The Incredible Shrinking Woman

Oh, how I wish this post was about my weight!

Last week I finally went to the doctor's about my carpal tunnel (another post, another day) and I was dismayed to find that I was about one and a quarter inches shorter than the last time I was officially measured. I was so certain that the nurse who measured me was mistaken that I measured myself again after she left the room. Guess what? She wasn't.

For most of my adult life I've measured a hair under 5 feet, 8 inches, so I usually report 5' 8" as my height. After college I mentally accepted that I was actually 5 feet 7.5 inches, but I still said 5'8". Last week I measured in at 5 feet, 6.25 inches.  I was devastated.

I've always enjoyed being taller than the average woman, and in fact always wished to be a few inches taller. Even though it's ridiculous, I'm proud of the fact that my kids are tall. (Except Maggie, damn-it! It's a good thing she's cute.) It makes my heart swell to see Sam and Lucy tower over their classmates, and I internally cheer when someone tells me that they thought Fred was three. My husband, my love, is tall.

And now I'm not.

I guess the combo of making babies and making milk for almost five years, while not often consuming it (or a supplement) is catching up with me. I suppose the discs in my back are compressing even as I write this. I read that the yummy wine I so enjoy might not be the best thing for bone density.

I guess I'll just be over here with Maggie, at the kids table. Where I'll be drinking a big glass of milk and dining on a bowl of calcium chews.

Before and After

The Ice Queen

As a child, my brother and I always had chores. On Saturday mornings he would vacuum the house while I dusted and wiped down the bathroom. When the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, it was his job to empty the bottom rack and I had to empty the top rack. We were responsible for keeping our own rooms clean and our cloths put away, and he took out the trash. I took care of the cats, he took care of the dog. Pretty normal stuff.

Except for the Ice.

Yes, Ice with a capital I, because it was that important. For those of you who don't remember, freezers did not always come equip with built in ice makers. Back in the old days (like 1990) if you wanted ice cubes, you had to fill a plastic tray with water and wait for HOURS until the water froze. Then you had to bust the frozen blocks out of their plastic tray and voila! Ice cubes!

In my house, ice cubes were as precious as gold. My mother had a pretty serious iron deficiency, so she had an intense craving to chew on ice cubes. Not just regular old ice cubes, but special cubes made in an ice cube tray that you couldn't buy at the store. It came with some other old freezer from our past, and the cubes were smaller and rounder, more easily chewable, than the traditional ice cube. They looked kind of like an igloo. As soon as those cubes were solidified the tray needed to be emptied into the bin and re-filled. Every day of my life from about age nine until eighteen.

Not long after I moved out of the house my parents bought a new one, and their new freezer had an ice maker. And most of my apartments and homes have had them as well, so I thought the ice tyranny had reached its conclusion.

And then we moved to West Virginia.

The people who built this house twenty-some years ago had a professional chef in the family, so all of our kitchen appliances are commercial. The stove and oven and flat top are amazing, and the refrigerator and freezer are awesome as well. Except for one thing: the freezer lacks an ice maker. Which means I am back to my old tricks. Those ice cube trays from the old house are long gone, but luckily there are many good alternatives now that didn't exist back then. Luckily, my mother doesn't live here (yet) so I don't have to make ice on the daily, but as soon as they get here on the weekend the first thing my dad does is check to see if Ice needs made.

And so it goes. In exchange, my mom empties the dishwasher for me.

And the Dish Ran Away with My Son

I bought some new dishes today.

When SOB and I first moved in together his mother gave us a set of plain white dishes that she had in her basement. They were actually very high quality, but since we were living in a rather generic apartment, with a plain white kitchen, the plain white dishes got to me after a while. I always felt like I was eating in a cafeteria. So we passed them onto his sister and went shopping. We got our current/old ones at Ikea about twelve years ago, and we loved them so, so much. We had never before made a big-ish collaborative home purchase, and the addition of those twelve matching plates and bowls and mugs, for me, meant we were grown-ups making a home together. There was some serious commitment involved, and no one had to buy jewelery!

They have served us very well. Sadly, time marches on, and some have gotten chipped. Some others have gotten down right busted and thrown in the trash. Ever since we moved here I've been on the lookout for a new set, and today I found what I was looking for (on the clearance rack, no less!) and now we have a whole set of un-chipped, pristine dishes.

So what to do with the old ones? We still have at least 80% of them. The dinner plates, which saw the most use, have had the highest casualty rate, but there are still nine of them. We barely ever used the cups and saucers.

I was thinking I could re-use the packages from the new dishes and we could store them in the basement. Then maybe one day Sam could take that box when he gets his first apartment, girlfriend or not. Imagining him eating home made mac and cheese (because he will learn how to make it before he's permitted to set out on his own) out of that bowl with the chipped rim makes me smile. Maybe one night he'll sort through them so he can use the nicer ones for a dinner party. And then when he's ready to go out and buy his own, he can pass them along to Lucy.

Who am I kidding? Lucy won't accept hand-me-downs. She's the one who will demand her very own brand new set of stone wear for her first dorm room!

How Sam Came to Be

My husband has been travelling a lot lately. He has a side gig where he goes to big city-type places with fancy restaurants and gets car services and first class upgrades and hotel suites. It all sounds very glam, until you realize that he had to drive from WV to Pittsburgh, fly to Miami via Charlotte, then get up at 5am to fly to Newark before lunch, then head to Manhattan for dinner, then back to the airport so he can fly back into Pittsburgh around midnight, drive home to WV and get up at 6am for work tomorrow. That's five airports in about 36 hours. Typing it all out like that makes me feel slightly less jealous that he's having dinner at Bar Boulud tonight and I'm having left over spaghetti and meatballs for the second day in a row.

ANYWAY, all of the travel reminded me of how and when Sam was conceived. (Side note: this isn't going to get all graphic or anything, so don't worry. Intimate details will most certainly not be provided!)

When SOB was about to start his final year of residency I had been working at my current post for about three and a half years. I had moved up from when I began, but I knew it wasn't for me, long term. We had talked about having a baby, and decided that if we started trying now the timing would hopefully work out well, since we were already planning to move for his fellowship. I stopped taking my birth control pills in April, and that first month we just kind of winged it. When we went on vacation in May, I was in that horrible 'it's too early to know if I'm pregnant, but I might be so no booze' stage and I lamented our decision to start trying before our trip. I also lamented the amount of money I was spending on pregnancy tests, but that was to be expected, right?

The next week I got my period, and because I am an absolute control freak I immediately went online and ordered some ovulation prediction kits. I wasn't going to let this whole process develop naturally. I was a scientist, damn it, and I knew all about the processes going on inside my body. I also knew there were ways of monitoring them, so a few days later the kits arrived.

After reading all of the instructions (twice), I marked off the days on the calendar when I would start testing. SOB had a conference scheduled for that month, but it was towards the end of what I predicted would be my most fertile period. I started the ovulation tests, and day after day I would get a negative. I started to think that I was doing something wrong. After re-re-reading the instructions and realizing that I was doing everything right, I started to worry. His trip was looming, his destination all the way on the other side of the country. He was only scheduled to be gone for three days, but in ovulation speak that was long enough to miss our window.

He flew out on Wednesday. He was scheduled to return first thing Sunday morning via red eye.

On Thursday afternoon my ovulation test was positive.

I was disappointed that we would be waiting another month to try for our baby, but held onto a tiny shred of hope that if he wasn't too tired on Sunday morning maybe we still had a shot. I gave him a call, and before I could even say a word he starting telling me about how boring his conference was and how he wished he was coming home earlier. Maybe he was blowing smoke up my ass, but I saw my opportunity and wasn't about it let it go! I immediately told him about the test and then commenced a campaign of convincing him to come home a day early. If he got on the red eye Friday night, I argued, we'd get at least two chances for our future child.

He said he'd look into it. The next day he was on a plane headed back to me and his pro-creation duties.

Two weeks later, I got my first positive pregnancy test. What was truly fitting about it was that it was the day before Father's Day.

To this day SOB likes to tell people that I forced him to fly back from California to have sex with me, and while that may be a teeny tiny bit true, when I look at Sammy, I think to myself, thank god I was so damned persuasive!

Almost There...

Six more weeks to go

Can't Quite Find Home

Life in West Virginia, I can't quite explain it. It isn't bad, most of the time. It isn't usually good, either. It just kind of is. Some days I feel glad to be here. Days like this...

Having my parents and a large majority of our extended family around has been more amazing than I can explain. We had almost seventy people here for Maggie's birthday party. We see some relative almost every week. My parents have been an invaluable help with the kids. Any time SOB is working the weekend they come and lend a hand. My dad has been to as many of Sam's hockey practices as I have, and he's even considering becoming a coach. Being near to family is the main reason we moved here, and I don't think there is ever a moment we regret that aspect of our decision.

And I've meet some truly lovely people here. Sure, there are the toothless redneck hillbilly types, but I've managed to steer clear so far. The moms and dads I've met at Sam and Lu's school are so cool and I can totally see myself developing friendships with them. Interestingly enough, not many of them are actually from here, but that isn't really too surprising. But it's slow going, mostly because of me. My days are scheduled to the hilt, between both school sessions, dance and hockey. Plus there is that darling little Maggie to entertain, so my social calendar is pretty empty right now.

I just feel weirdly resigned to life here, instead of really enjoying life here. I know things will change, hopefully for the better. It's not wrong, but I can't say yet if it's right. Hopefully with time we'll grow to love it here. Because it would be devastating to move away again, not just for our families, but for me as well. I want to be home.

Ego Boost

I know it's silly, but I love when I get any sort of impartial validation that I occasionally take a nice photo or two. So when I was skimming through my feed reader this morning and I saw that The Pioneer Woman picked one of my shots (again!) as a favorite from her current photography assignment, I just about turned cartwheels in my kitchen.

Who Says Romance is Dead?

The following is a transcript of text messages exchanged between me and my husband this morning.

--

Me: Happy anniversary. First! Lubya!

Him: Happy anniversary. I can't believe you first-ed me.

Me: You know it!

Him: Lubya.

--

Eight years of marriage and going strong.

Prized Possession

Do you have a collection of things, odd and perplexing to others, that are too near and dear to send to the rubbish bin? We all do, right? Like that card my friend MC made for me for my 18th birthday with Muppets and magazine cutouts? Or the diary keys for the journal I started on the first day of fourth grade? Or some scraps of fabric from the school play?

Or this bathing suit. Or the $84 bathing suit, as I refer to it.

When I was a little kid, we never paid full price for anything. My dad was always getting laid off by the union and my mom only worked intermittently, since they didn't have anyone to watch me and my brother. As kids, we never really knew we were half broke all of the time, so it wasn't like we were sad little urchins or anything. We just always shopped at bargain stores, chased sales and clipped coupons.

As I got older, though, I started to want Guess jeans and IOU sweat shirts and things that, in general, cost more per item than my mom would spend on a whole season's wardrobe. My mother is the queen of finding a deal, let me tell you. It's a skill I admire and hope to acquire one day. I got odd jobs, like cleaning my neighbor's house and waiting tables at fire hall Bingo, so that I could buy the random ridiculous things I wanted, but my mom always encouraged me to watch for sales so that I could stretch my money a little further.

By the time I was in 8th grade, I knew the deal as far as shopping went. But that year I also started getting a subscription to Seventeen Magazine. And featured in said publication were many, many expensive articles of clothing that I lusted after. I did my best to reconstruct certain outfits, but there were some things I just couldn't find at my most favorite store ever.

Bathing suits fell into that category.

That year, however, there was a confluence of events that led to my ownership of the above suit. I have always been a bit of an over-achiever. Good grades were expected, and I always delivered. But that year I went above and beyond, with glowing teacher reports to go along with my good grades. Plus, that same year I landed a part in a full length student film. Don't worry, you've never seen it. It was a period piece about the whiskey rebellion in which I played a lively lass who didn't want to adhere to society's expectations. And then there was some other thing that I did, but I can't remember what it was. (Mom, leave a comment reminding me.)

When the issue of Seventeen came to my door featuring swim suits, I was in heaven. I loved poring over the pictures, imagining myself in each with varying results. But when I saw this blue and white and red number, I knew I found IT. The perfect bathing suit. For my barely pubescent body, it had everything I wanted: padded cups and high cut sides.

But I knew that with an $84 price tag, IT would never be mine. My own mother didn't even own anything that had cost that much, as far as I knew. So I drank in the photo and then said goodbye.

Needless to say, I was floored when my mother suggested that we go to the mall and buy it. To this day, I can still recall the excitement I felt on the drive there. We found it in a department store, I tried it on, and it was perfect. I still didn't quite believe my mother was actually going to buy me the thing, so when she headed to the check-out I almost passed out.

I wore that swim suit lovingly at every occasion I could for as long as it held out. All summer between 8th and 9th grade, and every day for my swim class during my freshman year of high school. Unfortunately, the heavily chlorinated high school pool was so punishing that I knew it was time to retire IT.

But I never got rid of IT. I doubt I ever will.

Thanks, mom.

Shreddin' Like a Felon

So I haven't blogged much this week. Why, you ask? Because every muscle in my body, including the ones in my fingers, are searing. I decided to embark upon the 30 Day Shred thing by Jillian Michaels.

Yes, I've become a Shred Head.

I started eight days ago, and it's been going well. I've been working out almost daily since Maggs turned two months old, but haven't been seeing any changes on the scale. So I've been trying to keep with my regular workouts at the Y, and then I add in the shred either right when we get home or once the kids are "napping" in the afternoon. It's a bit intense some days, but it seems to be getting the job done. I'm just worried about traumatizing my neighbors as I do jumping jacks in my dining room.

Plus I've been trying to really, actually watch what I eat. You know, instead of simply staring at the pizza I'm about to devour and calling it 'watching what I'm eating.' I bought some Quaker weight control instant oatmeal and I have to give it two enthusiastic thumbs up. I make it for breakfast around 8am and don't get hungry again until almost 2pm. And it tastes pretty good as well. I've also started cutting out all booze Sunday through Thursday. I don't need the extra calories in a glass of wine (or three) on the daily. So far, so good.

So I hope you'll forgive the silence. I need to get to a point where my Wii Fit balance board doesn't groan when I step onto it. And when Sam doesn't ask if the baby in my belly is a boy. And when at least half of the clothes in my wardrobe fit again.

Amy Through the Years: A Glimpse at My Awkward Phases

Wordless Wednesday

New Resident

For the next four weeks we will be housing our good friend Eric as he works his butt off at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. He is a medical student from Boston, but we went to the same college (good ole' SJU) so he's a native in the same vein we are.

It's fun and interesting to observe him going through this stage of his career. It's so different, from my perspective, from when SOB went through it. First of all, I'm not busy planning a wedding during my senior year of college, so I can actually pay attention to a little of what he's saying when he comes home. Secondarily, it's just a whole 'nother can of worms being on the periphery. With SOB, I was half as mired in his schooling as he was. Being on the outside is kind of cool.

It's also fun having a semi-permanent house guest. This is kind of a running dealie with us, shacking up with friends. One of my best friends lived with us for a summer during college. (Coincidentally, it was during the same stage of SOB's med school.) Sister-in-law Allison has lived with us on two separate occasions. And Eric even lived with us (sort of) for a while when his then-girlfriend-now-wife stayed with us for a few months. I guess it's kind of our thing. Aside from having to keep my bra on all of the time, as opposed to only about 30% of the time normally, it's nice.

Moral of the story? If you ever need a place to stay, give me a ring!

My Secret Fear of Bees

A long time ago, I developed a severe and somewhat irrational fear of bees. I say 'somewhat' because even though the event that formed the root of my fear was totally traumatizing, intellectually I know that bees are not the big baddies my brain makes them out to be.

My subconscious, however, isn't convinced.

It was July and my brother's birthday. I can't quite recall, but I know it was somewhere in the eight, nine or ten age range for him because I was on the cusp of puberty. We usually had semi-big parties for his birthday, since the summertime afforded more space for rambunctious guests. The usual family, friends and neighbors were there.

Growing up I was the only girl in the neighborhood. One neighbor had four sons, another had two and yet another had one. And then there was my brother and me. Naturally I was rather tom-boy-ish, but by fifth grade I was already sporting tiny breast buds and well aware that play time as usual was probably going to change. So was this one neighbor kid named Tim, who used to pinch my bottom and offer up what he though were encouraging words on my new, um, developments.

Anyway, my brother's birthday party. We were all playing outside and running around, consuming near fatal doses of sugary soda and cake with everyone under the age of twelve and over the age of two. A game of hide-and-seek commenced, and I volunteered to help my cousin Nicole, as she was one of the youngest kids playing. We decided to hide under the shrubs in front of my house, and she easily scootched her little three year old self into the perfect hiding spot. As you can imagine, my ten, eleven or twelve year old body didn't fit quite as well. As I crawled into place, I dislodged a hornets' nest above me. Luckily, it wasn't super big, but it landed squarely on the middle of my back.

It only took a few seconds for me to realize what was going on. I grabbed my cousin and literally tossed her over the porch railing and started screaming. As I tried to make my way out of the shrubs I inadvertently grabbed a handful of the nest when I reached for some limbs to hold onto. I was getting stung all over my back, neck, head and now my right hand.

When I finally separated myself from the shrubbery, a crowd was waiting. One neighbor, who was a nurse, took charge of the situation. I had a countless number stinging insects trapped inside my clothing, so she immediately starting stripping me down in the middle of my front yard. Once she had me naked, save for my underpants, she instructed me to get into the shower. My mom came with me. I thought she was there to kill off the remaining hornets that were trapped in my hair, but more likely she was there to make sure I wasn't going to pass out or have an allergic reaction.

The whole ordeal probably only lasted two or three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. In the end I only suffered just under two dozen stings. They were painful, but a little aspirin paste applied to the sites helped ease the pain. However, the humiliation of having my entire family, my entire neighborhood and my brother's entire hockey team see my nearly naked body as I flapped and screamed in the front yard is something that still makes me cringe today.

All of this is my very long way of trying to make amends for totally knocking over an old man last week while trying to dart away from a bee. I hope that by sharing this humiliating story with the world wide internets I'll earn some sort of cosmic forgiveness.

Next time, ask me to tell you about the time I got head lice.

Memories of Cheeses Past

May, 2005

September, 2007

May, 2008

May, 2009

If you know me, either in real life or in virtual bloggy life, then you know that I love love LOVE these head hole photo things. Nothing pleases more than coming upon one that is particularly relevant to something else in my life, like this blog thing (which is approaching it's fourth anniversary!) 

Because we have a membership to the Philadelphia Zoo, we encounter this cheesy photo op with a good deal of regularity. One day I hope to assemble a photo album with this exact same shot through the years. I might have to figure out a new configuration once the baby is born, but that should just add to the fun, right?

What memories do you have to share this week?