are walking on the beach after breakfast.

A bit better I suppose.

So when we checked out of the hotel in Cape May we drove north to Margate (next to Atlantic City) where Lucy the Elephant was waiting. Lucy was built was a tacky tourist attraction in the late 1800's. Obviously, this was right up our alley. You can climb up Lucy but that cost $7, so we weren't buying into that charade! (Sorry Lucy.)

We spent a few hours in Atlantic City walking the boardwalk, dodging in and out of casinos, and spending some time on the beach. I've never been but it was as I expected: kitschy and sort of sad (please put me out of my misery if you catch me in old age, wearing a kitty cat sweatshirt, smoking Virginia Slims and playing penny slots for hours on end). I know, I know: I didn't get the whole effect (we were there in the day after all), but the whole operation just didn't sit right with me. At least Vegas has enough splash to offset the sad! I was pleased, however, I made 80 cents on one of the slots. That's going to the baby fund, obviously.

With hundreds of slots in each casino, Matt zeroed in on this one: Kitty Glitter. It spoke to him.

It was getting late and I was getting ornery, so Matt bought me a bag of roasted and candied nuts to shut me up (works every time!). Then we saw this huge Monopoly game board, so everything was right again.

The Calm After the Storm

2011-08-28T18:53:00.000-04:00

The Schuylkill (only spelled that correctly because it's on the barrier there) River snakes throughout our town in suburban Philadelphia. While "Hurricane" Irene did little damage to our neighborhood, the river flooded throughout our pretty untouched hamlet. We live about 1/4 of a mile from the river so took a stroll down to see "the devastation". (We're all about the hyperbole in this family!) This is where Penny takes her river walks, so you can bet she's NONE TOO PLEASED. Oh well.

The river did not meet the bridge (as it did in many other parts of the Schuylkill, particularly in Philly) but it was churning and swiftly moving. Regardless, "churning and swiftly moving" doesn't really make for a crazy photo op.

To the right is the parking lot for the Valley Forge river trail, all under water. Here's Penny looking at me like, "Dawg! Where the trail at?!?! You expect me to walk in the neighborhood like some lame HOUSE DOG?!?!" Or, she's wondering if I have any treats in my pocket.

When the river overflows the area smells foul and fishy after it recedes. Just a fact there, folks.


Penny surveying the damage and wondering where her treat is.

All joking aside, I hope everyone on the East Coast is safe and dry with power! We had a near travesty today when Matt and I stocked up at the grocery store and came to a house with no power (yes, spoiled food is a travesty in my book). Go figure as we didn't lose power throughout the entire storm. Luckily it's back on so my Greek Yogurt is safe. Sigh of relief, sigh of relief.

Third Trimester!

2011-08-22T19:25:00.000-04:00

25 weeks!
Totally cheating with this fitted, black dress. But that's how I work.

28 weeks! Beginning of "big mamma". Sob!
(This dress REALLY accentuates the belly...I swear I don't look exactly this big in person. Now, not small, mind you, but this is some 36 week shiznizzle right here!)

Who doesn't take self-portraits in the work bathroom?

Today I chose a dress I only sometimes wear because it makes me look pregnant. “Well now’s as good time as any,” I said as I examined my sloped mid-section in the morning mirror. Thing looked PLUMP! It’s amazing how clothes can accentuate or minimize a baby bump (I swear: on Saturday I wore a peasant top that made me look Kathryn circa 2010). Today I’m full-on baby mama. Case in my point from my co-worker this morning: “Kathryn – you POPPED! You looked different last week!” There’s something liberating about no longer being able to suck in a burgeoning gut.

This week I am 28 weeks pregnant, which is the beginning of both the third trimester and the seventh month of pregnancy. I am ecstatic and giddy. Matt is panic-stricken and looking a bit nauseous.

“You had a while to get used to this, you know,” I deadpanned last night as I showed him a changing table I was contemplating. “I don’t think you can ever get used to this,” he replied, glassy-eyed. He reassured me on how excited he is, but I also know, as my internal clock can’t go fast enough, his is ticking with a thud.

On the weekends he is a flurry of activity as he looks at wood finishes in preparation to re-sanding the nursery’s shoddy hardwood floors. On Saturday night, when I was out with friends, he painted the nursery a bright yellow appropriately called Sunbeam. He put the last coat on after I returned home, ten minutes to midnight, in his underwear with classical music echoing throughout the house. We discovered mold creeping across our basement yesterday, and I think the boy was positively going to cry at the thought of another house project.

Not to say I feel sorry for him. The way he thinks about housework is the way I think about work. Period. My last work trip is to Michigan and Colorado the first full week of October, and it can’t get here quickly enough. After that it’s local events, but even that (Three hours at an evening networking event? Five hours at a job fair?) still doesn’t pacify the alarmist in me. Luckily, I feel great and I’m hedging my bets I’m going to have a seamless, uneventful last trimester. Or at least willing the fact that it will easy.

Now, look – carrying this baby should be easier on me. I’m big: 5’10”. I’m no skinny ninny but thick and (I’d like to think), strong. If I was waddling at this point there would be a problem. A woman I know, pregnant as well and three weeks behind me in gestation, said, “Are you still fitting into your maternity clothes? I had to go buy all new ones!” This comment made my day because 1) I’m hardly wearing any maternity clothes as most of my wardrobe is already fashioned for a generous bajunk-a-junk stomach, and 2) of those I do wear they’re only starting to look appropriate, and 3) I’m really quite smug. While my baby can grow up and down, hers (she stands about 5’3” or so) can only jut out. I finally feel my height is to some advantage (other than intimidating people of course).

I still don’t identify fully with my pregnant peers. I visit two “November 2011” baby forums. Last night many of them were talking about their baby’s current position. “Oh, he’s transverse” and “My little bugger keeps flipping around!” to “Mine’s been head-up since the beginning.” This intrigues me because I cannot possibly induce how they know this because all I can tell is that it feels like I’ve got some heavy-duty gas in there. The woman who is three weeks behind me in pregnancy? She said her kid wakes her up in the middle of the night with their kicking. Really? Because I just feel like I ate a burrito that didn’t agree with me.

Now, I’ve got some cushioning if ya know what I mean, and apparently an anterior placenta, meaning that squishy blob is on top of the baby and softening his/her karate kicks, but lord almighty! I’ve finally just come to the conclusion that these women are crazy and they gotta calm the heck down because they have a few more months of cookin’ to do (and uncomfortable incubating it sounds like to me). They also post things like, “I feel so guilty; I had a Diet Coke today,” or “How long do I need to heat my cold cuts so they’re safe?” I’m seriously reading this half the time with a soda in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other, chompin’ and snortin’ (chompin’ and snortin’ is my most natural, relaxed – and common – state).

Then there is the ubiquitous post about the “coming home outfit”. This is the outfit mothers spend no less than 22.6 hours choosing and what their new bundle of joy will be wearing when he or she is brought home from the hospital. Other commenters “ooo” and “awww” over these get-ups, resplendent with frogs and ducks, princesses or monkeys. I momentarily took a break from chompin’ and snortin’ to ruminate if I should buy a special outfit for this occasion. The answer: no. Back to the turkey sandwich.

This is not to say I’m not spectacularly excited, and often times, my snide commentary takes a back-seat to the belly pics, the “Is this safe?” questions, and even the posts about awful things their “DH” says. For those not in the know, “DH” stands for “Dear Husband”. These are sometimes my favorite posts, for DHs can say supremely clueless and tactless things, and it’s my job to read them all and sort out which of these Neanderthals are huge dicks. From what I can tell there’s a lot of whale and “big as a house” commentary, frightened pointing at burgeoning stretch marks while DHs crinkle their eyes in horror and say, “What ARE those?!” (good thing I was practically born with the things) and not-so-gentle jabs at the quantity of food these soon-to-be mothers are consuming. This all plays into my smugness really well, because Matt is a nice and quiet guy and wouldn’t dare utter these things. He’s also scared of me, and I feel like I have to teach my preggo compatriots on how to put the fear of their wives (much worse than the fear of God) into their husbands.

Last but not least on our baby odyssey are the baby classes! Our first class was this past week on breastfeeding. We were told to bring a baby doll for positioning and holding, but we brought a tie-dyed frog. I surely thought we were already the class delinquents but I was happy to spot a teddy bear in the audience as well. Most women in the class were eight months along and their husbands were dutiful (this is the Main Line, after all). I thought I’d surely leave the class with some good commentary but there wasn’t much to work with in this Ann Taylor-clad crowd. I was also hoping to the very end the free-spirited instructor would whip out her boob for a life-like reenactment, but no such luck. I’m hoping the class we take in a few weeks brings me more fodder: it’s for clueless first-time parents so my hopes are high.

But somewhere in between all my inappropriate wisecracks, I’ve found myself crying for no inexplicable reason other than the fact that I’m going to HAVE A BABY. That Matt and I are going to be responsible for this life that we’ve created (horribly cliched, I know, and the creation was in a lab, but still!). This morning, on the train “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash came on and with my headphones on, and with Bryn Mawr and Ardmore flashing by, I cried out of total and complete happiness at the thought of the life Matt and I had built. I thought of Matt painting late at night in his underwear to Chopin, our Saturday trips the last two weeks to the vet for Penny’s stubborn ear infection, and of all the baby furniture propped up in our living room waiting to be assembled. I thought of early-morning weekend trips to the practice in New Jersey, our recent date nights to the city to enjoy each other before the baby, us cooking in the kitchen together (roasted chicken last night and Greek pitas today) or watching bad TV in bed and late-night back rubs. I thought of him lounging on my hospital bed during my Crohn’s flare a couple years back and us watching movies with the volume low, or how he told me, “If this is as bad as it gets, then I have it pretty good” when we ran to the pharmacy late at night for medication our first year together. I thought about the most mundane things: arguing over what brownie mix to buy in the grocery aisle or about what evening newscast to watch, what actor was in so-and-so movie and how no, he’s not going to go out there and attack the hornet nest nestled in our garage.

I thought about how much I love this man, and how I wouldn’t trade this life for any other. And then I thought there’s nothing sweeter than being gifted with something you thought you may never have, and how so very good we have it.

25 Weeks

2011-08-02T18:43:00.000-04:00

At 25 weeks pregnant I’m starting to definitely look a bit knocked up – particularly in some outfits and always in the afternoon. I figure I must be 50% bloat if much of my girth presents itself from 3 pm on. Or maybe it’s the fact that I dubbed my afternoon snack “second lunch” given my veracious eating habits (Do you know anyone who eats three bananas in one day? Well now you do.). By evening my gut feels full and hard – literally stuffed, and I look in the mirror, sideways, in a “Really? REALLY?” sort of way. I guess this was to be expected.

Because of my hectic fall work schedule, Matt and I scheduled our first baby class in two weeks. It’s on breastfeeding. They said to bring a life-size baby doll, and I’ve deduced no one in my social sphere has such a thing. (If they did, I suppose it would be creepy, come to think of it.) Right now I’m eyeing a stuffed frog to bring, but I fear I’ll be chastised for its anatomical incorrectness (and also its lack of being even remotely a mammal). It looks better than the other stuff animal we own, though – a dragon complete with a spliced tongue and spiky tail (all dubious prizes from amusement parks from Matt). You girls may get jewelry or a night out, but I get a tie-dyed frog. Two of them, actually. Control your jealousy.

The other two baby classes we signed-up for are “Preparing for Baby!” and a one-day child birth workshop. “Preparing for Baby!” is a nice way of saying, “Hey you! First time parents! Yeah, you two clueless nitwits! This one’s for you.” It will teach us about newborns and car seats, about pediatricians and vaccinations, and about feeding and burping. I figure this has to be useful, because I’m not even sure if Matt and I know how to hold a baby properly. (All I know is that Matt constantly refers to the “soft spot” on the babies head and how he’s going to “poke it”. I don’t know what to make of this.)

In other news we have begun to prepare the nursery. I don’t do cutesy, I don’t do cutesy themes, and I sure as hell don’t do cartoons. This is not in line with Matt who said he first wanted to do a robot theme, then maybe Mario Brothers, then maybe space. Even if we don’t have a boy, I think he’s determined to make our child a tom boy, which is fine, unless they play copious amounts of sports, which (and Matt and I agree on this together) is not fine. I will steer him or her to music and books, and he will steer them to science and code. Look, there are parents who go to each and every little league game. Then there will be us.

For the room we settled on pale yellow walls with sage curtains and a large tree vinyl decal and I’m relieved that Matt likes it. In fact, when looking at tree decals, he has chosen the more modern, wind-swept ones that look adult-like and blustery, and are more suitable for a loft than a nursery. I said that’s not very warm and kid-like and he pretended he doesn’t hear me. His decals have dark silhouettes of birds heading south. Mine have blue birds dancing around the tree, their feathers plump and their cadence merry. I’m not sure how Matt got to this from robots, but sometimes I just have to keep my mouth shut and go with it. I often get my way by virtue of being a loud-mouth, so the boy can get whatever the heck tree he wants.

Matt has also begun using the baby to get out of things. Twice the Obama campaign called asking for volunteer time, and twice he has said, “I’m sorry; I’ve got a baby on the way!” No matter he took these calls in June and the baby is due in November.

I’m curious what I’ll be able to get away with when I become clearly pregnant. Will the MLDs let me board the train first? Will I get out of cleaning? (Last week – I’m not sure what got into me as I’m the furthest thing from a neat freak – I began scrubbing our bathroom tile with a hardcore disinfectant from Lowe’s. Matt burst in and took over, but subsequently I now have a mellow, non-toxic pink grapefruit scented cleaner so the battle hasn’t truly been won.)

For now, though, everything is the same except for the daily “Cletus” references that sprinkle our conversations. My friend Danita recommended we use the term “Sprout”, which Matt and I both adored, but it was too late: Cletus the Fetus had already taken hold and was already a part of our household vernacular.

And I suppose that’s just fine.

Charming Charities

2011-07-28T17:25:00.003-04:00

Every day, immediately after getting out of the car from work, I head to the mailbox. Getting mail excites me, which is odd, considering it’s mainly bills or credit card solicitations (or god forbid, my 401(k) statement which I refuse to open), but nevertheless, my daily ritual never wavers. I love picking through the mail and thumbing through catalogs (I still have no idea how I got on the Restoration Hardware mailing list since I will never, ever spend $48 on a bathroom knob).

This week I received a Pepto pink envelope hand-addressed to me. I couldn’t place the sender until I saw their address: one number off ours, on our street. It was from our neighbors, a friendly couple we barely see in their sixties who chat about their past dogs and grandchildren on the rare instance our paths cross when we’re out walking Penny. They were soliciting donations for a cancer society I never heard of, touting the benefits of healthy eating to cure and prevent cancer. (Which is insulting enough: sure, I bet environment may have a bit to do with it, but it just reeked of misinformation). The letter, typed from the charity, exclaimed even ten dollars would help (but thirty would be much better) and in our neighbor’s scroll, he (or she) wrote, “Anything would help! Thank you so much!” Thank you, indeed.

I thrust the letter into Matt’s hand and said, “You gotta see this!” Since Matt is ever the diplomat, he simply arched his eyebrow and said, “Yeah, that’s odd.” First off, we have spoken to this neighbor maybe five times since we moved to the neighborhood over four years ago. I’m baffled how they even remembered my name (first and last), and how they knew how to spell it. Katherine. Catherine. See? It’s a moniker that goes by several spellings (“Kathryn” being the best obviously). They don’t attend the neighborhood get-togethers but I’m suspecting they got their mitts on the list, which details the names and addresses of those who attend.

Here is my problem with this: we do not know them and they are soliciting money from neighbors (whom they do not speak to) for a questionable organization. This is the kicker: You are not asked to return your check to the organization themselves, but to the neighbors. You know, just so they can see how worthy you are. Give $10 and you’re cheap and obviously care not one iota about cancer research. Give $50 and you’re worthy (and a sucker in my book). Obviously, $10 is nominal (even though they should think we’re cash-strapped given the state of our yard). I just found the whole scenario obnoxious: this charity relies on the societal pressures of neighborly relations to get their dough, and pries on the trust of those neighbors: “Well, if Susie is collecting money, it must be for a good cause.”

Since I like to make a big deal out of everything, I decided to Google the organization. They take in about 33 million a year, and after mailings and executive salaries they donate (drum role please) less than 2 million annually. They have the lowest score on several business bureau websites and rely on robo-calls and neighborhood mailing kits. They do not perform any research themselves, and do not disclose exactly what happens to the cash they do give away. Their CEO makes just south of $500,000 as does their executive board. Simply put, this is no American Cancer Society.

Since I’m not one to shy away from voicing my opinion (see: me giving the asshole who went through our neighborhood at 60 mph the middle finger yesterday) I thought I’d write the neighbors a letter. A really nice letter. Really. If Matt saw this he’d be horrified.

I already imagined this letter. It would be something along the lines of, “Dear Dick and Mary: I hope you are well! I had the pleasure of receiving your donation form for (insert scumbag faux-charity) last week. Although Matt and I full-heartedly support funding for cancer research, we donate to a select handful of charities per year that are close to our hearts (this is pretty true although there is no fund for poor game developers I’m aware of on Matt’s behalf). To learn more about the scumbag faux-charity I did do some research to be better informed. I was a bit concerned that they received several low ratings on philanthropy watch-dog groups and much of their revenue doesn’t go to research. At this time we’ll have to decline. (Now I would add a sweet send-off.) Thank you again and I hope you’re enjoying the summer with your grandchildren and the memory of those dead dogs you always talk about! Warm Regards, Kathryn and Matt”

I think that about says it.

I am not truly a charity curmudgeon. Each month a donation is charged automatically to my credit card from the ASPCA. I give yearly to Philabundance, a Philadelphia-based non-profit to eradicate hunger. I donate to the CCFA (of course) and Planned Parenthood. Oh, which brings up something else. Shall we?

I love Planned Parenthood. Who isn’t for women’s health? (Well, except male Republicans.) But I’m come to an impasse with them. Planned Parenthood plants workers on street corners in Center City, Philadelphia soliciting donations. There are a lot of organizations that do this. I find this sort of guerilla donation-seeking jarring, but nonetheless, I stopped to chat with one of their people. I am always cornered on the street. I feel it’s because of my size. I’m like a buck to your doe. They see me from afar, big and somewhat friendly looking. Fresh meat! I’m also a woman, and how many men do you see stop? Also, because I’m not a total scmuck, I often make eye contact when spoken to. Because of this, I’m an idiot.

This guy told me about the state of women’s rights in this country (dire) and how Congress is stripping away rights (duh) and how abortions aren’t even funded with federal money (duh part deux). He was preachy and snide so I replied with, “Yeah; I have a modicum of intelligence and read the news.” I’m a peach. This is when it went all downhill. He pressured me into signing up for a repeat donation deducted from my credit card each month. I told him I already donate (true; on a much less generous basis though) and I do not sign-up for things on the street. He said I didn’t care about women’s health. I told him what does he know, it’s not like he has access to my financials and he sure as hell doesn’t have a vagina. Okay, that’s a lie. I just told him I already donate but I appreciated the information he provided. I really wish I said the vagina thing, though. I told him I’d look into it more at home. He said 99% of people who say that never follow through. I told him I’m sure that’s the case, but I’m not 99% of people (lies: I was totally not going to look anything up, but I had to keep up appearances). He snorted. He said a few snide remarks. I told him he just lowered my impression of Planned Parenthood and wasn’t that a pity. Then I walked away as he shouted something, but my earphones were already back on at that point.

Today Amnesty International was canvassing Chestnut Street. Several of their people were stationed outside of Sephora, the luxe make-up and fragrance emporium. I thought it was a smart move. I mean, only women visit Sephora and perhaps Amnesty International feels these girls will want to make amends for the $25 mascara and $80 face cream they just purchased. It’s like those carbon neutral thingamabobs a la Al Gore. Sure he jets around the world and lives in a mansion, but he OFF-SETS it, darn it! (I mean this in half-jest: I like Al, even though he has the worst teeth imaginable. Have you seen them?!)

I know these are tough times for charities, but there has to be a more charitable way of doing things.

So, that brings us round-circle to Dick and Mary and the American Institute for Cancer Research (aka scumbag faux-charity). I don’t think I’ll really write a letter seeing as we’re not moving anytime soon and I don’t want to horrify poor Matt, who often has to deal with my ranting and raving. I’m much more prone to take the cowardly way out: pretend I never received anything. Never mention it. And, like a seasoned woman of the streets, never look them in the eye again.

Beachy Keen

2011-07-17T20:27:00.001-04:00

I got a new camera for my birthday. I had asked for a fancy SLR since the baby was coming (what better time to uncharacteristically splurge?!), but Matt - knowing me a little too well and knowing there was no way in hell-el I was going to learn how to use that thing (and because he's cheap) - got me a new point-and-shoot. Whaaa! Fine! I decided to use it on our mini-vacay to the beach the weekend before I started work, and then again during July 4th weekend. Here is a pictorial of our trips.

Well; this was before we left. I had to test the darn thing!
It has a pet mode. I don't know what that means. My favorite mode is "automatic".
Here is Penny-dog not in pet mode. Poor thing.
(Maybe it's a good thing he didn't get the SLR afterall...)

It also has a panoramic mode that even I can do! This is our front porch.

On the way to Chincoteague we stopped at Hardee's because Matt annually INSISTS on it. Pennsylvania doesn't have Hardee's. It's like McDonald's on steroids (I admit, the burgers are bigger and better). Here is Matt in a near-comatose state after his meal. Thank goodness I was there to finish his fries; we women have to do all the work!

Very GQ - Furball style. Now imagine shaking the excess water off his hair - no, not like a supermodel. More like a drenched dog.

He only looks this intense because we're on our way to the coffee shop in town for a morning jolt and pastries.
Nothing gets in our way when it comes to food.

See; I told you so.

Bridge to get onto the Island. Signs for a mile welcome you touting "fudge!" and "clams!" as you drive in.

Matt looks like a grizzly, sunburned sailor, and I look like a washed-out potato, but we seem to make it work regardless.
Here we are on the pier in the back of the house, looking onto the bay.

Matt bought these swim trunks for $2 - it's like he has a cheap beckon always on, always blinking. Ever since the trip he's chastised me for not letting him get 10 more pairs (what am I, his mother?!). He's so much of a fan I caught him wearing them to play BASKETBALL the other day. Oye vey.

Chowing down on beach BBQ; my sister, Kristen, and her boyfriend, Chris.

No beach adventure is complete without a round of mini-golf! I'd also like to take this time to say I was the only one of the group who won a free round of golf at the last hole. Talent like that can't be taught.

Chris and Kris.

Now we're on the Jersey Shore; this was our second beach jaunt of the season. Here are the boys playing football on the beach. From L to R: Scott (Matt's cousin), Dave (Matt's uncle), Matt's brother Joe, his father David, Matt, and his sister's friend, Steve.

I asked Matt if he made me proud with his athletic prowess afterwards. His response: "Not really."

He is one with the beach hat.

I watched from the sidelines because I'm less foolish than the rest of them.

Here we are back in Chincoteague, VA, waiting in line for ice cream...what else?! This is my sister's boyfriend trying to master my trademark thumb's down. The boy's got potential, I give him that.

Enjoy your summer!

Beach Bunny

2011-07-16T19:21:00.003-04:00

A ravishing photo of my beloved on the beach:

If this doesn't get you all hot and bothered, I don't know what will! (And I'm only half joking.)

And thank you Matt, for never minding that I post this stuff. And that DOES really get my blood boiling!

The Light At the End of the Tunnel

2011-07-08T18:16:00.001-04:00

I was never a person who played with dolls and dreamed of having children. I had a headless Barbie who dated the family dog (there was no Ken, you see) - she didn’t have time for children (or the right species to procreate with, frankly). I never went gaga over other people’s children, and have only recently admitted that yes, they’re cute, but let’s talk about something else – perhaps the latest episode of True Blood? I don’t think kids always say the darndest things, and their watchful, curious eyes sometimes just creep me out (future “mother of the year” here!). Moms hold their babies on the train with the babies facing behind and their offspring proceed to stare, stick their tongue out, or make faces the whole time. Since I am usually 15x their age you’d think I wouldn’t find this unnerving, but I always walk off the train unhinged. Like I said, I’m not what you’d call a kid person.

But something strange has been happening recently. About a month ago Matt and I spent a quick beach weekend in Virginia and saw a dad helping his toddler build a sand castle, misshapen and perfect in that charmingly imperfect way. And then a mom was playing with her baby girl in the surf, foamy waves ebbing and flowing with their laughter. And with my sunglasses on and my palm pressing against Matt’s, I finally felt free to cry out of happiness. The same thing happened this weekend, but this time in a quiet hamlet amidst the Jersey shore: watching 4th of July fireworks from an upstairs balcony I turned to Matt and said we’ll have a 7-month-old at this time next year. He squeezed my hand and we both remarked how far we’ve come as purple and gold sparks danced above the shoreline.

Matt and I have been closer because, well, we’re having a child together, but also because we’re both completely out of her element in having this child together. (I suppose nothing brings two people together more than shared fear.) After work we sit on our couch, a laptop on each of our laps, each monitor glowing with lightweight strollers and convertible car seats and anything else a baby may – or may not - need. We send one another links of possible products, email each other what this or that co-worker recommended, and invariably say we give up after the back-and-forth but begin the next day. “Babies are like a whole other species,” Matt said, fretfully staring at the list of things that need to be bought.

Between the two of us childless dodos, we know basically…nothing. We don’t know what children wear, what their cries mean, how exactly this breastfeeding thing works (well, that’s more me) and have you seen all the car seats and strollers on the market?!?! Last night, in total exasperation, I told Matt he was in charge of “baby transportation”, meaning he was to choose our car seats and strollers. (Notice the plural.) I gave him this task out of total dumbfoundedness but put it under the guise of “more parental involvement”. I don’t think he was fooled.

There are hundreds of car seats and strollers on the market. There are infant car seats and convertible car seats. There are strollers where you can snap an infant car seat in to form a makeshift stroller. There are lightweight strollers, traveling system strollers, all terrain strollers, jogging strollers, umbrella strollers, and dog strollers (the last one we mistakenly stumbled upon during a Google search). We want a hardy stroller for the trails in Valley Forge but half of those won’t fit into our compact car trunks. Every stroller has half good reviews, and the other half poo-poo the item, making us scratch our heads and Google some more. There are $500 strollers that often have uniformly good reviews, but you know, that’s a $500 stroller! I’d like to say we’re more “reasonable” than “cheap”. And then what about baby-wearing? Do we purchase a wrap, the $15 Target carrier that causes backache, the ubiquitous BabyBjorn at $90 a pop, or god forbid, an eye-popping $150 for the organic Ergo Baby (you see, Ergo Baby is the only carrier on the market that puts the baby’s weight on both your shoulders and hips so you can carry baby in comfort AND style). Gag me.

Then there’s cribs (how many people have told me I have to get a GOOD crib and don’t I dare order one online?!) and gliders. Diaper Genies and swings. Pack ‘n’ Plays and don’t think of getting bumpers for your crib because they cause SIDS! So, I give up. I throw my hands up in the air to the baby gods. So, here’s the deal: I will pay someone to shift through all this nonsense that preys on helpless and clueless soon-to-be-parents (e.g. Matt and me) and choose the pick of the litter (you know, of the cheaper stuff). Since I’m spending the better part of our salaries on baby accouterments, you’ll have to take the assignment pro bono. Think of it as helping the needy. And clueless. And, excuse the language, the scared shitless.

Half Way There!

2011-06-27T19:53:00.000-04:00

I love this graph because her 22 weeks was my, eh, 0.

Today I was so hungry I had to go and buy a second lunch. I ate the lunch I brought, and then in a meeting from 1 to 2:30 pm all I could thing about was dinner, then maybe picking up a small snack in the cafeteria, and then it came down to it I bought whole second lunch. And guess what? I’m still hungry.

These days I’m downright beastly: I swear I may have even growled at Matt as he tried to eat my trail mix last night. I realize my, “I have no pregnancy symptoms!” shtick may be up.

Case in point: I’m utterly, completely exhausted half the time. Of course, I working now and sitting at home with Ellen and Oprah, but I’m also sleeping much worse (which really is a feat for a girl who never slept well). I wake throughout the night to either pee (which is puzzling as there’s no baby on my bladder as far as I can tell) or just stare at the clock in aggravation. Even on Saturday I woke up at 5 am, a day I was hoping I could “catch up”. Poor Matt is lobbying for his own bedroom (complete with a “race car bed” to boot).

I’ve also been experiencing “round ligament pain” which is really no big deal (just the stretching and contracting of the ligament that supports your growing uterus) but it often catches me off-guard. My lower abdomen is growing harder (well, underneath the fat) and I was told my boobs are bigger so last night I felt myself up in the shower and lo and behold they DID feel denser (and they certainly are pointing due south so something’s goin’ on in there).

So, really, things aren’t too shabby…or at least it’s nothing a long nap, a five-course dinner, and a Miracle Bra can’t solve.

Train Tantrums

2011-06-20T18:39:00.000-04:00

I’m a bonafide commuter and take the train to work, and (so far) I love it. I love unwinding, listening to music, staring out the window, dog-earing my book, and thinking about dinnertime and Penny and Matthew and all those precious little things. I’m on my daily migration to what’s important.

But there’s a dark underbelly to the train, too; one that centers on a pervasive lack of manners and general etiquette. I do enjoy myself some Miss Manners, I must say. You will receive a thank you note from me, and niceties will be met with a “my pleasure”. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’m going to write about the train douches (yes, I said it) on the R5 line. Really – they need to be exposed. So hitch a ride, darlin’, because here we go!:

Septa (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority) regional rail trains are invariably set up in the following format: a set of two seats on one side, and three on the other. Meaning, if there is a full train, someone will have to sit in the middle. I often take a train called “The Great Valley Flyer”. Doesn’t that just scream turn-of-the-century railroad romanticism to you? The Great Valley Flyer stops at all the outermost stops on the line, and then continues into Center City Philadelphia non-stop. I live a good 2/3 out on the line, so I pick-up the train on its last stop before it choo-choos into the city for a 7:51 am arrival. Because of this, the train is always very crowded with tired commuters and there are almost always only middle seats left. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT pretend to be asleep so a new passenger will forgo asking you to slide over. These dufuses are almost always male, because, and this is very scientific, here: I believe males have a bigger allotment of asshole-y genes. I can SEE YOU peaking out at me through your half-closed eyes, sir! And spreading your legs in the biggest, most obnoxious and grotesque “V” isn’t going to stop me. And YES, my big booty will take a seat. Also, putting your briefcase, laptop bag, and newspaper all in a row to take up the middle seat will not deter me. I see others look at your seat, look at the crowded train, then look back at the seat in that sad, timid way my dog looks at leftover food on my plate: they would rather stand the whole trip than bother with the likes of you. Well, they’re obviously nicer than me, so scoot over!

On most trains there is an overhead rack, number one, and number two, why don’t you try a little consolidation? Women are particularly guilty of this: oftentimes a woman will carry 1) a purse of smallish stature, 2) a tote bag of largish stature, and 3) a lunch in a thermal container. Sometimes a laptop bag is thrown in there, too. I’m particularly baffled at these gals: whatever happened to one large work bag? I carry a large leather tote a la L.L.Bean (stylin’, I know): it can fit a laptop, a pair of shoes (and these are some pretty damn big size 11’s), my wallet and mp3 player, and a lunch. However, I’m not mad at them because they aren’t spreading their baggage all around like a petulant fifth grader.

Now let’s touch on the cattle call that is the train station during the evening commute. When our train pulls in I have never witnessed such base behavior. This is no Titanic, folks, with women and children first. I’ve seen feeble old ladies cut off by a Main Line douche. This is a good time to say I find people who live on the Main Line particularly loathsome, and it’s really my problem. I’m sure most are hard-working good people who aren’t on their second marriage to someone half their age, and they all don’t drive Mercedes convertibles and have live-in help. But I don’t care: that’s how I see them all (I know, I know: I’m awful). For non-locals, the Main Line is a supremely tony area of suburban Philadelphia. My train runs through this area as Matt and I live about 15-20 minutes north of this tax bracket (and thus three tax brackets south). Now don’t get me wrong: I’d love to be rich and not work, but I’m not, so my only option is to seethe at them and be a jealous ol’ curmudgeon. And write pithy blog posts.

My distaste for this suburban breed began when I was cut off again, and again, and again by clueless moms in Land Rovers chirping away on their Blackberries. This happens daily. She’s often pulling into Whole Foods with three children in the back and wearing Lululemon yoga pants. Now that I take the train with their husbands, I’m even more incensed because (and I swear to you on this) they are always the ones who would rather give up their nanny than move over a seat or let you slide in. If you are dressed in something from Target or Macy’s, or, jeez, even Banana Republic, you’re downright jolly in the morning. Brooks Brothers and reading the WSJ? Keep a’walkin’.

But even I am shocked when I see good ol’ elderly folks trampled in the commuting rush. I have literally put my arm out to stop the masses as the woman in question gathered herself and slowly boarded the train. I am also known to give dirty looks at these offenders, and I swear I can be all sorts of intimidating given by 5’10” stature (5’11” in the orthopedic flip-flops my mom insists I wear). They’re probably scared I’ll key their X Series.

Finally, there are the individuals (read: men) who insist on getting up and positioning themselves in the aisle a good stop before their designated stop. The other day a MLD (Mainline Douche), who occupied the window seat, said to me, who occupied the aisle seat, “The next stop is mine.” I replied it was also mine, thinking we were good to go, when he said, “Well then can you please move?” We were still at

30^th Street

Station, which is a few minutes before our Suburban Station stop. The train was idling. I got up and MLD took his position in the aisle. Now this is the kicker: I finished my book chapter and got up when the train actually pulled into Suburban Station and LO AND BEHOLD, stepping into the aisle directly behind me. I figure he saved two seconds off his commuting time by doing this, so good going MLD! You win!

I know I sound like a bitter Betty, but I can assure you I love the train! I love feeling like a part of the masses – there’s just something so intrinsically welcoming about it. Like, we’re all doing this less-than-ideal commute together. We’re all waiting for this delayed train, together. And sometimes I’m even tickled by my well-off seatmates (my JC Penney-clad self often guesses if their cuff-links are real gold, or, god forbid, platinum).

So, there you have it: scoot in or let your fellow passenger take that middle seat without grunting, quit the farm animal shoving, calm the heck down, and I swear, I’ll quit bitching.

Probably.

Cletus Carries On

2011-06-18T13:33:00.001-04:00

So many people have told me I look happier and I have a glow. Now, I think this is what you're supposed to tell a pregnant woman, but I eat it up anyway. I'm in my 18th week and because of my height and build am not particularly showing, although my sister saw me in a bathing suit a few weeks ago and said, "Woah, preggars!!!" I had to correct her and tell her that was my everyday fat - doi. My stomach has always stuck out; now I just monitor how much further it sticks past my boobs. I'm thinking it may be a good idea to get a push-up bra to even out the heft on the top and the bottom.

I see women on the train platform or the grocery store and I desperately to want saddle up to them and spout, "I'm pregnant too! I'm part of the club! Let's compare notes!" even though they're obviously much further along than me, and could really give a damn about this half-baked floozy. The strange thing is that I have no notes: I would not know I was pregnant. Only on two occasions early on did I experience any stomach upset, and it was simply, "I need to eat that bagel because I'm feeling a bit woozy." That's it. I was tired, but home at the time, so it was tolerable (and nicely filled the gap between the end of The View at Noon and the beginning of Ellen at three). I eat things and then realize maybe I shouldn't have (a turkey sandwich - god, it was good: grilled pear, cheddar, turkey on a baguette - two days ago, a big, sugary Coke yesterday). Even when you tell me I'm pregnant I'm skeptical. At my monthly doctor's appointment this week the ob/gyn put the doppler to my belly and said, "There's the heartbeat! 156 beats per minute!" I didn't hear a thing except some watery swooshing.

That's not to say I don't worry incessantly that something is wrong. I told my work last Friday only because my team brings up babies often. Our manager is currently out on maternity leave and we're all approaching 30, and I guess that's just what barely-30-year-old girls talk about in their cubicles. After a few days of feeling duplicitous ("Babies?! Eh. I dunno." was a memorable quote of mine after they mentioned they were nowhere near ready to rear a child) I came clean. They were phenomenal, but ever since then, however morose this sounds, I thought, "What is something happens?! I should have kept my trap shut!" Yesterday's heartbeat "confirmation" has made me feel more relaxed.

The good thing about being pregnant is that I can get away with almost anything since I can just blame it on Cletus the Fetus. This has included taking the dog out, making my own dinner, or, allowing myself to huge second portions. "Cletus is hungry! Cletus is tired!" when really Kathryn just wants to watch The Bachelorette (which isn't to say I don't do my fair share of housework, but this little trick has really come in handy of late).

A friend told me that dogs know when a woman is pregnant, but Penny has been ignoring me just as much lately, so who knows. At least I still have her to keep me grounded.

Workin' 9 to 5

2011-06-06T19:01:00.000-04:00

This is the story of how Kathryn – sorta – got her groove back. I’ve never worked for a company that had much more than 1,000 employees, so imagine my cultural shock working at an organization that has just shy of 30,000. There is a cafeteria! Omlettes and pancakes to order after the morning commute! A gym! (With laundry service no less!) I work in a skyscraper! (Well – a Philly skyscraper so let’s not get too excited.) My cube has tons of space and even a visitor’s chair and a coat closet. A coat closet in a cubicle, I say! I have a window view (never mind my view is directly into another skyscraper and I have to turn around to see it, but I get to control the window blinds!)

Look, I went to school in Manhattan, had internships in Manhattan, and am not some Podunk hillbilly (well - not fully), but this girl has been living the suburban life a little too long. There is nothing more exhilarating than the crush of the morning commute as I get off the train with headphones on: warm bodies rushing every which way, coffee in hand, street lights to be abided. Now, I know the novelty of my commute will wear off. Like, probably by tomorrow. But right now, when I shut down for the night, turn up my music, and hop on that elevator, I am elated. I am buoyant. There is no better feeling to know I am making my way in the world – I am earning a living and standing on my own two feet – and I don’t need anyone’s support (unless it’s killing spiders).

And it’s not about being a bigwig with a bloated salary (both of which I am exceedingly far from), but it’s about buying the aged cheese, or the fancy lipstick (or at least having the option to). It’s about saying, hey, I can afford to increase my 401(k) contribution and maybe we can pay this mortgage off in fifteen years in lieu of thirty.

Perhaps with a child my priorities will change, and we’ll decide on cutbacks so I can stay home or work closer to home. A commute into the city with a job that requires extended travel is a lot, but it’s not worth thinking about now. So this past week – as overwhelmed as I am – I just turn my headphones up as I push through the building’s revolving doors, face up, sun shining.

Prelude to Work

2011-05-26T21:02:00.001-04:00

I don't know if it's pregnancy hormones, or Lady O herself, but my golly did I cry during Oprah's final bow yesterday. Over the years her "aha moments" did sometimes grate on me, and her admiration for Babs or Tommy Cruise, but her last goodbye was beautiful. The last time I regularly watched her show was in high school: me on the recliner, my childhood best friend on the couch, and I've only revisited her during these dog days of unemployment, but boy if she'd didn't grab me in again.

After almost three months of yearning for nothing but work, I'm suddenly - to my befuddlement - kinda scared! I start on Tuesday and I have not started a new job in five years. I am a creature of habit: I have my spot on the couch, my side of the bed, and (I did have) my mindless commute. I've glad to have the opportunity to use my brain and get my mind off another anxiety: the baby. When you don't particularly feel pregnant, nor do you particularly look pregnant, you start to wonder: that thing still in there?!

Last week my ob/gyn took several minutes to find the baby's heartbeat with her doppler. Last time it was instantaneous. She assured me this was normal, the baby moves, and that perhaps I should get an ultrasound to confirm all is alright, when, bam, there it was: tha-ump, tha-ump - so quick and rhythmic and beautiful.

I hope everyone has a spectacular Memorial Day weekend. Matt and I are going to the beach for a few days (the calm before the storm, I suppose); photos to follow (but of course)!

New Beginnings

2011-05-20T17:27:00.002-04:00

I've wanted to write this post for quite a while, and I've thought about the tone in which I'd write it, or the language I'd use and all of those writer's flourishes that dance on so many of the blogs and pieces I adore. But now that pen is to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard) no fabulous cheekiness is coming to me. No play on words or goofy sentiments, either. So, with that, I will say this, plainly but full of love, hope, and giddiness: I am pregnant (I have to say it again: I am pregnant!!!) and Matt and I couldn't be more happily terrified.

We have entered our second trimester and are due mid-November. We learned of the pregnancy the second week of March, with very little pomp and circumstance. I went for my blood test on a Friday morning (a week after I was laid off), and Matt planned to come home around 2 pm to take the results call with me. They always call after 2 pm, but that Friday the phone rang at 12:30 pm and the nurse said - I remember so clearly - "So, ya ever have a positive pregnancy test?".

We didn't celebrate that night, or the following few weeks. We tempered our expectations - my progesterone and estrogen levels were woefully low and I was being propped up on several supplements. But, my beta numbers (hCG - the pregnancy hormone) kept rising, and then we had an ultrasound and saw the yolk sac. Our next ultrasound we saw a smudge in the yolk sac. On our next ultrasound the smudge was now a shrimp, and was larger and had a heartbeat, and now, many weeks later, our smudge is a baby the size of a lemon who kicks, punches, and makes us hold our breath every time we see him or her on the ultrasound monitor.

As the weeks progressed, I felt more free to believe everything would be okay. I visited baby forums, read no less than 200 reviews of strollers on Babies R Us and Target.com and last week, as we entered our second trimester, Matt turned to me and said, "We have so much to do before the baby comes; we have to make a list!" There is always risk, and it is still early, but we've finally exhaled, and we have never been more happy.

Matt, being Matt, has named the baby "Cletus the Fetus". "How's Cletus today, K?!" Me, being me, usually snottily retorts with, "Well, our CHILD weighs an ounce, so it's not like I feel him wiggling around in there." Matt wants a boy, but only because he doesn't know what to do with a girl. He is scared of them and their pink and lace and temper tantrums. I have no gender expectations, but I do hope he or she has Matt's kindness, patience, joie de vivre, and perfect health, and what I'd like to think of as my strong sense of self and sardonic humor. I'd also like them to not inherent Matt's hairiness - well, that goes more so if the baby is a girl.

When it rains, it pours. I'm starting a new job in Philadelphia after Memorial Day (yes; it take a lot for that to be second-rate news!), and although nervous and a bit overwhelmed, I think I'm really kickin' ass these days. Of course, there are some hiccups: today my ob/gyn told me I really need to to control my rocketing weight (oops - I finally looked at the number on the scale after many appointments of eyes squeezed shut and, sadly, I have to admit, a few tears were shed), and then there's the whole thing of the world ending tomorrow on the 21st. Just when things were really starting to look up...

In my "real" life I am still keeping this news to close friends and family and there will be no Facebook announcement (now or later), but a few readers have reached out individually, and I'm so glad I can now share the news with everyone on the blog. I owe you a world of gratitude: however cheesy this sounds, your support and comments were rays of sunshine in my inbox, and I can only hope I can return the same happiness you have given me.

Thai Cucumber Salad

2011-05-15T22:26:00.002-04:00

Today I told Matt I was going to eat healthier. Then we got a Cadbury Fruit and Nut chocolate bar at the grocery store and I just made cookies with chocolate, raisins, and oatmeal and my god were they full of gooey deliciousness. Oh well - tomorrow is always another day!

In honor of eating healthier (but not actually doing so), I'm going to do the next best thing: post a reasonably healthy recipe. I say that's good enough for today. As promised, here is a titillating (well, if cucumbers can be titillating) Thai cucumber salad I had with the previous curry recipe. It's fresh and simple, and like any good starlet or, um, cucumber salad, healthy and attractive. Great side dish for your Asian fare, and the coolness provides an excellent juxtaposition to the heat of the main dish. Enjoy!

Thai Cucumber Salad

3 cucumber (peeled, halved lengthwise, and seeded)
1 Tb. salt
1/3 to 1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup rice wine vinegar (if you get the seasoned rice wine vinegar with sugar, then the additional sugar is not necessary or you will only need a couple Tbs.)
2 jalapeño peppers, seeded and chopped
5-6 radishes, thinly sliced
OPTIONAL: 1/2 to 1 cup slaw mixture (we used broccoli slaw)
1/4 to 1/3 cup chopped cilantro
1/2 cup chopped peanuts

After prepping cucumbers, toss with salt and leave in a colander for half an hour. Rinse with cold water and pat dry. Then whisk together sugar and vinegar. Add rest of ingredients to this (except for peanuts). Toss and top with chopped peanuts.

Simple Thai Coconut Curry

2011-05-14T21:38:00.001-04:00

Strawberry season is here! Matt's been making smoothies galore, and I had them atop some french toast this morning. Later, some plain yogurt with bananas and strawberries and a (ok - hearty) drizzle of honey, and I'm already thinkin' up excuses to make my simple and delicious strawberry peach pie. It's a summer slice of heaven.

But this recipe isn't about strawberries, but don't be sad. It's still meets all the criteria: delicious, simple, and...well, that's all the criteria, really. It's an adaptation of an ol' Betty Crocker recipe, and old Betty girl sure knows how to cook. I served with basmati rice, pot stickers, and a Thai cucumber salad (recipe coming!).

Simple Thai Coconut Curry

1 lb. skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-size pieces
1 tsp. lime zest, plus juice of lime
1-2 tsp. minced ginger
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 serrano chillies, seeded and chopped
1/2 cup chopped cilantro (reserve some for topping before serving)
1 can (14 oz.) coconut milk
1 tsp. brown sugar
1 cup sugar snap peas
1 Tb. soy sauce
1 large bell pepper (any color will do)
2 ripe tomatoes, chopped
salt to taste
Thai basil for topping, if available (cilantro will also do)

Stir-fry chicken in a large skillet with oil. When chicken is no longer pink in the center, add garlic, lime zest, ginger, chillies, and cilantro and stir-fry for another minute or so. Add coconut milk, brown sugar, sugar snap peas, the pepper, soy sauce, and salt to taste (about 1/2 tsp). Simmer up to five minutes until the veggies are starting to get tender but still retain some crispness, and then stir in tomato. Serve with rice and top with Thai basil or cilantro.

2 Months Unemployed - Whaaa??!!??!!!

2011-05-04T17:18:00.002-04:00

This will be me...soon enough!

You know you reached a whole new level of "total lazy ass" when you complain about having to run errands two days in a row and thus have to put on normal clothes (sans holes, stains...or most likely both), brush your hair, and put a lick of mascara and balm on. Because that, my friends, is just too much damn effort. At this point Matt is lucky if I dust the crumbs off my sweatshirt. Scratch that: he's lucky if I'm wearing a different sweatshirt than I wore the day before. And the day before that. And yes, I'm gonna say it: the day before that. Weep for him.

I'm not doing well with unemployment. As much as a clock-watcher I was while working, my house has become an insufferable prison. I have long conversations with Penny. (I swear, I am not being cutesy.) I argue with her about totally humanoid topics while she wearily chews her bone. Today we had a frank discussion about the Bin Laden death photos, which I was against releasing. Penny, as misguided as she is, disagreed. When you're having fake conversations with your dog you know you need to get out more.

Today, like an adult, I attended to my previous 401(k) and moved it into an IRA. I spoke to real humans at Vanguard and went to the bank for a change-of-name guarantor signature. I felt good about this. It was a very adult thing to do (more adult than talking to your dog, at least). Matt has been pestering me for the last two months to call our insurance company to inquire about life insurance. I figure one adult thing a day is enough and - if he's lucky - I'll tackle this tomorrow.

This Friday I'm having friends over for a potluck, which I couldn't be happier about. Another week and I would have ended up all Nell-like in this vacant house. Then Saturday Matt and I are volunteering at the annual Crohn's walk. I'm sure there will be a lot of humans there, which will be good for me. One friend said I should volunteer somewhere, and another said to take a class at the local community college. I keep putting all of this off because I'm under the delusion I'm going to get a job. Really, really soon. I swear!

Until then, excuse me, as Penny and I need to have a heart-to-heart regarding the amounts of dog fur she's leaving all over the house. I tell ya, someone's not earning their keep!

Dog gone goodness

2011-05-04T11:13:00.002-04:00

I love dogs. Their desire to serve is humbling and heartwarming and whenever there is a dog store anywhere (even our local 11 o'clock news which often warrants an eye roll) I cry. A lot. I turn to Matt, who is often unmoved, and stammer, "Don't you...don't you see what they DO for us?! They are AMAZING!" I make quite the scene.

I don't understand people who don't like dogs with all they do for us: seeing eye dogs, dogs who serve individuals with epilepsy, rescue dogs, bomb-sniffing dogs, sled dogs, police dogs, parachuting dogs used in war (!) - the list is endless. Of course, then there's the ubiquitous pet dog who enjoys sniffing unmentionables and whining for kitchen scraps. They're pretty good too. Check out these amazing pooches!

UPDATE!: Wonderful, eye-opening photo essay on war dogs.

These dogs work with the Navy SEALS! Look at them strapped outside of that helicopter!

Three dogs who risked their lives and saved 50 military personnel from a suicide bomber (video).

I can't get enough of parachuting dogs!

Here's another parachuting dog in Norway!

Look at this amazing mutt!

Okay; the last one was Penny. Fine. You got me!

But regardless, show me a cat who can do any of this. Meeeeoooowwww!

Greek Orzo Salad

2011-05-01T16:09:00.003-04:00

I hope everyone had a nice Easter. Or Passover. Or, if neither of those are apropos, a good weekend! We spent the weekend with Matt's parents. Penny loves it there because she can roam the property and take hourly dips in the pond. Every night, after exploring, she curls up in her dog bed and snoozes through the night so she's ready to go at 6 am the next morning. Promptly at 6, she comes to my bedside, sits down so her face is no more than a foot from mine, and commences her staring. She's got it down pat, and I gotta say, it's unnerving.

For the festivities I brought a simple-as-pie Greek orzo salad. I make a lot of stuff like this that require no recipe and virtually no thinking: take a grain (couscous, quinoa, some sort of pasta) and mix with a simple vinaigrette and summertime vegetables. Easy on the eyes and the stomach. (It also travels well and you really can't botch it up.)

My go-to vinaigrette is this, and it's a classic: 2/3 cup of good olive oil to 1/3 cup vinegar (this time I used red wine). Whisk in a heaping tablespoon of Dijon mustard, a diced shallot, 1 teaspoon of dried thyme (this is patented by yours truly) and salt and pepper to taste. If I have cooking sherry I add a splash of that, but you know, that's when I'm feeling particularly opulent.

All my salads have a Mediterranean flare given the warm-weather vegetables, and this one focused on Greece given my very eye-brow raising amounts of feta involved. My favorite cheese is feta cheese. Actually, every cheese is my favorite cheese. Duh.

Greek Orzo Salad

One package orzo (16 oz.), boil to al dente
One jar marinated artichoke hearts, drained and diced
One jar sun-dried tomatoes, drained and diced
One large red onion, diced
2 bell peppers (orange, red, or yellow will do), diced or cut into think 1/4" strips
1 package baby spinach
1-2 pints grape tomatoes, halved
1/2 cup packed and chopped fresh Italian flat parsley
feta cheese to taste (about one Athenos package)
Salt and pepper to taste
Vinaigrette, recipe above - makes 1 cup
Optional: toasted pine nuts

Directions: Mix all ingredients to a large bowel (except pine nuts and feta). Add vinaigrette and mix. Fold in crumbled feta, and garnish with pine nuts and additional parsley, if desired.

Tales from Unemployment (Installment 1)

2011-04-14T21:23:00.000-04:00

I haven't been sleeping well - well, I never sleep well - but I've been waking at 3 am every night and every night I throw my hands up in the air and screech, "Are you kidding me?!" I gave Matt permission to sleep in the guest bedroom because I can't imagine it's fun to share a bed with an incessant insomniac, especially one who screeches.

There are no good things about insomnia, but today it did get me out of the house at dawn and down to the river trail with Penny. We walk it often: it's a minute drive from my house and closely hugs the Schuylkill River for three beautiful miles of woods and water. It's busy on the weekends but near empty at dusk and dawn, so I took her off the leash and we strolled, inhaling the crisp morning dew. Everything was glistening and I could see the puffs of Penny's breath as she trotted before me, looking back every minute or so in puzzlement as to why her two-legged owner was so darn slow.

And the bluebells are out. Their periwinkle bonnets are glorious and carpet the forest floor. Earlier this week, on Monday when it was 80 degrees, we saw turtles, so many of them, basking on logs in the river, their flat shells shiny and smooth When Penny would leap and bound toward them they hulled themselves into the water and, with their heads peeking out, looked at us wearily. We also spot a mysterious swan occasionally. There are tens of geese, with their bothersome honking and bickering, but amidst all that cacophony is a lonely swan floating slowly down the river. I didn't know swans lived in rivers. I'm not sure where I thought they lived - parks?

It's good to have these moments so I can unwind from the truly awful interviews I've had. I'm not sure when being antagonistic became an interviewing style, but I've had the displeasure of going to two interviews where I felt a bit berated and where I was constantly prepping for the next sneering question. I work in the recruiting field and I've always made my interviewees feel comfortable and welcomed, and our interviews were lively conversations sprinkled with laughs and puppies (okay; no puppies). Now I feel like I have to down a drink before walking through the front doors. To be fair, it was one interviewer at each company out of several and the big wig, and perhaps intimidation was their game. But they both came off as pricks and left a severe distaste in my mouth for them and their organization. And that's saying a lot for a girl who's desperate for a gig.

Singin' the Unemployment Blues

2011-04-12T17:40:00.000-04:00

I have been unemployed a month. A month isn't so long when you think about it, and I still punch out "Determined to enjoy this time off!!!" with three exclamation points in emails to friends and former colleagues and chirp "It is what it is!" when asked, but, when at home applying to jobs and watching Dr. Oz, it's apparent: I am officially down and out. My special talent is getting an interview, even sometimes a second, and then never the offer. Last week, while on Linkedin, I saw someone update their profile with their new title: a job I interviewed for. Three interviews, really. Usually when you are dismissed and rejected, you don't know who they opted for over you: it's a glorious ignorance. This time I stared at the accepted woman's profile. For ten minutes. I read her accomplishments. My failure was staring me in the face - a rather vibrant face with long chocolate hair and a smug smile (maybe I was reading into this a bit). With my nose stuffy and my cheeks wet, I typed to Matt, "No one wants me!" But he immediately responded with, "I want you." and then "you'll find your match" which made me cry more. Because with every declination, I am disappointed in myself. I'm embarrassed I'm not pulling my household weight.

This post has taken so long to write because I get upset whenever I sit down to talk about my unemployment. I've now had several interviews in which I was declined, and after each "thanks but no thanks" email my ego deflates just a bit more. I've had poor luck, too: even when offered a contract position it was put on indefinite hold due to budgetary constraints. After I told everyone. And when I do interview it's invariably at a company that recently had lay-offs (you know, "strategic reductions") and their staff is over-worked to the tune of 11-hour days and constant travel and I think, "I just can't do this." That happened last week at a company that boasts $12 billion in annual profit, but to what end?

Maybe there are people who milk unemployment, but let me say this: there are many, many more of us who would take a drastic pay cut just to get out of the house and do something. To contribute. To feel like we add value again.

Speedy Tagine-ish Chicken

2011-03-28T15:36:00.001-04:00

I think unemployment, with its constant "no's" and "thanks, but no thanks" or "we'll call you's" is pretty much the pits. It's humbling, demoralizing, and I really think it's driven me to put meat back in my diet because I've up and gone meat crazy this week! First it was that sausage lasagna (still lickin' my lips) and now a Moroccan chicken dish. I also cooked some Thai with chicken that will be featured soon. Frankly, it's probably just a reaction to a year-long diet steeped in beans. My stomach was bound to rebel sooner or later when Matt brought up chickpeas for the millionth time.

Here is a very good (and super quick) Rachel Ray recipe called Quick Tagine-Style Chicken. Tagines are these clay pots used in traditional Moroccan cooking. They're gorgeous but heck, I'm a simple Pennsylvania girl so I used my skillet. The original recipe is printed below, and I made it to a T except I doubled all the spices and suggest you do too! What's a little chicken without some spicy intrigue? The recipe also calls for prunes and I was like, "What?! Do I look like an 80-year-old granny?!" so I opted for apricots. Next time I'm going to add a few veggies and perhaps a can of diced tomatoes. Simple and delish, with a savory sweet finish.


The recipe calls for prunes, but I chucked them and opted for apricots.

Definitely double the spices - you can never had too much cumin!

Quick Tagine-Style Chicken

recipe courtesy of Rachel Ray

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, 2 turns of the pan
4 cloves garlic, smashed beneath the flat of your knife with the heel of your hand, discard skins
1 1/2 to 1 3/4 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into large bite-size pieces
1 1/2 teaspoons grill seasoning blend (recommended: Montreal Seasoning by McCormick) or coarse salt and coarse pepper
2 medium or 1 large yellow skinned onion, quartered and sliced
10 pitted prunes, coarsely chopped
1-ounce box or 1/4 cup golden raisins
2 cups good quality, low sodium chicken stock,

Spice blend:

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons sweet paprika, eyeball it
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander, eyeball it
1/2 teaspoon tumeric, eyeball it
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon, a couple pinches

Couscous:

1 1/2 cups chicken stock
1 1/2 cups couscous
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, eyeball it
2 scallions, finely chopped

Directions

Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium high heat. Add extra-virgin olive oil, 2 turns of the pan, in a slow stream, and add smashed garlic. Season the chicken with seasoning blend. Scatter chicken around the pan in an even layer. Cook chicken pieces 2 minutes on each side to brown, then add the onions, prunes, raisins and stock. Mix spices n a small dish and scatter over the pot. Cover and reduce to moderate heat. Cook 7 or 8 minutes, remove the lid and stir.

To prepare the couscous, bring chicken stock to a boil. Add couscous, extra-virgin olive oil and scallions and remove the couscous from the stove immediately. Cover and let stand 5 minutes. Fluff the couscous with a fork.

Uncover chicken and cook another 2 to 3 minutes to thicken slightly. Adjust the seasoning, to taste, and serve chicken on a bed of couscous. Garnish with chopped cilantro and scallions.

Sausage and Mushroom Lasagna

2011-03-26T15:51:00.001-04:00

I thought being unemployed would permit me to post all the time. I would go to coffee shops and out would come the laptop and the inspiration. I would tackle new recipes and keep a clean house and be all 50's housewife-like with a really cute circle skirt and kitten heels to boot. But no. Big belly laughs come out when I think of that now. Oh, Kathryn...

I didn't think it was possible, but I am lazier than ever. I still get up early and I have doctor appointments and apply to jobs and talk on the phone with potential employers, but in between I do the following, in order of time allotted to each activity: I sleep, I sleep some more, I take the dog out, I mock Oprah (jealousy probably has everything to do with it), I cook (so that's not so bad), and I eat ice cream and cereal. Between those big time wasters I get the mail and contemplate putting on different yoga pants than yesterday's yoga pants.

But this week I've made three (count them! 3!) new recipes which, as someone who doesn't know when the last time she washed her hair, is really kind of monumental. The first I am going to feature is a super easy and super cheesy lasagna with mushrooms and sausage. I needed a make-ahead meal for a friend visiting and this fit the bill. I generally don't make lasagna: obviously it's not healthy (this is coming from the girl who has been eating ice cream for breakfast), and for some reason I never find it completely filling. But paired with a salad and a crusty French loaf (because you can never have too many carbs!) it's outstanding. You cook the mushroom/onion mixture and sausage in a cup of red wine, and boy does it work wonders. This is one of the top rated recipes on www.epicurious.com and I have no doubts why. Salud!

Mmm...onions and mushrooms. The basis for everything great.

Layer two being applied...

At this point I refrigerated the sucker over night. The meal made for perfect timing (and belt loosening. Well, not really seeing as I only wear yoga pants these days.)

Quick Sausage and Mushroom Lasagna

recipe courtesy of Epicurious (originally printed in Bon Appetit in 2008)

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 8-ounce packages sliced crimini (baby bella) mushrooms
1 large onion, chopped (about 2 cups)
2 tablespoons dried Italian seasoning blend
1 pound hot Italian sausages, casings removed
3 garlic cloves, pressed
1 cup dry red wine
4 2/3 cups marinara sauce (from two 26-ounce jars)
1 9-ounce package no-cook lasagna noodles
1 15-ounce container ricotta cheese
2 8-ounce bags Italian blend grated cheese (4 cups)

Preheat oven to 400°F. Heat oil in heavy large pot over high heat. Add mushrooms, onion, and seasoning blend; sauté until vegetables begin to soften, about 6 minutes. Add sausage and sauté until brown and cooked through, breaking up with back of spoon, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and stir 1 minute. Add wine; cook until almost all liquid evaporates, scraping up browned bits, about 2 minutes. Set aside.

Spread 2/3 cup marinara sauce over bottom of 13x9x2-inch baking dish. Place noodles (about 4) over sauce, forming 1 layer (noodles may overlap slightly). Spread 1 cup sauce over noodles. Top with 1/3 of ricotta, then 1 cup grated cheese. Spoon 1/3 of sausage mixture over. Repeat 2 more times with noodles, sauce, ricotta, grated cheese, and sausage mixture. Cover with 4 more noodles. Spoon remaining 1 cup sauce over; sprinkle remaining 1 cup grated cheese over. Cover with foil, tenting in center to prevent cheese from touching foil. Bake lasagna 45 minutes; remove foil. Bake until bubbling at edges and cheese is browned, about 10 minutes longer. Let stand 15 minutes.

Video: Dog Caring for Dog in Japan

2011-03-17T18:03:00.003-04:00

Small pleasures escaped the days during my first week of unemployment. And then last Friday I learned of the earthquake in Japan, then tsunami, and now, of course the chilling news about the meltdown of Japan's nuclear power plants. When you're unemployed you watch a lot of television, and read a lot of news. I sift through these tidbits all day long in between applying to jobs, fixing lunch, and finally putting on different sweats (from the ones I sadly slept in) to take the dog for a walk. I've been watching what's happening in Japan with a sort of frozen half-belief, but it wasn't until today that I actually cried when viewing a clip of the devastation. And it was from The Today Show, no less! Not some venerated newscast! And about a dog! Jeez. I don't know what this says about me - or about other people who cried at the same clip - but there's something so innately vulnerable about animals and particularly dogs: they have no clue what is happening yet they nurture nonetheless. Their loyalty is startling. I talk to my dog, Penny, throughout the day and her ears always perk up at the sound of my voice. We cook together, get the mail together, greet our neighbors together, and together we wait for Matt to get home. She's my best friend.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I'm Out!

2011-03-03T14:25:00.000-05:00

My sentiments, exactly.

Today is my last day at work. Talk about the last day of purgatory!

Catch you on the flip (unemployed, still wearing my pajamas at 2 PM) side!

Tom Ka Gai + Kathryn = Love At First Slurp

2011-02-28T17:52:00.000-05:00

God I love soup. It may be because it's an easy excuse to eat whole loaves of bread and say it was necessary. I mean, there was soup involved! I can't really say that about Tom Ka Gai, which is a traditional Thai coconut and chicken soup. When was the last time you got a bread basket at a Thai joint? But that doesn't really matter: I still adore its milky goodness. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Here's a dumbed-down version I found on All Recipes. Not to say I'm dumb, or you're dumb, but when are we going to have time to track down kaffir leaves and galangal? Anyway, it's still delish and I bet more exotic than what your neighbor is making. Enjoy!

Tom Ka Gai (Thai Coconut Chicken Soup)

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 cans (13.5 oz) coconut milk
1-inch piece ginger, thinly sliced (or galangal, a distant cousin of ginger)
2 stalks lemongrass, bruised and chopped (expose the essence-y white part!)
juice of one lime (or 10 kaffir lime leaves, torn) plus 1/4 cup lime juice
1 pound shiitake mushrooms, sliced
3 Tb. fish sauce
1/4 cup brown sugar (start with a bit less and add more to taste)
1 Tb. curry powder
2 Tbs. diced scallions
1 tsp. dried red pepper flakes

***I also added tons of chopped cilantro (see photos) because I can't get enough of the stuff.

Saute chicken until done. Set aside.
Pour the coconut milk and 2 cups of water in a large saucepan; bring to a simmer. Add the ginger, lemon grass, and lime juice (or kaffir leaves) ; simmer for 10 minutes, or until the flavors are infused. Strain the coconut milk into a new pan and discard the spices. Simmer the shiitake mushrooms in the coconut milk for five minutes. Stir in the lime juice, fish sauce, and brown sugar. Season to taste with curry powder.
To serve, reheat chicken in the soup, and ladle into serving bowls. Garnish with green onion and red pepper flakes (and cilantro if so inspired).

Greek Dip with a Dollop of Grief

2011-02-28T17:26:00.000-05:00

There is not much more demoralizing than applying to jobs that cap out at half your current salary (and that isn't too high), and still not getting a call. I know, I know - "Welcome to the recession, Kathryn!" I say in a droll voice. It's a race to the bottom in terms of benefits and income, and still jarring to see 30K admin jobs in Philadelphia that require an advanced degree and 5-8 years experience. It's things like this that make me just sit and stare at my computer screen, exhale, and cry. And I'm technically not even unemployed. How's that for such a pathetic sense of self-pity? My last day is this week but we're still waiting for the axe. We just want to know. We want finality to it all. We want to leave the building with purpose.

I had my IVF transfer yesterday and was told to rest. When I feel tears coming on I take deep breaths, curse my soon-to-be-former CEO and eat jelly beans. I'm like a badass seven-year-old. On a good note, the transfer went fine as did this cycle. And fine is just what I need right now.

We froze 10 fertilized eggs, and implanted two eight-celled critters in my uterus yesterday. Saucy and sizzlin', I know! It was the most fruitful sex I've ever had. Sorry - I lack a sense of boundaries when it comes to my nether regions. But in all seriousness: this may be the closest to being pregnant Matt and I may ever get. And that's a startling thought.

After a morning of whimpering over admin jobs I'm not qualified for, I'm determined to relax. And by relax I mean eat a big bowl of chana masala, light my lavender candle, and watch some Whose Wedding Is It, Anyway?. I also think I'll share a delightful little ditty of a recipe I made a few weeks back for our neighborhood get together. I know, I know - I never even mentioned it! It came and went and it was a lackluster week: I was sick, found out I'm losing my job and we just started our fertility meds for this cycle. I had grand visions of kicking culinary ass at this thing and showing these neighbors what us Hopkins can whip up, but life got in the way and I made due with a big veggie tray and dip, some bought tomato pies, and this number: a layered Greek dip (stole shamelessly from Closet Cooking). There was still too much food - everyone brings a dish so I don't know what the heck I was worried about anyway. I always make too much food; it's just my way. Anyway, who doesn't like leftovers?

So here is a super simple Greek dip comprised of hummus, tzatziki, and diced cucumbers, tomatoes, feta and kalamata olives. I want everyone to notice my artful arrangement, because, really, it's all I got at this point. Since I piled high all the fixins', you can't really see the hummus, but it's there and makes the basis of the dip. In the middle is a good cup of tzatziki, and then I sprinkled the rest like a feign. It made a great presentation, and an excellent alternative to a staid ol' layered taco dip - you know what I'm sayin'?

Layered Greek Dip

courtesy of Closet Cooking

(Note: I did my own "non-recipe" recipes for the hummus and tzatziki but you can find links to both here.)

1 1/2 cups hummus
1 cup tzatziki
1 cup tomato (diced and mixed with 1 tablesoon lemon juice and 1/2 teaspoon oregano)
1/2 cup cucumber (cut into small pieces)
1/4 cup red onions (diced)
1/4 cup feta (crumbled)
1/4 cup kalamata olives (pitted and coarsely chopped)
1 handful mint (chopped)
4 whole wheat pitas (cut into triangles and toasted until just crispy)

Directions:
1. Assemble dip starting with the hummus and stacking each ingredient on top of the last.

Don't Get In My Way

2011-02-25T16:24:00.003-05:00

When you find out unemployment is eminent, you do crazy things. My last day will be today or Monday. Last Thursday our CEO - glib and removed - said although making payroll may be questionable, we should all be professionals and come into work with a smile. Since we are on deferred pay, that could mean one month of work without pay. And that makes me incensed. I have thus decided the only reasonable action is to steal anything I can use during unemployment: having Crohn's, toilet paper tops that list. I'm also eyeing paper and pens, file racks and cleaner, and I'm so low that even feminine hygiene supplies have made the list. Hey; they take my money, I take their tampons.

I've also taken other immediate actions: on Thursday I called three eye doctors until I found one who would see me the next day (no less, on his lunch hour). He was cute to boot and smelled of soap - I was smitten. Then yesterday I raced to Target's pharmacy before it closed to fill a much-need prescription because I had three coupons - fill a prescription, get a $10 Target gift card. With two $10 gift cards in hand, I feel like I'm rolling in the dough.

I'm also going through IVF and yesterday had our egg retrieval. There's not much to tell: it went fine, we had lunch afterwards, and I ate a gyro. Well, come to think of it, that was a really slammin' afternoon. But things, on a whole, have been hard. My neighborhood has a horrible rush hour traffic problem and I want to move, which is idiotic on many levels, except that I feel like a prisoner in my own home. The shades are down and loud music is often on so I can go about my business without having to hear the stop and go of all the vehicles. It sounds silly, but it's driving me crazy and I longingly look at houses online that we cannot afford (especially now). I don't want a big house (smaller would be fine!). I just want it...removed. This morning I was beeped at several times for going the speed limit in my neighborhood. I find this particularly noxious: here are drivers who are cutting through a quiet, suburban street and they have the gull to beep. So I gave them the finger. That's pretty much how I take matters into my own hands.

This is a reenactment of the angry, honkin' driver behind me. I love it when their faces turn red.

Will Work For Sushi

2011-02-16T20:05:00.002-05:00

Well...that's one way to put it.

The most praying I do is on the scale at the doctor’s office and walking into work: “Let’s hope this will be a good day!” Both of these pseudo-prayers are most definitely futile, unfortunately.

But lately something peculiar has been happening. Take last Saturday. It was raining and cold and Penny had to go for a walk, so I donned two sweatshirts, a canary yellow rains slicker and my trusty Eskimo boots and off we went to the river trail. The snow was still about 10 inches thick and we trudged slowly and silently (well – I did, she more or less hopped gracefully). The air was clear and crisp and the rain pitter pattered on my jacket. Penny trounced from one snowy mound to the other, looking back every thirty seconds or so at her pathetic owner (and if a dog can roll their eyes, she surely has the gift).

And even though it was cold, and raining, and I was huffin’ and puffin’ (and, yes) grunting, it was rather lovely, peaceful, and affirming. And it was the closest I’ve come to prayer in years.

These little moments have been positively delightful. Take Valentine’s morning: at 5:45 am I heard Matt shuffling around like a drunken moose. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m making you breakfast!”, he replied. Never mind I occasionally meet a friend at the gym with this morning being one of them. No worries, he said, we’ll have a quick breakfast. Which is what I did at 6:10 that morning in five minutes flat. Banana pancakes, coffee, and a quick kiss goodbye. It couldn’t have been sweeter.

I think of these quiet moments in times of strife, and this is one of them. It is confirmed: I am being laid off. No one knows when, except “soon”. When you are told your company is out of money during a last-minute night conference call, and that there are no other choices because no bank in their right mind will refinance us, and when your boss’s boss cries at this news, you know it’s bad. I saw the writing on the wall a while ago in unpaid bills, tales of excessive spending, and other dirty secrets that trickled down to my desk. No controls in place, no leadership, no fortitude, and this leaves us little people scrambling. When you know you’re going to be laid off you sulk, lose motivation, and wait…and wait. You wait for the ball to drop. For the other shoe to drop. You wait for another nighttime last-minute conference call announcing the inevitable.

There's not much I can do. (Well, except cry and then bitch and then sulk, all of which I do often.) I want answers - when? Is there severance? Will we even make payroll and will my PTO be paid out? I have almost 100 hours of PTO saved up (and for this, I now laugh) to add onto a maternity leave. Yes; big, boisterous laughs. And next week I have my IVF egg retrieval, followed by (I hope) the transfer. I'm trying not to complain, but it's not in my makeup. I am fortunate: if I give up the fertility stuff, going out to eat, and other extras, we will be fine. Maybe it's high time I practiced some big time budgetary restraint (But there is sushi to be eaten! And new dresses to be bought!) I am lucky I have a significant other who is employed, who has insurance I can jump onto, and who tolerates my aforementioned crying, bitching, and sulking.

But between all this crying, bitching, and sulking, I swear, I am having those little, transcendent moments. I'm not saying I'm having deep thoughts or anything, but it's a start. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some jobs that need apply'n.

Robots, Heartache, and Chocolate Cake

2011-02-15T21:21:00.000-05:00

Watson is silently laughing at these humanoid fools.

It's just been too long since I last posted, and this simply will not do!

First things first: I have a terrible crush on Watson. As in the IBM robot currently kicking ass on Jeopardy. Matt doesn't fault me for this, as he has his own burning desires for that bot. Ah...young nerds in love.

Speaking of love, Valentine's Day has come and gone and we celebrated with wonton soup and egg rolls - the only thing that rivals my love for Matt, is (of course) my love for food, which is worn on the plump slope of my belly- it's a mid-section that has seen it's share of shrimp pad thai, spaghetti and meatballs, and chicken pot pie. And since we're not a couple for grand displays of romance (well, that one year I did sort of demand flowers at work but that ship has sailed), we celebrated quietly. Not that I didn't demand anything: I requested a card that he didn't "just sign". I wanted verbiage, damnit! And dot those i's with hearts! He wrote me a lovely note that makes me cry every time I read it. It may be the wacky fertility meds, but, hey, it just might be love.

It's been a trying few months for us, but how lucky we are. This is what I repeat when I hear troublesome news. Take last week: it was announced our consulting company is going belly up and we'll either being going bankrupt or will be bought in an acquisition. Since I work in corporate, we - almost certainly - will be laid off. The question is when. This, of course, will end our fertility treatments. We also just started a new IVF cycle and are forging ahead as most of it is paid for by the practice due to the last cycle's mishap. But then that's it. I'm upset, but I've even more upset it's making me so upset which, in turn, makes me even more upset. Or something like that. It's upsetting I can't even figure out that sentence!

Now it's chocolate cake time. Yes - I got cake too, because just Chinese food isn't fattening enough, and well, I deserve it! (That's what I say, at least.)

PS: Watson will be on Jeopardy tomorrow, too. Tune in to check out my boyfriend!

Moroccan Munchies

2011-02-01T19:34:00.001-05:00

I never really understood the movie Casablanca. What can I say: maybe it’s Humphrey Bogart. I just can’t get behind someone with the name Humphrey. Do they call him Hump for short? “Hey, Hump!” I have the problem of not being able to disconnect between a celebrity’s personal life and on-screen persona. I refuse to see any Tom Cruise movie because of his wackadoo Scientologist views. And Christian Bale? He’s known to be the biggest verbally abusive prick in Hollywood, but damn if he doesn’t make good movies (sadly).

Regarding Casablanca, I know I’m speaking romantic and classic movie blasphemy right now, but this post isn’t really about my sorry cinematic views, but FOOD! Doesn’t it always involve food? I love Mediterranean food so this weekend I whipped up several Moroccan favorites: baba ganoush, a tasty carrot salad (parve), zaulook, which is an eggplant dish served hot or cold, and a big bowl of roasted vegetables with Israeli (aka pearl) couscous. Lots of eggplant, lots of olive oil, lots of parsley, and lots of chowing down.

There is something innately sensual about Mediterranean food: the aromatics of it all, the fact you eat so much of it by hand. Unfortunately the Hopkins household version include sweatpants and football games, but hey, that’s just our flavor. I can’t imagine Matt feeding me olives and fruit with a crackling fire behind us – yuck!

I was inspired because we visited a Moroccan restaurant with our in-laws a couple weeks back and I was in love with the first course, which had an array of cold salads/spreads: hummus, baba ganoush, parve, zaulook, and a wonderful and cool diced cucumber and tomato salad that I’ll have to replicate soon. Moroccan food just has so much character – I could give a FIG (get it, get it?!) about meat and potato entries, but when chicken is covered with apricots or vegetables are roasted on a smoky hearth I go gaga. I also liked that our waiter, who went by Moses (we did not ascertain if that was his real name) looked like a pirate, and that Matt and his father had to dance with our female belly dancer, their faces flush with embarrassment. (The male belly dancer – and oh, yes, there was one and Omar was his name– did not come near my mother-in-law and me. I’m not sure what to make of that.)

A few of my favorite things (and colors)...
That gorgeous globe on the left is a Sicilian eggplant.

Refreshing, bright, and vibrant.

Moroccan Carrot Salad

7 carrots, sliced into rounds
3 Tb. fresh lemon juice
2 Tb. extra virgin olive oil
2-3 cloves garlic
1 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. paprika
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
salt and pepper to taste

Bring salted water to a boil (enough to cover the carrots). Boil for approx. 8 minutes, and then drain and rinse under cold water. (Carrots should have a slight crispness to them still; not mushy.) In a bowl, combine the remaining ingredients and pour over the carrot salad.

Olives are a nice touch to add a certain saltiness and brininess (is that a word) to the dish. I didn't add them because I'm not a fan, but we later chopped some up and mixed in, and I have to admit, it was pure delight.

Baba Ghanoush

1 eggplant
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup tahini
2 Tb. sesame seeds
3 gloves garlic, minced
salt and pepper to taste
1 1/2 Tb. olive oil

Preheat over to 400 degrees. Lightly grease a baking sheet and place the eggplant on it. Be sure to make holes in the skin of the eggplant with a fork before baking. Roast for 30 to 40 minutes, turning, until soft. Remove from the oven and cool the eggplant in ice water. Then peel the skin off (should be easy if the eggplant is well-roasted).

Place the eggplant, lemon juice, tahini, sesame seeds, and garlic in a blender or food processor and puree. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to a bowl and slowly mix in the olive oil. Refrigerate for about 3 hours before serving.

May not look that enticing, but it is.

Moroccan Eggplant Dip (Zaalouk)

1 large eggplant, peeled and chopped
4 large tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped
3 cloves garlic, pressed
1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro and parsley, mixed
1 Tb. paprika
1 1/2 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper (optional)
1/4 cup olive oil
1/3 cup water

Mix all ingredients in a large skillet or pot and cook over medium to medium-high heat for approx. 30 minutes. Using a spoon smash the mixture until smooth and cook for an additional 10 minutes. Serve warm or cold with pita.

We then finished our feast with a big bowl of roasted veggies with Israeli couscous. Divine!

Music To My Ears

2011-02-01T19:31:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite bands, with long awaited new material: I've been listening to this on repeat all afternoon. Just had to share with any readers, who I know have equally fab taste!

Fleet Foxes - Helplessness Blues by subpop

Winter's Thaw

2011-01-17T18:22:00.006-05:00

A friend told me that after the hard times, good will come again. And the worse the times, the better the outcome. So I cling to this – how could I not wrap myself in this sentiment? – and I look ahead. Left foot in front of the right, Monday into Tuesday, 2010 into 2011.

And I know I don’t live a hard life, and my hardships are just pin pricks to those who do suffer, but I find myself, maybe once a week, saying: “Are you kidding me?!” Each setback is a minor defeat, but as a whole body of work, it starts to eat at you. And by this I mean: I am tired.

Matt and I learned that our failed IVF cycle very well may not have been my lousy eggs' fault, but the fault of a cleaner that was used on the floor around the lab the same weekend I had my extraction. Three other women experienced the same thing: eggs that divided and, then, stopped - plum tired and puckered out. Who else does this happen to?

Relief is now anger. I had worked so hard these last few weeks to start the process of, well, maybe just moving on. It's easier said than done going into IVF with no or little expectations: right now I feel detached but by my second monitoring appointment I route for each egg, and get giddy when the number of them climbs to 4, 8, 12. My calls to Matt while leaving the appointment, my drives over the Betsy Ross Bridge. My mom's lucky socks, given to me at Thanksgiving, that she wore during both of her easy labors. I wore them to my last appointments, to my extraction, and had them on while we drove to our transfer appointment that was canceled. And now they are washed and ready to go again.

But when Matt and I were at the circus I saw a lesbian couple with two beautiful, adopted African-American daughters, their hair in braids and pink cotton candy sticky in their hands. And it was at that moment, coupled with so many others, I knew I would be able to let go and define family on our own terms.

And I knew whatever the outcome, through tears and shots and my mom's ugly taupe knee-highs, it'll all be all right (even if I have a good cry getting there).

Black Bean and Sweet Potato Chili

2011-01-16T18:56:00.002-05:00

I love beans in every which form (but you already knew that), and I particularly adore dishes that are quick, fool-proof and contain half a jar of cumin, so this sweet potato and black bean chili fit the bill. It's very similar to my speedy (and dare I say delicious?) vegetarian black bean chili, but with the inspired addition of sweet potatoes. The end result looks as heavenly as it tastes.

We always keep a box of Trader Joe's cornbread mix in the pantry and Matt whipped that up while I started sauteing the onions and potato. All in all, dinner was on the table (or kitchen island, in our case) in 40 minutes...and that's only because we were waiting for the corn bread.

Notes: The recipe in its original form is below. I added a bit more onion, did not have the ground chipotle so added a small dash of smoked paprika and (of course) additional cumin and the juice of one whole lime. The recipe makes four servings, but we only have enough for one lunch leftover, and you bet your ass I claimed that!!

Sweet Potato and Black Bean Chili

courtesy of Eating Well magazine

1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons olive oil
1 medium-large sweet potato, peeled and diced
1 large onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons chili powder
4 teaspoons ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon ground chipotle chile
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups water
2 15-ounce cans black beans, rinsed
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes
4 teaspoons lime juice
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

Heat oil in a Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add sweet potato and onion and cook, stirring often, until the onion is beginning to soften, about 4 minutes. Add garlic, chili powder, cumin, chipotle and salt and cook, stirring constantly, for 30 seconds. Add water and bring to a simmer. Cover, reduce heat to maintain a gentle simmer and cook until the sweet potato is tender, 10 to 12 minutes.

Add beans, tomatoes and lime juice; increase heat to high and return to a simmer, stirring often. Reduce heat and simmer until slightly reduced, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in cilantro.

Curry-Spiced Noodles

2011-01-05T21:16:00.001-05:00

I'm having a mini flare-up and it's entirely my gluttonous self's fault: like a beast I ate beef (and lots of it!) last week in the form of spaghetti and meatballs (mmm...meatballs) and a greasy burger and fries. Argh.

It's good to return to vegetables this week. Over the weekend I made a comforting eggplant and chickpea stew, and then this: a simple veggie stir-fry with Udon noodles. The recipe in it's original form is below, but I suggest adding more spice. (This may be because we did not use the lemon grass, which was inexplicably missing from Wegman's when we visited - I'll have to take this up with my mother who works there! Complaint!!) Anywho, I don't do bland, so to compensate, and because we like the intensity of flavor brought on my oodles of cumin and additional curry paste (you can find curry paste with the Thai foods in the grocery store - great to stir into many Asian dishes) we added additional flavoring. I'm sure we were missing a huge component by neglecting to use the lemon grass, but again: totally not my fault! A few more notes: I also added about half a cup of chopped cilantro to the dish (in addition to topping it with the stuff) and threw in some sugar snap peas. I was also stoked to use my new Japanese bowls I picked up during our city adventure on Friday; hey, why not try to be authentic?

This recipe easily made four servings, and we both had enough for delicious lunch leftovers the next day. Enjoy!

Curry-Spiced Noodles
courtesy of Cooking Light magazine

8 ounces dry udon noodles (thick, round Japanese wheat noodles) or spaghetti
4 teaspoons peanut oil, divided
2 cups julienne-cut carrot
2 cups julienne-cut red bell pepper
1 cup julienne-cut green bell pepper
4 cups thinly sliced shiitake mushroom caps (about 8 ounces)
3 tablespoons chopped peeled fresh lemongrass
1 tablespoon grated peeled fresh ginger
1 tablespoon red curry paste
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
8 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup organic vegetable broth
1/2 cup water
2 teaspoons lower-sodium soy sauce
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 green onions, thinly sliced
1/3 cup cilantro leaves
1/4 cup chopped dry-roasted, unsalted cashews

1. Cook noodles according to package directions, omitting salt and fat. Set noodles aside; keep warm.
2. Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add 2 teaspoons peanut oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add carrot to pan; sauté 2 minutes. Add bell peppers; sauté 2 minutes. Remove carrot mixture from pan.
3. Heat the remaining 2 teaspoons oil in pan over medium-high heat; swirl to coat. Add mushrooms; sauté for 2 minutes. Add lemongrass and the next 5 ingredients (through garlic); cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add broth, 1/2 cup water, soy sauce, and salt. Bring to a boil; cover, reduce heat, and simmer for 2 minutes or until slightly thick. Add noodles, carrot mixture, and onions; cook for 2 minutes, tossing to combine. Divide noodle mixture evenly among 4 bowls; top with cilantro and cashews.

A Hat and A Goat

2011-01-02T21:31:00.002-05:00

Have you seen the PBS six-part documentary called "Circus"? Well - Matt and I did - and he subsequently became totally entrenched in the lives of the featured circus performers in the show, all a part of Big Apple Circus. I'm not really keen on any form of circus and for the life of me I will not understand clowns (I find them more annoying than creepy), but this boy was DAZZLED. (I have no sense of childlike whimsy so I was more like, "eh".) Anyway, for Christmas, his parents got us tickets to the show which is currently stationed in Manhattan. After a delay (we were originally scheduled to go on the 26th but the big snow storm nixed that and made me a stressed-out, flustered mess) we trekked up in the train this New Year's Eve. Here is a short pictorial of our day in the city, staring Matt and his hat:

Instead of New York chic, Matt went with "Igloo Chic". Here he is driving to the train station as the sun was rising and wearing my bedazzled sunglasses. He's sassy like that.

Since I know my way around the city I asked him what kind of food he wanted to eat, and the boy replied "TACO CART!" I asked again and he replied that a taco cart was non-negotiable, so here he is at....yes....a taco cart for lunch. We got the chulupas. (After a week of eating horribly, and my stomach already churning, this was not the best decision on my part...)

We strolled through Central Park, which was glistening and bright. Snarkiness aside, it was rather lovely and made me feel all nostalgia-y for the city. I never found New York particularly romantic (more tiring, sooty, lively or whatever) but this was definitely....nice. Matt, his hat, and I really enjoyed our morning.

We made it to the circus! (And here is Matt...in that hat.....again.) He noted how stylin' he was since he saw "native New Yorkers" (his words) wearing them. Sigh.

In our (read: his) excitement, we got there rather early. Here is the view under the big top.

I felt rather awkward as I think we were the only couple without kids in the audience. It just felt creepy and wrong, UNTIL this act with goats and dogs came out. Then I let out a hoot and a holler and really got into it. Look, there are a few terrific, cosmic couplings known to man: peanut butter and jelly. Burt and Ernie. And now? DOGS AND GOATS!

Get this: the goats jumped on the backs of these mini-horses and road those beasts around the ring! This is when I decided the circus ain't all bad, and that goats are marvelous animals (well, I already knew that...). I was positively giddy for the rest of the day and vowed to get a goat.

This is a really bad photo of me, but let's ignore that and focus on the sign. Here we are waiting to get into Momofuku. When I asked the dear boy what type of cuisine he wanted for dinner (thank god it wasn't "taco cart"), he said, "I heard an interview on NPR with this chef; it sounded good...something like FooFoo's Noodle House?" I was so proud of him...this little burgeoning foodie! I said, "Do you mean Momofuku noodle bar?" and he exclaimed "YES!" I was surprised because he is the opposite of trendy and here he was suggesting the restaurant du jour in Manhattan that all the hipsters flock to - my, how the tables have turned. Here we are waiting to get in; by the time they opened for dinner there was a line 50 people deep. We were first. I was damn sure we were getting in! (And dinner was delicious.)

It was a long day. We walked from Penn Station to Midtown East (you know, for the taco cart) then through the park to Lincoln Center (where the circus was), then took the train downtown to Soho and Chinatown for some shopping at Pearl River (amazing home goods), then walked over to the East Village for dinner, then to Union Square, and then, gosh darnit, we hopped back on the subway for home. Here he is underground with the subway station critters on 14th Street. And yes...still wearing the hat.

I don't know what it says in that we were home and in bed by 10:30 pm, and then turned on the television to watch the ball drop where we just were, but I suppose that's par for the course. Anyway, I heard those Times Square goofballs wear Depends to keep their spot in the crowd, and honey, that just ain't my scene.

Looking To 2011

2010-12-29T13:05:00.003-05:00

I’m loving the quietness of work this week. Most of my team is out, I have my music on, and occasionally work friends pop their head into my area for a refreshing holiday tete-a-tete. We whisper because it’s so quiet.

The holidays were festive and fanciful, but I felt not all there. This sense of sadness and loss (over one measly failed IVF cycle – I know) has left me shaken. One down, one to go. On the verge of tears is my perpetual state and I cannot say enough about Matt. Poor Matt, who is going through this too, and who holds me at night and lets me have my “And you know who I saw on Facebook who is pregnant now too?!” moments, has taken this – all of it – in stride. We are perfectly matched because I am brash and high-strung and can tumble from happiness to tears in .2 seconds and he is, simply, the most even-keeled, pleasant, and optimistic person I know. Nary in a bad mood, his goodness (to me, to others) doesn’t surprise me anymore. He says I color his life…and I suppose that is one way to put it. How very fortunate I am.

So it’s interesting to see this happy-go-lucky guy upset too. When we found out this cycle wasn’t going to work I cried and cried and later exclaimed, “Aren’t you going to cry too? Aren’t you upset?!!” and he informed he did cry – I guess I was too weepy to notice. He still says everything is going to work out, and still talks about us having children, but now adoption references sprinkle these conversations more and more. I say I’m scared because that process if far from easy, and so long, and expensive, and what if we aren’t chosen, and what if it always falls through for us, and …and…and. With resoluteness he holds my hand and says it will happen, and he makes me believe it.

They say this process and all its ugliness (the emotions, the money, the stress, the hormones) deepens the cracks in any marriage, but I have not experienced that. With Crohn’s, I feel wholly alone. Yes, he chides me when I eat something on the “no” list, or asks if I took my medication, but the pains that make me question if I’m leaving this blissful period of “remission” are only felt by me. Heck, it’s nice not to be alone in your misery. We both want children so badly so there is nothing but tenderness when anything baby is mentioned. (And the occasional groan as he submits eyebrow-raising baby names, from the likes of “Willard” to “Samson” – I kid you not. He has since lost his naming rights.)

It’s with this mishmash of emotions I look forward to 2011. I know we have it good (or at least that's what I tell myself every day to ward off the tears), but I’m hoping for resolution. And for greatness.

Letters on 22nd Street

2010-12-24T09:55:00.000-05:00

I am officially in the holiday spirit. Last night Matt and I watched Love Actually (the Colin Firth vignette is my favorite) and then I saw this and it really made me smile: