It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it. - Zora Neal Hurston
Ok, ok...the past few days I have been caught up in a frenzy about toddler feeding and nutrition. This morning was the crest of that wave.
My panic button was pressed.
The following sentence sent me into a spin of FIRST, wanting a donut; second, fearing for Nora; third, feeling anxious.
"Your child will grow up to feel about eating the way you do. If that gives you a little thrill of dismay and dread, you have work to do."
After leaving a frantic voicemail for Kathy, I had to step back and take a breath. A few of them.
First, no driving to a donut shop.
Second, Nora is going to be fine.
Third, my anxiety is not from this mountain of a mole hill. I feed Nora pretty well and she is a good eater...there's something else underneath at the root of all this.
Hmmmm...my stressors...
Part of it is that I am suddenly overwhelmed by the academic/professional void in my life since being out of work now for over a year. At first it was just awesome to NEVER have to go to work but t he initial euphoria of motherhood is no longer new. I have even caught myself looking longingly at my professional teacher slacks in the closet.
Calls and emails to pre-baby friends often (and understandably) go unanswered for a long time...I imagine that's because they are busy with their jobs. Applying their minds and time to something outside of the domestic sphere.
I used to be important (please don't tell me I'm important to Nora...I inherently get that). I mean that I used to be a highly-respected English teacher. Colleagues sought out my advice on curriculum, behavior issues, methodology. I was the mentor and coach to new teachers. I had a strong and passionate voice at staff meetings. Administrators praised my abilities. I was proud of being a teacher. Yes, I complained..but at the end of the day, I knew I was good at it. I used big words.
Parenting is different. Sure, on MOST days, I know that I have done a solid job parenting my daughter...but my brain still feels more and more gelatinous by the hours of grocery shopping, cleaning, dishes, laundry folding, dealing with cloth diapers, cooking meals, and the phenomenal hours of engagement and entertainment provided to Nora. Prior to motherhood, I did not particularly enjoy cooking and cleaning...and yet, there are now hours allocated each day to these tasks.
In addition to missing my profession, we are in the first week of escrow on a house. A gigantic step in the land of adult-financial-responsibility (more to come on this as the process moves along).
Daniel is also going to return to graduate school for the next 3-5 years to pursue his MBA...while we continue to move towards having a second baby.
A year ago, this entire list of items would have normally been discussed and vexed and mulled over with a beautiful group of friends. Friends that have busy lives...all of whom now work outside the home.
So, would I like some cheese with my whine? Yes, I would. A huge chunk of sharp, blue-veined, morbier, please...and a donut on the side.
Wait, isn't that how this post started? Coming full circle.
I ain't no therapist but looks to me like some "transference-to-food-of-anxiety-over-other-things".
Longing for genuine friendships and time to daily talk.
Missing my career of a decade.
Vexing about a potential 5 years of many nights/weekends of single-parenting of perhaps two (kind and veggie-filled) children.
Starting the process of buying a home in the midst of a major recession.
Huh, it's all making a lot more sense.
Because, truth be told, the advice from the book led to instant and amazing results. Not a single screaming fest since I gave up on my tricking and pleading and shenanigans at meal time.
Here's a photo spread that tells the following story from Lulu's perspective:
"Mom was stressed out about me eating vegetables, although, I really just wanted to eat them myself.
You see, I am devouring it when it's part of the tortilla casserole that her and Daddy eat.
I even got to drink from a cup by myself.
I didn't quite understand how to do it...but I was having fun.
Well, until it splashed on my face. I'll practice this more.
But my first "Independence Meal" ended well. I had lots of sauce in my hair and water on my clothes...but I'm a big girl.
Someone has clearly taken my "baby" Noodle and replaced her with a much more ambulatory, verbal, strong-willed, ravenous, and sleepy toddler.
The past few days have found us dancing to German folk music at an Oktoberfest and Nora toddling 8+ steps across the floor to deliver various toys or crumbs into our hands. It's fun...but has me often looking at her wondering "where is my baby?"
She is talking in her own special language. Certainly a mix of German and English that comes out in squeaks and bobbles and sign-language mish-mash. She has added "water, shoe, read" to her signs and also a fantastic verbal copy of Daniel's "putchyer, putchyer, putchyer, putchyer pants on." She now shouts "Putchyer! Putchyer!" anytime she's on her changing table and belts it out when putting on her shoes.
And although I do strongly resist the connotation wrapped up in pink-princess-glittery-overly-feminine clothing, I have put Nora in a dress on three occasions. She wore a baptismal dress, an Easter dress, and now this cocoa brown number. And admittedly, she was sweet in all of them.
With her orange cloth bootie peeking out from underneath, it was a colorful moment.
The feather cap of an ancient Bavarian boy also became an adorable exclamation point to our afternoon spent at the Phoenix Club's Oktoberfest.
We went with the lovely Carrie & Ed and their baby Ruby.
Along with Amy & Malta with their daughter Paloma.
A very authentic festival complete with real-live Germans selling bratwurst and beer, donning lederhosen and dirndles, and of course, large rings romping to the chicken dance. A truly horrifying dance that for some odd reason is repeated at every event pertaining to Germans.
There were, sadly, no Turkish foods, songs, or people (that I could obviously spot), to make me feel like I was at home with my peeps in Cologne...but that's a whole other post for another day.
I had to take some ridiculously cheesy photos.
We had a blast feeding Nora saurekraut and potato salad.
Sipping on giant beers while she danced under the German flag.
Playing with her amigas, Ruby and Paloma, on a picnic blanket...Lulu was the eldest child, the wise one (by one whole month!).
To see the complete set of Oktoberfest pictures, click here.
On the toddler-eating tip, I've been reading a great book given to me by my sister-in-law (who has her smarty-pants-enormous-brain doctorate in nutrition), Child of Mine: Feeding with Love and Good Sense by Ellyn Satter (also a giant well-used brain).
I was laughing yesterday as I underlined these key points below (having just shot the video of us wanting her to eat her broccoli mash the day before).
If a struggle emerges about eating, a toddler will get so involved with the struggle and so upset that it overwhelms her need to eat.
The diets of children of all ages suffer when parents go to extremes of being controlling on the one hand or failing to provide support and guidance on the other.
Children eat poorly when parents criticize, manage, or intrude on eating.
The more trouble parents take to make special food for a toddler, the more inclined the toddler is to reject the food.
Don't try to reason with her. She can't reason, it won't help her eating, and your efforts to persuade her will only teach her to use the issue as a bid for attention.
Children learn only if they get opportunities to learn.
Resist the impulse to entice, reward, play games, placate, and make special food.
She can use her fingers to feed herself, learn to use eating utensils, and drink from a cup.
She needs predictable feeding times, three meals and two snacks, and she needs help coming to the table rested and hungry but not famished.
Despite her erratic and sporadic hunger and appetite, she will get the calories she needs by averaging her eating out over several days.
So, hmmm...my giving her constant snacks when she begs, when she's fussing in the car, when she seems bored or irritated at a playdate, trying to force "green"' foods if she doesn't want them, worrying that she's eating too much fruit, not wanting her to get messy or spill food all over the floor and so feeding her most of the time...apparently all of that could use a few adjustments. Because frankly folks, I have some food issues. I eat WAY TOO much, too fast, and too often. I had asked Kathy for a book that would help me approach Nora's eating with some more thought than I give my own.
And I am amazed at just how often I contradict the above. How often Nora must have seen me eat a monstrous meal of unbalanced foods, eat out of the fridge/bag/box. How often she sees me eat when I'm upset, bored, happy...basically any emotion. I would like her not to turn to food for an emotional embrace. And as her primary food-provider, she is already taking some major cues from me. I carry her special snacks with me and dole them out all the time.
When did that happen, I wonder? This doling out of constant raisins, goldfish, mum-mums, crackers, cheerios, puffs? Most moms I know have these items on hand. And they aren't given at an official "snack-time" seated up at a table, but rather sprinkled around to keep a kid happy or quiet, help them calm down, stop crying, or allow a phone call or email to finish...or because the child is watching you snack and starts to beg for some (that's me!). I am doing all of these things...all the time.
But let me be clear...I am writing these words and NOT feeling guilt....because I am learning this gig as I move along. Always learning and adjusting to how I might serve Nora better.
Even if I stay against Nora having ingesting hormone-laced meat, insecticide-coated produce, salty foods, sugary sweets and drinking juice, if I've set the wheel in motion that she craves food whenever she feels any emotional high or low or boredom...(like her mama)...then I have still done her no favors.
So, I feel a renewed excitement about my approach to her eating. I am not proud of my relationship to food...but my daughter doesn't have to feel the same way. I am almost at the heaviest weight of my life (the same weight I was at 40 weeks preggers...this is painfully obvious in this photo from Sunday...wow, that's hard to look at!)
...but Noodle doesn't have to obsess about her weight the way I do.
Our days ahead will hold more opportunities for Nora to eat "regular" food, get messy, learn to pick it up, chew it up, and feel the textures. No wiping her mouth often, no feeding her on my hip without much thought given to sitting down.
She will not be forced to eat her veggies...but offered them regularly. No more gravy-train of snacks spilling out of the diaper bag. No more holding her at the kitchen counter and doling out snacks as I graze myself. I will stumble in my new path...but I am grateful for the information. This will not be a perfectly-straight path...it could never be. But I will try.
When you struggle daily with food, weight, body-image like I do, having a daughter and wanting a different experience for her, must be natural. But my habits are deeply entrenched...habits that I hope helping Nora not to acquire might help me to recognize more in myself. Oh, I'm sure there are books about how you are not to correct your own deep issues through your children - and maybe one day I'll read one of those, too...or Nora will hand it to me after seeking therapy!
I do want my heart to beat strongly into the future. And that will demand changes in my behavior. I always write this type of post here when I'm fed up. I send it out into the world to shake things up. I think these pictures of late, combined with my neighbor recently telling me that I always look frumpy and my grandma saying about Nora's birthday pictures, "Your face looks happy and the rest of you looks...well, your face is happy. Your cousin is losing weight and feeling really good about himself. Did you know that?" have struck a nerve. Yes, you don't need to tell me that these comments were mean. Spoken without malice...but still unkind.
Tuesday, my sidekick and I walked upon the same cobblestones as abolitionists and escaped slaves on the Black Heritage Trail.
We stared at a basement that once harbored escaped slaves as part of the Underground Railroad. As a light sprinkle fell upon the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, it sent shivers down my spine to walk in the footsteps of such brave men and women.
At each site, I read the corresponding paragraph in my guidebook to Nora, fingered doors and bricks and leaves, and stood in silence as I pondered an institution of such brutality.
Los Angeles has never given me this experience. A moment where I hold my daughter, whose father is considered Black by most strangers (he's actually half Filipino and half African-American), and stand upon the thresholds of known abolitionist activity. Run my hand across church pews where members of the 54th regiment once sat for worship, enter schoolhouses that were the first in the country to integrate (1855), visit community meeting halls where passionate and dangerous speeches were hurled against those that would keep humans in bondage.
It was along this trail and around a brick corner that there was suddenly a voice. It came from a dilapidated synagogue behind a wrought iron fence...a man with wild silver hair waved at us. He beckoned to us to come inside for a tour and to make a small donation at the end. I gladly obliged. As you long-time readers know, I have a fascination with Judaism and this would be my first visit to a synagogue.
Yesterday was more of the powdered whigs and powdered sugar trail. We traipsed through the quaint streets of the North End, Boston's own version of Little-Italy. They had recently celebrated a Saint's Festival; thus, there were still silver crowns spanning the streets. Old men outside of cafes and cigar shops speaking loudly in Italian. Beautiful olive-skinned girls at gelaterias and bakeries with thick Old Country accents.
It was in the Modern Bakery that I finally collapsed with my front pack of Noodle and my backpack of Noodle gear. I ordered a chocolate-dipped canoli filled with vanilla custard. Nora had her gourmet banana puffs. And more than the ivy-covered headstones, Paul Revere houses, old churches, and Boston Harbor vistas, this was my memory for the day. Slurping out the velvet cream and crunching into the chocolate shell of my pastry...realizing after a few minutes that Nora's head had been dusted with powdered sugar.
Streaks of morning sun pour through the enormous glass windows in our apartment. Across the street are polished black doors with shiny nobs, vibrant overflowing flower pots upon the stoop, a Victorian street lamp. The only noise is that of fans whirring...lulling a sleeping Noodle and Daniel.
And sleep, let's pray, they both do.
Time zone travel has always come with a mixture of highs and lows.
A high -- it gives you an opportunity to explore a new environment at times of day that you might usually be asleep. A low -- insert your own variations.
This morning the clock read 5:45am. Not an unusual wake-up time for Nora...except...we are in Boston. It is three hours earlier in Long Beach. Which is why, as I brought Nora into my bed to nurse, my head and stomach felt that it was 2:45am. And at 3:15am, when she sat up in bed, squeaking and showing off her four teeth (soon to be 6...which may be why sleep alludes her), I was shocked, dismayed...and yet, intrigued.
It was a golden moment...not to be squandered by a sour face or a grimacing heart. A morning that called for me and my Huckleberry Friend to slide into our clothes, slip on the Ergo, grab some cash and chapstick and head out into Boston's South End to wander.
A purity of summer light, a verdant splash of leaves, my sandals slapping bricks, creaking swings in motion, squares from 1855, community gardens nestled behind thick black iron gates, and the waking urban chatter of Boston on a Friday morning. I heard it, smelled it, tasted it.
Ginger-peach-oatmeal muffins at Flour Bakery. Dark roast coffee with REAL cream and sugar. Icy cold water splashed across the table. Soggy oats and muffin pieces. Beady-eyed old lady with pursed lips as I set my coffee on her table in order to soak up the spilt water. Google-eyed pug dogs tethered to the cafe gate, awaiting their caffeinated-master. Nora's bewilderment and glassy-eyed stare.
And ivy. Ivy upon brick. Ivy spraying across garden trellises. Dead ivy lacing across facades like ancient cracks. Regal even in death.
Ivy in the hand of my beloved travel nymp.
I cried taking this photo. For so many years, I've photographed my own hand on trips. Starting in 1999 when I loaded my backpack, bought a one-way ticket to Germany, and began a year-long adventure through Europe.
I would weave my fingers into a tiled-nook of a Grenada cafe, the stone of a Lisbon statue, the marble toes of a voluptuous Rodin maiden in Paris or the splintered bench in a Prague square. Always awkwardly pressing the lens to my eye, positioning my hand, and knowing that the moment would be captured...a texture, a feeling, a memory.
My hand aged alone for seven years amidst the landscapes, cobblestones, and markets of Europe, Mexico, Guatemala, Morocco, and Guinea. In 2006, ten fingers were visible as Daniel's hand joined mine in the fountains of San Francisco, upon the weather veins of New York City, along the grape vines of Tuscany, and the bark of a Cascade evergreen.
Today, strong coffee pulsed the sleepy sludge from my veins, gingered-oats caught between my teeth, and tiny dog nails scraped bricks as they passed. I came upon a Boston memory.
Ivy dangling from brick. My daughter gently touching the leaves.
A monumental click.
Tears fell. Tears of absolute satisfaction (sure, perhaps sleep-deprivation-induced-delirium played a role) slid down my cheeks. I allowed their saltiness to mix with a sip of coffee and kept walking. Nora's head was soon heavy upon my chest.
"Schlaff schön, meine Reise Maus, schlaff jetzt."
("Sleep beautifully, my Travel Mouse, sleep now.")
Not a winter passes that I am not keenly aware of how grateful I am to live in Southern California. The fact that it's mid-March and I can go to a park, kick off my flip-flops, and relax on the sun-warmed grass with my two favorite people - never fails to impress. I remember living in four seasons...and I still enjoy visiting my childhood home...but the near-constant sunny weather is blissful.
Sundays are the greatest! Well-rested from Saturday...no agenda...just cuddling, horrible Beatles crooning, and bare feet in the grass.
I love feet pictures...always have. For years it was just my feet - alone in Italy, alone in Portugal, alone in Guatemala...now my Loves wiggle their toes along mine.
Spectacular day.
My two favorite people.
I could eat them up.
"May the force be with you."
I mean how perfect is this onesie for my Star Wars lovin' husband? He was quite amused when I brought in Nora Skyhopper to see him as he was waking up.
And yes, this weekend we took the leap into solid foods. It was sort of anti-climactic. Noodle wasn't that into it. She allowed a bit of food into her mouth...but quickly resisted prefered to play with the spoon.
I suppose there are more exciting foods down the line that will spark her fancy. We'll play with rice cereal for a few more weeks and then liven things up.
In case today ends as most do as of late...with an exhausted fall into bed, I'll post this recent photo of Super Smiler Nugglet with her Grandma Lola and Auntie Barbara.
I am dragging my feet on starting solids. It is just so easy to go about our day nursing anywhere we'd like. Once the solids train pulls out of the station, there's no going back. Around the same time each day, or twice a day, a full hour needs to be set aside to feed. Starting with a nursing session...then the food prep, the slow and joyous eating conversation, the clean up. Sure it will take a lot less time down the line - but wrapping my mind around the first feeding just makes me tired. So it's breastmilk served a la carte again!
Thank goodness my sis-in-law Kathy is around to always calm my nerves about all things food-related. No, rice cereal will not make Nora diabetic. No, I don't have to be paranoid about introducing fruits before vegetables. No, I don't have to rush to start...up until she's a year old, Noodle gets all of her hammy thigh-goodness from my milk. I vex too often about the eventual hormone-stuffed meat and poultry that she'll eat, the salty snacks, the nonorganic milk and produce, the chemicals and preservatives in fast food, the sugary treats, decadent cookies and rivers of juice.
I know that I can control her eating 99% of the time for the first few years...but all of these items will drop into her diet by kind-hearted people who think she'll enjoy them. And enjoy them she will, as I did and still do. I just wish I could keep her in a bubble sometimes. A bubble that bounces joyously past all the unhealthy foods, eating habits, sweet tooth, sodium mounds, and greasy morsels that I adore--- and find myself struggling with since I was nine.
I've been a butterball since I was nine. My mind and heart ache to keep Nora from a similar experience. When I imagine her looking for a seat in the 4th grade...I want her not to hear the boys making "moo" sounds. When she sits, I'd like it to be without kids making creeking sounds. Can I keep her from the harpoon jokes, blubber comments, oinking noises, and cruel names? I hope to. I may not be like other moms in this regard...it isn't just a desire for Nora to be a healthy eater -- it is a passionate and fervent wish to protect her from the brutal school experiences that I had and the issues that I still have from being overweight.
*And on a side note, if I EVER find out that Nora is on the giving end of this cruel behavior, I'll wrangle her organic-eating neck! We will have many many conversations about making comments, about being kind to other kids, about how our family's "normal" is not everyone else's. Some families have two moms or dads or just one. Some children have an extra chromosome, different ways of learning, or ways of moving...and versus staring at them, we can just ask them about it. Some families practice other faiths that are equally beautiful. Some children have a mother and a birth-mom. So many variations on families and faith and morality for her to see.
My goodness, I feel the need to read yet another childhood development book right now! But maybe that makes it worse...all the reading. Or at least the baby-book reading...I'll end this post and read my novel...perfect in its fictional form.
This afternoon I stood in the driveway clad in a milk-stained purple nursing tank, shorts. and fuzzy black slippers, hanging mustard-stained cloth diapers on the clothes line. Ever-amazed that the sun will bleach each surface. Thinking of how much easier and faster it is to accomplish this task when I have both hands (Daniel and Nuggs were inside on the ball). And just as the grin spread across my face, I heard clicking footsteps on the sidewalk. Into my view came two svelte and scantily clad girls both wearing thigh-high leather boots with heels. I was aware that the only thing the three of us had in common was the color of our footwear.
They giggled and tossed their hair while I placed a clothespin on a diaper.
They headed towards the frat house while I headed inside to bathe my child.
We are in completely different stages of life. At their age, albeit fashion-impaired, I still would have found slippers in public at noon ridiculous. At my age, I find their coiffed hair, thick make-up, and painful shoes at noon ridiculous.
They did inspire me; however, to find my make-up bag this evening and apply a coat of aged-colors prior to our hot date night. Two bottles are pumped. All three of us are bathed and smelling good at the same time...this alone is impressive. We just have to survive the car ride to my mom's and then a wild sushi and plum wine evening floats on the horizon. I can taste all the forbidden prenatal morsels right now.
We're going to get wild and crazy. Seriously. Really. I might even have to use my breastmilk alcohol-testing strips.
Each day the big question of timing arises. Today's activities to properly time (with fingers crossed) included:
When should I shower?
When should I pump?
When should I drink a beer?
Shower, pump, beer. These are my priorities today in the midst of the 94 heat wave. Let's hope the beer I just swigged has a chance to work itself out before Noodle starts to stir. She's basking in the air-conditioned room, NOT on her back.
Video monitor has me staring at her snoozing Nugglet head. Don't you worry!
Two weeks before giving birth I ventured to Little India by myself. Today I ventured to Little India with Nora. What a difference a baby makes!
Stating the obvious --- It is much, much, much easier to go on adventures without my daughter (for the time being). I mean no disrespect towards Noodle; however, in the future I will be honest with her about how interesting she could make an outing at her young age. I was prepared to enjoy the buffet at Ashoka with a few minor adjustments. Perhaps I'd eat one-handed, perhaps Courtney would have to hand me assorted baby items from the stroller...but I was not prepared for the screaming that necessitated a quick donning of the nursing cover and fumbling to attach her to my breast. I was not prepared for her being so irritated with the nursing cover that I would need to walk back to the restroom and bounce her while trying to keep her latched on. I was not ready for the fussing that continued and necessitated a lengthy walk outside, cars on Pioneer zooming by, sari-clad women with long dark flowing hair walking past with raised eyebrows.
But this was a situation created purely by my selfish desire to show Courtney this beautiful, brightly-hued, aromatic neighborhood. I wanted to delight in the vibrant red tandoori chicken and the saturated honey-soaked balls. I had not intended on scarfing a samosa as if I was under heavy artillery fire or lapping up my tea cold with flakes of naan floating on top.
Nevertheless, I was still incredibly happy to be walking down the street with Courtney holding my swaddled child and discussing all of the things that I used to think about parenthood. Oh, the judgement I used to pass on parents. For instance, I thought it ridiculous that mothers would sit in the back seat next to their infant. I mean why on Earth couldn't they sit in the passenger seat like an adult and their baby would simply learn to sit alone? Little did I know that when you have a wee one that is so devastated by being strapped in that her trilled-lip hollering rings in your ears long after you arrive at your location, you want to sit next to the seat to make whatever small contribution you can to the baby finding peace in the situation.
And there are many more "judgement-now-understood" moments that I've had and certainly will have that I'll delve into at some point. But I am currently trending towards family-bed, attachment-parenting, pacifier-using, and over-praising. All things that I NEVER imagined I would be.
So, here I sit, with Nora finally sleeping off her trauma of our adventure, Courtney talking to her sweet baby Abe on the phone, and Jeopardy questions reminding me of my lack of intelligence in the background, proud of jumping into the world with my little girl to experience the food, sounds, smells, music, and bustle of Little India...a mere fingernail's worth of the country's richness that I so long to discover in person.
And as for tomorrow? We'll stay closer to home...my ears are still ringing.
Okay, so my maiden name means punctual. I am ALWAYS on time. The name long-since created this urgency of time and as a child my dad would often tell me of the absolute necessity of being where you are expected at the exact time you had committed. If not, he reminded me, they will make jokes. And not jokes that were creative or in any way witty...jokes like:
"It's the early bird that gets the worm."
"You're not early, you're late."
Brilliant, folks, just brilliant! I hated these jokes...always followed by a chuckle and an upturned eyebrow as if I should clap like a seal at the jokester's mind-blowing ingenuity.
So, Nuglett, is already showing a bit more of his/her father's relaxed sense of time. Daniel is completely casual and confident that the earth's axis does not tilt when we are a few minutes late. He will actually purposefully SLOW DOWN getting ready if I am clicking back and forth across the wood floor. I note although he would deny it, that his movements to tie his shoes or hang the discarded second-choice sweater back in the closet are unusually slow and his face painted with a serenity that makes me batty. I am almost always, at this point, placing a text or call to our appointed local to announce that we will be a few minutes late. Friends hosting a dinner party surely think I'm nuts when they read a text that says, "Sorry, but we're running 10 minutes behind;" however, it's always my father's voice and insistence that "tardiness is a form of disrespect" that echoes in my mind as I type them this message.
Well, I won't bother to list the things I tried to do today to instigate labor. But I did figure that a healthy consumption of fiber would be a good way to start the morning. Here is my scrambled eggs, broccoli slaw, mache lettuce, and whole-wheat pita breakfast (my sis-in-law, Kathy, the nutrition goddess is so proud of me right now). If you look near the water glass, you can see two primrose oil capsules, one prenatal vitamin, and one fish oil capsule. Oh, the things we've been doing with primrose oil (if you click on this song and know a bit about the birthing process) you'll understand.
My mom has also been a life saver. Knowing that I have every desire to stay busy without leaving the house, she arrived today with bags of food (yup, both lunch AND dinner), six vibrantly-colored pots of mums ("for the MUM that you'll soon become") to decorate our front porch, and a twinkle in her eye as she performed a little touchy-feely for Nuggie's head.
Now how many mom's arrive with not only amazing (and spicy) chicken-tortilla soup and gardening whimsy, but after chopping the cilantro garnish and arranging the flower pots, then perform a pelvic exam? And did I mention that she also whipped-up some wedding scrapbook pages like Martha Frickin' Stewart? I'm a lucky girl, yes indeedy.
