Fat Lips and the 7th Month Feast

Last evening we hosted our 7th Month Feast in celebration of Blasto's journey and our journey as a family through the pregnancy. This is said to be a tradition in Asian countries, where the father/partner plans and organizes a feast and then some sort of ritual or activity marking the event. We had several friends gather who have journied with us in this pregnancy-- whether it was through the sickness or through childcare or through simply hanging out intentionally with me and my growing belly. And we feasted, thanks to Michael who made really good use of his new grill and some fancy recipes. And we talked, and we created together. Our ritual activity was to make pieces that could be attached together to make a mobile for the new little one. (See picture of them below.) When folks left, they were given a small votive candle to light when I go into labor. This candle is distributed in the hopes that by the time the candle burns out, I will have had my baby. (However, at the rate I had Kindred, I'm thinking perhaps we should have handed out tealights.)


A few nights back, Kindred was being really wound up and he tripped on a toy and bit the hardwood. He split his lip pretty badly and it took a long time to stop bleeding. (Much longer than it took for him to stop reacting to the fact that he was momentarily hurting.) Then next day he awoke with a pretty fat lip. Below are some pictures of how he thought would be an effective way to heal himself. Chew on a container of Vaseline Intensive Care Fast Healing Lotion. It says fast healing, right? (No worries, folks. He did not get it open or get any in his mouth, but he was wholly entertained with running around with it.)

PAPA Fest and general travels

PAPA Festival. Yep. Went there. It was a 14 hour drive to East Tennessee on Thursday night for us. I considered it to be my last "hurrah" trip before I am unable to go anywhere and before we are parents of 2. Kindred did really well on the way down and the way home. We tried to break it up as much as possible so that he wouldn't get stiff and unhappy. I don't think he'd choose travel like this again, (he prefers airplanes), but I'm glad we went. We stayed with the wonderful Lafons, and we saw lots of folks we haven't been able to hang with in a long time-- some who have never met Kindred. We were bummed to have missed Verni and the Passionfish crew, but otherwise we got to encounter lots of really good people.

Kindred spent a good bit of time in the Children's Village tent while Michael and I went to talks and sessions. I was a little nervous because he has been getting into this habit of greeting other children by pushing them to the ground, especially if they are a little smaller than he. (When visiting my parents, he pushed the neighbor boy down-- Kindred is 2 weeks younger than this boy but about 2 inches taller-- and the poor little boy would run crying from Kindred every time he approached!) But everyone said he did really well and was a lot of fun to hang out with. (Don't the childcare workers say that to every mom?)

"Blasto" has had enough of traveling in the car. He is, according to the midwife, head down and his back is up against the left side of my belly. She says there's little chance he'll turn around. But someimes in the car it felt like he was just flipping and jerking every which direction and that knees and elbows were going everywhere. My butt is mad, my hips are mad, my back is demanding a visit to good ol' Dr. Z, and my child feels like he's hatching. I'm 31 weeks. Only 9 left. Hooray!

Here are some pictures of some of the activities in the Children's Village. The kids had drumming lessons by some of the Psalters, and they loved it. Kindred even enjoyed watching it despite his fear of loud noises. (He apparently felt safe in the arms of our friend John.)

These are the "Oreo" cows that are on the farm.

We left Tennessee on Saturday evening and stopped in a hotel in Marion, Virginia for the night. Then we left and drove (through the torrents of rainfall) to Fairfax, VA, to visit some long lost friends, the Fannings, and their bursting family. (They have 3 sons-- twin 2yr old boys and an 11month old boy!) That visit was wonderful but short. We didn't get to stay long with them, deciding to get on the road and get home around 10pm. It was a really good thing we did, because it turned out several parts of our route home were impassable by morning.

But here's Kindred wishing more than anything someone would just put him in his own bed. He loves Lamby, but there's a limit to how comfortable even she can make you.

In fact, he was so happy to be home that he had to be awakened at 11am this morning!

Cancelled: Father's Day

Father's Day was not cancelled because my husband is an alcoholic or an abusive man or anything like that. He is all the things his card said about him. I think it went something like: caring, sensitive, friendly, brave, cute, strong, loving....

No no. It was cancelled because Kindred and I, upon our return home from visiting my family, spent the night and the following day, Father's Day, celebrating by puking and pooping everywhere. I couldn't get out of my bed, and believed I might never walk again for how painful it was to move. It is so difficult to be sick like this with the added weight and movement of another being flipping and flopping around inside you, hungry and restless. I asked Michael out of desperation to just take Blasto for the day and I would take back him, the weight and heartburn and cramping and everything else as soon as I could. He agreed but we couldn't figure out quite how to make that work. Kindred was pretty friendly when he wasn't tossing what little food we could get him to eat. I skipped church, and felt so bad on so many levels. Michael's father came to our house after church to have lunch with us, and no one ended up being in the mood to go out, least of all Michael who was so bummed that his family's grand arrival back home brought such discouraging baggage back with them. I cried and cried. It didn't make me feel any better. The only bright point of the day was when Michael "opened" his present from Kindred and I: a new grill. (I say "opened" because it was merely covered with a blanket. I couldn't exactly wrap it. I could hardly bring it into the garage from the car!) He was pretty happy with it, and spent several hours that night looking up grilling recipes. Thank goodness for one redeeming factor for the day. A smart present. I'm not usually good at those things.

Thankfully the bug was over after a day or so, and that was really helpful for my sanity and functionality. However, my mom caught it and was doomed to lie on our futon for 2 days until she could get up and drive herself home. She kept apologizing for, as she put it, being a pain in the butt. But for me it was no problem, and certainly no need to apologize. Just look back a few short months and remember that I was the "pain in the butt" for 3 1/2 straight months. No one need apologize to me. Gosh, I'm so glad that's over.

So we're working on a Father's Day rain date. Sorry, honey.

Visiting Harpers, sans Dada, again....

Kindred and I are visiting my family in western Pennsylvania, east of Pittsburgh. We left Michael at home again, and he is sad, so we are posting some pictures for him to see how bored and sad his little boy is without him. But don't worry. This year we will be home in time for Father's Day.

This is Papap and Kindred enjoying some yum yum breakfast.

Hanging with Uncle Mike and friend Patti.

We went to one of my favorite parks, Twin Lakes, yesterday. (It was Mike's idea. Great idea Mike!) We enjoyed the lakes....

We slid down the slide.... Wheeeee!

We took walks.....

We fed the ducks....

We really are miserable without Dada. We promise.

Presentable belly pictures

Michael finally broke down and took some good pictures of me and the belly.

I kinda feel huge. And I know I'm only going to get bigger. And bigger. It's a little weird. I'm 29 weeks along, and I've got roughly another 11 to go. Some days that seems like no time at all, and then I think about the oncoming heat of the summer and I can't imagine how I will make it through that eternity. I also really hate it when people say to me stupid things like, "Oh my! Are you sure you aren't carrying twins?" or "Gosh, you really are getting so big! You must be due very soon." (So if any of you are planning on saying anything like that to me, just don't. I won't yell at you but I will take it very deeply to heart and feel awful about myself.) There's no logical reason to feel awful. I know that people can be stupid and unintentionally offensive and hurtful, and I know I'm certainly not as huge or bulbous as I feel, and I'm not unhealthy. I know I should exercise more (well, or at all) and I don't eat really really healthy. But I'm not any far ahead of where I was last time in terms of measurement ratios. (I started this pregnancy 5-6 pounds heavier.) I wish that made me feel better. But I will say that my great haircut, my chiropractor visits, my son who loves me no matter what I look like, my husband who is constantly commenting on how much he enjoys my pregnancy cleavage and booty (wee-hoo!), and this rather nice picture of me help out a lot.

Excuse me?

"What? Are you saying there's a Cheerio on my head? You're breaking up."

The trials and tribulations of Kindred's eating. In this series of pictures, he's decided to eat one bite of apple and put the next on this head. (You can't really tell from the pictures, but he was such a crab yesterday. Could it have been because he puts food on his head instead of in his mouth and then discovers that he's starving and that it's all mama's fault?)

And there are my feet...

...way down there.

My Lord, What A Mornin'

It's 5:11am, and Kindred has started moaning and crying. I wonder if it will stop. It doesn't. I tap Michael. "Kindred is crying. I don't know why. It's your turn. Is that OK? I have that appointment at 9:30am." (I had been up with him 2 hours last week from 6-8am.) Michael rushed out of the room (what a good partner) and returned 20 minutes later having changed Kindred's poopy and overflowing diaper and PJ's and put him back to sleep. I got out of bed begrudgingly at 8:15am to get ready for my chiropractic appointment that was downtown. I relaxed over a bowl of cereal and a little Madeleine L'Engle before heading out for the day. As an aside, I found this portion of my book particularly intriguing:

"I know you were born for something special." This would have been more of a burden to me if it weren't part of my mythology that this is true of every child. The fairy godmother or guardian angel bestows on each infant a unique gift, a gift to which the child will be responsible: a gift of healing; a gift for growing green things; a gift for painting, for cooking, for cleaning; a gift for loving. It is part of the human condition that we do not always recognize our gifts; the clown wants to play Hamlet. (from The Summer of the Great-Grandmother)

So anyway, grab a shower, my Ipod, the cell phone, a jacket, an umbrella, my wallet, and my keys and out the door I go. I don't have any trouble finding parking, surprisingly, about a half-block from the office. As I am getting out of the car, I acknowledge that I have a lot to carry (see the previous list) so I decided to hit the lock button on the door instead of trying to fumble with the button on the keys and risk dropping something. I put the Club on the steering wheel, pop out of the car, shut the door, and wonder what is still sitting on the seat.

Oh damn.

The car keys have remained behind, in plain sight of all passers-by but unreachable by anyone who does not decide to break the window. Well thank goodness I bothered to put the Club on. Too bad the key to the Club is also on the seat. What can I do? I roll my eyes and walk to my appointment, hoping that because it is a dreary day and mid-morning in a high-traffic area, my car might perhaps be safe until I can figure out how to get back into it. I had left Michael sleeping soundly so I wasn't surprised when he didn't pick up the phone when I called to tell him what a doofus I was. I will sum up the story quickly to say that I called and text-messaged a number of strangers, friends, and neighbors for the next 30 minutes while I filled out my "New Patient" form, and dear Jamie was my hero.

I will bring this part of the story back around momentarily, but I would like to focus on my time there at the office of the Chiropractor. Because of my lower back pain and the fact that my hips seem to readjust themselves every time I turn from one side to another in bed, I decided to call one of these Chiro-dudes. I guess a lot of people think their methods of healing are a little wacky, but I'm willing to try anything. When I got into the office, which was your typical run-of-the-mill professional doctor's office, I discovered that the receptionist was a nun. No kidding. She was a short, round woman dressed in black and white, complete with habit. And she was wearing sunglasses. Not just the kind that tint when you go outside. Dark for-real sunglasses. It was raining outdoors, and we were indoors. She was not blind. She knew everyone that came in the door by name, and if she didn't she made an attempt at it anyway. "Hi! You must be Mrs. Bandy!" she said to me. After discovering my true identity and handing me the necessary paperwork, she went back to chatting with the others in the waiting room while I made my calls and took in my surroundings.

Dr. Z made an appearance through the front door after I had been there for at least 15 minutes. I noticed later that the sign outside the door posting the office hours said at the bottom that if the office wasn't open upon your arrival you should just wait a few minutes because the doctor was likely running a little late. I guess this is normal practice. In any case, Dr. Z saw 5 people ahead of me, many of them at the same time. He would walk back and forth from one exam room to another, leaving the patient usually face down on the table or in some other awkward position with warm compresses all over them. And as I waited, I was blessed to hear the most random mix of music I think I'd ever experienced in a doctor's office: Neil Young, Dave Matthews, Instrumental music, Ray Charles, Leonard Cohen ("Hallelujah"), Van Morrison, Bach, Counting Crows, country music and oldies, to name a few.

When I was called back by Dr. Z, "OK, ready for the new patient," I followed him back and we went through all the initial symptoms list, etc. His table had a nifty centerpiece that dropped so that my belly could fit when he told me to lie on my front. He said my right leg was longer than my left. He nudged around my spine and my pelvis for a few minutes. Then he left the room, me lying still with my face smooshed between these two cushions that were not soft or comfortable. He was gone for several minutes. Then he returned, nudged me around a little more, put two funny wedges under my hips and left again. While I tried to figure out if Dr. Z would be frustrated if I turned my head as to not get funny semi-permanent cushion marks on the sides of my face, I heard the front door open and the nun exclaim, "Oh, you must be the Key Guy!" (I had told her someone might be coming to drop off my car keys.) He was not, in fact, the key guy. He was a neighbor looking for a package. The nun couldn't find it.

When Dr. Z returned, things started getting a little weird. (Started?) He said, "I'm glad you got your keys back." I said, "I didn't. That was a guy looking for a package." He said, "Oh. Did that have to do with you too?" "Um, no." He turned me on my side and did this weird bendy thing with my leg and cracked something in my back. "So where are you having your babies? Do you crawl in a closet somewhere?" What a bizarre statement. "No, but close. I'm going to the Birth Center in Bryn Mawr." Then he turned me on my back. I said, "This is the most random mix of music. Is it your mix?" He said, "Oh, yeah. I think I have the computer on 'shuffle'." Then he refers to the nun. "Before I left last night, I tried to give her the hint that I am tired of walking in to disco music every morning by leaving the radio tuned to WRTI, but she didn't get it. I think she's the only disco nun in the world." What? "Does she always wear sunglasses?" "Oh. Yes." Pause. *Snap* *Snap* goes my neck. "So can you come back on Friday?"

As I'm walking out, I tell the nun that I will call when I get home to make an appointment for Friday. She jumps up and hands me the doctor's card:

and wishes me well. (Is this a picture of my chiropractor for my fridge? Thank heavens.) As I exit, my hero Jamie meets me at the door, keys in hand, and we walk back to my car to continue with my ordinary day.

As promised, more pictures

So Kindred's latest issue is that he is getting picky about food. Things he used to enjoy a lot he just turns his head away from, and things he's not familiar with, forget it. He flatly refuses vegetables-- he will just spit them out and throw the remaining bites on the floor. And let me tell ya, there's nothing more frustrating to a pregnant woman than for someone to throw crap on the floor for you to have to pick up later. I try to control myself when he stares at me and gently lifts his bean off the tray, and as I encourage him lovingly and supportively to eat it, that he really does like beans if he'd just give it one try, only to watch him plunk it right on the floor. He went through this once before. I thought we were over it. But no. He's asserting his independence and control. But the problem is that if he "gets to be in control," he also gets to wake up really early in the morning-- like the other day at 6:15am (he usually gets up at 8:15am or so) with his little tummy grumbling and moaning. So I've been working with his food intake and things seem to be going a little more smoothly. But it can get exhausting trying to make up new games and new ways to get him to enjoy his meals. The other night Michael was away at a meeting, and I didn't have the fight in me, so I gave up. Here you go, kid. Have a blast.

"OK, mama. Let me see. You always put the spoon in the bowl and food gets on it. Then you put it in my mouth. I think I can do that. Like this, right?"

"It's not as easy as it looks, mama. But I think I'm getting the hang of it. See? I hit my mouth this time."

"What if I just give up on the spoon thing and just get the food out of the bowl with my mouth? Won't that work?"

"Nope. It just gets in my nose."

"Thanks, mama, for letting me try this new fun activity. I'm getting really good at it. More!"

Enough of him already, sheesh!

So I have a question. Whose blog is this anyway? Is this all about Kindred? Does the world revolve around him? No! No, I say! This is my blog, mine! If Kindred wants a blog to talk all about himself and show all pictures of himself and how amazing he is, well let him get his own! Let's hear about me for a gosh-darn minute.

Ahem....

So, hello, fans of Michelle. Although it's incredibly difficult, let's put Kindred aside for a moment. (Believe me, I know it's hard. All I want to do is post the latest pictures of how I was tired of trying to get him to eat last night so I threw all his food in his own bowl, gave him a spoon and told him to go for it. He was delighted. But I won't. This boring, picture-less entry is about me.)

I am 27 weeks pregnant. This means, according to most sources, I am in my third trimester. Can you believe it? I'm probably pushing 160lbs, and not real excited about that. (It's all the damn Ben&Jerry's. The Acme-- which I have to visit once a week due to our incredibly small fridge-- has 2 for 1 deals on pints of B&J EVERY WEEK!) As my midwife warned me, I have had to deal with screaming tendons, brace or no brace. I feel huge and lumpy, and only occasionally like I am the Mother of the Universe and creator and sustainer of a living being. Baby Blasto has been quite active, and has little circus performances for all his little water-world friends frequently, although not usually in the middle of the night, thank goodness. I have started feeling hiccups just recently, which Baby Zy (aka Kindred) got all the time and bugged the heck out of me, so I hope these are more subtle and last for shorter intervals when I get to feeling them more strongly. Oh, and this week I got my first Braxton-Hicks contractions. Only 2 or 3 in the past 2 days, but still. I was surprised. I don't remember getting them this early before. (Those are the contractions that help tone your uterus. They make my belly rock hard for a few minutes, and do not mean I am in labor. So if we are having a relaxing visit together and I say, "Oh, I'm having a contraction," don't panic. You likely won't have to deliver my baby on the spot.)

It has been gray and rainy here for the past 3 days, and I have loved it after the heat wave we had last week which was miserable. I'm a person who thrives on sunshine, but I realized this morning that if the rest if the summer looked like this, I wouldn't complain. Gray and in the mid-70's. Boy, am I dreading summer? Really, I'm dreading not feeling like moving. It's bad enough when you aren't lugging around and extra 45 pounds-- which is what I'm doing when I'm carrying Kindred-- he's 25 lbs and I'm an additional 20. But the heat makes it so much worse. I hate sitting in the house, but pushing a stroller around where we live which is full of hills makes me darn nervous. I'm thinking kiddie pool. Sit and splash.

OK, that's what I've got in me for now. Next time, more pictures. Promise.