Shower Power

The baby shower: a rite of passage for moms-to-be. We run the gauntlet of games guessing what baby food is what (the winner can somehow tell the difference between carrots and sweet potatoes), cooing over onesies, and collecting clothespins for catching others in the act of speaking aloud that unavoidably overused word, "cute".

Well, maybe. I have to say I'm not enamored of such baby shower hallmarks. Judging from the number of people I've spoken with who seem to agree with this sentiment, I'm rather surprised these games are still going. Fortunately, there are two ways to trump tradition: know the people throwing your shower (and know that they know you), and invite the menfolk. They provide balance that naturally keeps the cuteness factor from rocketing up to radioactive levels. And besides, 50% of the parenting power in my household will be supplied by my dear husband. He has come to every single one of my pregnancy OB appointments, and he's coming to the showers. Heck, he even took care of registering us at Babies R Us on his own (thank you, Sweetie!) - now that is a brave, bold man!

Yesterday was our first shower, thrown by two of my co-workers. It was nicely low-key, a chance to visit and nosh and be on the receiving end of many presents. I haven't experienced such an outpouring of gifts since we were married over ten years ago, but soon-to-be-born babies seem to bring out the warm fuzzies in everyone, and the generosity shown to us felt almost overwhelming. It was then that I realized something: with this kind of support, with Michael by my side, and without the kitschy contests, I just might be able to pull this motherhood thing off.

Sleeping the Day Away

Today was a particularly bleak day in Seattle, the rain moving seamlessly from drizzle to downpour. Feeling exhausted, I chose the option of an early afternoon nap on the sofa with the dog over taking her out on a walk. One thing pregnancy has taught me, although it's been a difficult lesson to learn, is to listen when my body is tired, to take the nap or head to bed early as time allows.

Only in the past few weeks has this tiredness come creeping back in, seeping slowly into my bones. A nap, I have found, can make the difference between a productive afternoon later on and one lost to restlessness and irritability. It's common knowledge that good sleep habits mean better health and even productivity, yet I still feel the subtle pressure of a society that admires those for whom sleep is something of a nuisance, that which keeps us from accomplishing our all. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," indeed.

I've always enjoyed a good night's sleep - when I could get it. And far from being one of those go-getters who routinely hit the sack for a mere six hours maximum, I've always figured that an average of at least seven hours a night was doing pretty well. But now I see that it's not even about me, it's about this new life I'm carrying, and I have no choice but to bow to his needs. My body does it without needing even my permission; if he needs nutrients, he gets them, no matter if I come up short. My body is focused on growing my child, and it will wear itself out if that's what it takes. My personal needs at this point are secondary, and if I don't eat well enough or sleep well enough for the both of us, my body is not going to show me any sympathy.

So I give in to my body, hoping all the while that by acquiescing to its demands now it will treat me kindly this week when I won't have the time for naps. For today, though, I am almost thankful for the bleak weather - it made taking that nap all the easier.

Springing Ahead

Tonight, we lose one hour of precious time. I've set the clocks ahead already to mentally prepare myself, but there was really no need; although it's only 9:40 according to the old time, I'm already more than tired enough for bed, glancing at the clock as I type, grateful that soon I'll be snuggled under flannel sheets.

I could blame this lethargy on pregnancy. As I enter my final two months, it's normal, I've heard, for the fatigue to start to creep in. Still, I'm loathe to blame too much on the baby I'm carrying. Throughout much of my pregnancy I've focused on how my life can and will continue as normal. True, I may be sipping tonic water instead of a beer, but I can still catch a show at the club. I may experience a stronger fear of falling while navigating icy tracks on a rented pair of cross country skis, but I'll still hit the trail. And I can still stay up until midnight playing games with friends, it just means I may not be staying up quite so late the following night... especially when baby decides that 7am is the perfect time to wake mommy with his in utero calisthenics, regardless of last night's bedtime.

The truth is, I'm pretty happy with my life as it is, and as it has been. Sure, improvement is always a worthy goal, but my definition of improvement has long leaned towards better organizing my time, putting in more volunteer hours, remembering to write thank-you notes, calling friends on the phone more often, and so on. Such an enormous change as bringing a child into the world for whom Michael and I are solely responsible was beyond the scope of my modest goals. When life is good, it's hard to imagine shaking things up too much.

And yet here we are, on the verge of something that changes everything. Or does it? Is it cowardice or common sense to think that everything in life must rearrange itself upon the birth of a new baby? How do I navigate this new world, both as a mother and, quite simply, as me? Whatever I learn and however I change, I think I can safely say that I expect the unexpected - and that I expect the unexpected will be better than anything I could imagine.

Blahgging

Tonight I found myself sitting in front of the laptop, mindlessly web surfing, either too tired or too listless to work on something productive. It was then that I thought to myself, "Hey, maybe I should blog." So here I am.

It's hard to say exactly what has led me to abandon my online writing. Unfortunately, I can't claim it's because any private writing has taken its place. I suppose it's nothing complicated, just the fact that I haven't set aside any time for it and that I've struggled with a lack of direction in these posts. On the surface, a blog sounds simple. After all, it follows that most basic of writing aphorisms, "write what you know". And what could you possibly know better than... yourself?

It's evident the memoir has taken on a significant role in our web-savvy, pop-culture obsessed, fifteen-minutes-of-fame culture. Does putting it in writing prove that it happened? Does it lend a significance to everyday events that we find otherwise lacking? Is talking up our latest foray the latest way of keeping up with the Joneses? Or maybe, for most of us, it's just a way to keep friends loosely informed and make use of the internet as a creative outlet.

It's really creativity I crave. But all too often I find my mind devoid of any ideas for creative pursuits, and I wonder if the internet takes some of that blame. Or perhaps I'm just getting older and more set in my ways. One thing I do know: since my Lenten break with visual/electronic media, I've been loathe to watch any TV shows or movies more than once or twice a week, and surfing the web has become primarily a tool for procrastination when I lack the motivation for real action (or am simply trying to avoid what I know needs to be done). Writing this is no exception to this rule.

So perhaps I'll write again soon, with fresh ideas percolating. Or perhaps I'll move on to other things, but then, who knows? Maybe moving on to other things would finally give me something to blog about.

Sunday Supper

Remember Sunday supper at grandma's? If you were lucky enough to experience it, you're doubtless left with memories to last a lifetime. I recall grandma's special baked chicken (somehow no one else seems to be able to make it quite the same), green beans, mashed potatoes, and fruit salad, with berry cobbler for dessert. Swedish rye bread made according to the family recipe was served on the side, for no dinner could be complete without bread on the table.
Another great thing about Sunday dinner at grandma's (well, besides the company, of course)? Mom didn't have to cook! At least, I assume that must have been a blessing. As much as I love to cook, it's nice to let someone else take charge occasionally. And after a very full weekend, the prospect of Sunday supper at Volunteer Park Cafe may not have quite the same allure as grandma's, but it sure sounded good.

Fortunately for us, it tasted even better than it sounded. Light poured in through the open door onto the long communal table that runs the length of the cafe where Michael, Lewissa, and I took our seats. For Seattle, it had been a hot day - over 80 degrees! - but the evening warmth was pleasant, comfortable enough for me to wear the long-sleeved shirt I'd chosen to cover my newly sunburnt arms. Refreshed with beer, wine, and citrus agave water, we eyed the blackboard list of coming courses.

The idea behind the Sunday supper is a simple one: use what's in season, food from the garden, and serve it up family style. With a couple of musicians providing a low key soundtrack for the meal, we passed around giant enamel pots of salad, then meatloaf with onion gravy, silken mashed potatoes, and green beans. This was food that would no doubt have felt right at home on grandma's table, although it was admittedly a bit gussied up compared with the dinners I remember from childhood. The vegetarian offering was sweet pea risotto, something that never appeared at the grandparents' house, but the pop of fresh green peas amid creamy rice topped with succulent pea vines and a lemony, melt-in-you-mouth creamy cheese brought the taste of summer home.

After all that, it was hard to find room for dessert, but somehow we managed. Still warm from the oven, we received slices of golden-crusted blueberry buttermilk pie. The buttermilk custard lent a soft tang to the sweetness of the berries, and the crust was perfectly crisp and buttery. Pie is the ultimate in summer desserts, and a good Sunday supper is the ultimate end to a perfect summer weekend.

They Say It's My Birthday

Another birthday come and soon to be gone. It's not a day I choose to loudly celebrate, although it is a good excuse to encourage Michael to do whatever I wish. Of course, that might work more to my advantage if I could actually determine what my wish really is.

We are not romantic when it comes to presents. Last year, I bought myself a DSLR camera, and declared that to be my gift. It's a good way to justify an expensive purchase.

"What do you want for your birthday?" Michael asked last week.

"I want to go for dinner at the Tin Table and swing dancing at the Century Ballroom," I replied, quite truthfully.

"No, what do you want? For a present?"

"Nothing," I was honestly perplexed at this question.

"Isn't there any kitchen thing you want?" Michael persisted. Ah, the"kitchen thing". I like to cook and Michael likes to eat, so what could be more perfect? So goes the rationale, at any rate. Hence I will be getting a new chef's knife and a pasta attachment for the KitchenAid mixer. Michael ordered them online this morning, and couldn't wait to tell me.

"Do you want to know what you're getting for your birthday?"

"Uh, no."

"Do you want to know?"

Silence.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Michael pulls me into an embrace, looking adorable.

"OK. It seems you really want to tell me. What am I getting?" I relent. There went the mystery, but I have to admit I cracked a smile at the mention of the pasta attachment. After all, homemade pasta is the way to anyone's heart.

While the Sun Shines

Here in the Pacific Northwest we await summer with expectations high, glorified memories of sunny days past bursting through the rain clouds that fill our vision. There's nothing quite like waking to the sound of rain drops pelting against your windowpane in June. After eight months of saying, "Oh, summer in Seattle, it makes the winter drizzle worth it!", the sense that the weather has let you down out of pure spite is hard to shake.

So we are cautious now. We recall the saying that summer in western Washington doesn't start until after - that's right, after - the Fourth of July, and hold on to the hope that the last decade of shorts and flip flops, sunglasses and sunscreen while munching burgers and potato salad on the lawn in dutiful celebration of our nation's birth wasn't just a fluke. It was easy, in those years, to forget the times we suffered, bundled in sweatshirts and positioning buffet tables under cover, knowing that a "chance of showers" has less to do with chance and more to do with showers.

When a sunny day dawns, spirits soar. It's like nothing so much as falling in love. I love you, Seattle! There's the sensation that my heart is actually swelling as I pass beneath the big leaf maples that line my favorite stretch of road in our neighborhood. The overlapping leaves above my head form a mosaic of dappled green, illuminated by the glorious sunlight. Lake Washington shimmers below, a sapphire blue reflection of the sky.

But tomorrow? Well, who would dare to predict it? Make hay while the sun shines, as they say (not mentioning, of course, that a sudden storm can turn the freshly mown hay to rot before it ever gets to the barn). We wait and hope, but hesitate to speak aloud, fearful that the sunny spell be broken.