God Bless the German People

Specifically the ones who settled central Texas, for they introduced my world to beer, brats, and Schlitterbahn.

We've just returned from a relaxing five-nighter in the blue collar Riviera of Texas, New Braunfels, known for rolling hills, river sports and THE water park that started it all.

When I was growing up in that big family, most of our vacations were spent camping in the great outdoors. We had a groovy 70's VW camper (orange) with a pop-top sleeping loft and a built-in fridge and sink. We'd pack that baby to the brim: kids, tent, Coleman stove and hit the road. It must have been chaotic with the country music playing while kids fought in the back seat to pass the time, all the while, the wind whipping through the orange plaid curtains mom made for the camper that dad called "Betsy." But I only remember the good times.

I realize my memories are only just sprinkled with reality because Betsy was, in fact, a lemon and I'm reminded by my siblings how much trouble she often gave us on those romantic road trips. My brother assures me that camping was hot, uncomfortable torture once he hit his teen years but was still too young to stay home alone. I think we have photographic evidence of his misery somewhere.

Yes, hotels and a/c are not to be replaced, but what about roasting dinner on a stick over a campfire and waking up at the first sunlight to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying outdoors? What about chasing frogs and lightening bugs and peeing behind trees in the dark? What about learning to pitch a tent, or roll up a sleeping bag, or start a campfire? What about looking out at the night sky to discover all the stars that are washed out by city lights? And what about all that together-time with no movies or computers to entertain ourselves with? When you camp, you hang out and you talk and you eat, and you get dirty and go swimming to wash off the sweat. To me, camping evokes good times, simple times. And I want that again, for my boys.

Once out of college, MMA and I enjoyed many wonderful trips to places I'd only dreamed of going as a child. I thought I had arrived. Why drive somewhere and camp when you can travel like this? Or so I thought.

But as we were leisurely loading up the car last Sunday (no plane to catch, no danger in drinking the local water) for the drive to our rustic cottage with all the comforts of home, just three hours from home --I'm almost six months pregnant remember, let's not get crazy-- I finally got it. I understand now why so many generations have been vacationing in New Braunfels with their kids. Even those who could have gone somewhere more exotic.

Fancy Camping?

Only now do I get it, that when you travel with little ones, it really is all about what they want and need because taking care of them first affords us some R&R, too. Those wonderful Germans must have surely understood that when they fashioned the perfect, affordable family vacation spot smack dab in the middle of all the biggest cities in Texas. An easy vacation in the beautiful Texas Hill Country, what's not to love!

I came to these same caverns as a kid

You should have seen me floating along the lazy river, butt-up, at Schlitterbahn with my big pregnant belly resting so pleasingly in the inner tube. I felt like I had re-arrived, further evolved. Only Child was giggling and bouncing along beside me under the watchful eye of his daddy. I knew he would be worn out and ready for bed extra early.


Forget about expensive drinks at the swim up bar or going back to the room to fix my wet hair for an evening out. I was looking forward to hanging out on our rented couch to watch TV and read in peace and quiet. That last night, a whole pack of deer came to graze right outside our cabin in front of the river.


It was so pretty and peaceful and I thought to myself what I always think on vacation, (no matter where) "This is the life, right here. This is it!" (And of course, "How much is real estate around here?)

So, God Bless you, German settlers of central Texas!

Gettin' his Facebook on

Score!

I survived bathing suit shopping and I didn't kill Only Child even once in the dressing room when no one else was looking.

I think first pregnancies are for going all out and spending lots of money to show off the blossoming tummy. Been there, done that. I am content to buy as little as possible and squeeze into my regular tee's until they're just too short. (My son calls them Winnie the Pooh shirts.)

So spending big bucks on a bathing suit was never a consideration. In fact, my only qualifications are (1) to not look vulgar and (2) to draw as little attention as possible. Looking cute at the pool's got nothin' to do with it...I'm just trying to hang in there for Only Child's sake.

And can I butt in for a second and ask, who are these freaks of nature that walk around in bikinis with their porno-bellies hanging out, no fat thighs, no stretch marks, and crazy enough in the head to think they look good? Some of them actually do look just fine. For pregnant women.

And on to Target, the first and last stop in our bathing suit hunt. Our search begins there when I remember Motherhood's strict "no refunds for any reason whatsoever" policy. (I mean, if a pregnant woman is not allowed to change her mind...then screw you! -- hypothetically speaking.) And I'd like the record to show that Target and Old Navy have as good or better to pick from and they don't sell your personal information out to a dozen junk mail distributors.

Everything out now (and for the last few years) seems to be a halter. So that means the bathing suit tie that rests on my neck has support countless pounds of big-girl-bounce. Which is borderline too heavy when I'm NOT pregnant. Style who? Just too impractical.

After nine different halter tops, my [insert body part]s were chaffing from all the putting on, taking off. I even considered a plus size top, but they were too short and provided extra room for 360 degrees of roundness. We were getting hungry and tired. Only Child was laying on the floor of the dressing room begging me to shoot him. I was about to give up when I saw it.

There, on the clearance rack was the only top in the store that could support my rack. A pink and black flowery thing hanging there with regular over-the-shoulder straps. It could have been velvet with a picture of Jimmy Hendrix's a$$ on it. If was my size, (and it was) I would have taken it.

I didn't even try it on. I just bought it, because it had sufficient fabric to cover us up and it saved me a trip to another store. Amen. The fact that it was on clearance just cemented for me that it was meant to be.

And if that wasn't score enough, the Rockets just beat the Lakers and we've been hatin' on Kobe Bryant this whole series.

It was a good day!

The truth about the Back Nine

How quickly time flies. I'm officially in the back nine.

Not feeling so dead sexy anymore, either. Everything (and I mean everything) is enormous and out of proportion. I'm feigning shock (if only to myself) when I, daily, pass a mirror and see that another part, seemingly unrelated to pregnancy, is blooming. Isn't that a delightful way to say it?

A huge compliment right now sounds something like,

"Wow, you're all baby!" or,

"I can't believe your 5 months pregnant already, you're so small." (Followed by an anecdote about you or someone you know to make me believe it.) ...Shameless prompting, huh?

I was at my aunt's nursing home the other day and a precious old lady asked me if I have any babies. I pointed, "that one over there is mine and I have another one on the way."

"I had a feeling," she said with a smile. It was very sweet and good lesson in how to gently approach the subject when you're not sure. And, considering I'm so clearly out of the closet, it was the cutest thing I'd heard all week!

I had to go to the store and buy some old lady sandals. Two weeks ago I dusted off some old kitten heels that I had not worn in four years just for a change. But I kept thinking of that kids' show Olivia, where the pigs are walking around on tip toes. I was afraid that I looked as absurd as I felt, and decided it wasn't worth the tripping hazard. My flip flops will do if there's not much walking, but I now need something more supportive for my rising dough feet. So when you see me strutting in my I heart Comfort sandals, just know that I'm under no illusions of dazzling anyone with my style. It's all much more primal right now.

And I've got to get some decent sleep. If I'm not up peeing, I'm flopping around trying to get comfortable. I disregarded the advice not to sleep on my back because it cuts off my blood flow, blah blah blah. (I can deal with a little light-headedness) until I read of my own accord that back sleeping also slows down digestion and can bring on hemorrhoids. OK, so now I'm scared straight, (that subject being a fate so disastrous that even doctors and BFFs don't like to talk about it.)

To aid me in sleeping on my side I was lodging three different pillows in strategic places that had to be constantly rearranged. Finally I gave up and bought a body pillow. But its going to take some getting used to because we're up half the night, me and "Stan," wrestling around like a couple of newlyweds trying out awkward positions while my poor husband gets edged closer and closer to insanity. And the couch. I give him another month.

I'm not hinting that I want the bed all to myself. I'm publicly announcing that I wouldn't blame him if he found a more restful spot to hunker down for the next few months.

And that ladies, is my truth about the back nine, minus a few details and specifics that could be deemed TMI for the gentler sex to read about.

Come back next week, same time same place, to read about my next adventure: shopping for a maternity bathing suit with a three year old in tow...

It's all about Big Brother (for now)

MMA took a day off work so we could all go together for the big ultrasound. We wanted Only Child to be really excited about learning the baby's gender. We talked up the "big day" for a week.

I secretly already knew.

I won't torture you with black and white blobs on the screen, insisting "see right there, that is a shoulder..." You already know what these things look like.

In the car on the way to the hospital Only Child was working it all out in his head...to himself, out loud.

"So, if the baby has a peeper, its a boy. And if it has a princess, then its a girl."

"You're so smart! That's right!"

"Yep, and its a boy...and I'm gonna call him Baby Mack. Or Baby Mater."

"Oh Really!?" (We might have to resort to Mack if we can't agree on a name...)

So, taking a rambunctious three year old to the hospital where we had to park, check in, register, wait with a light-up pager before we got called back to the real waiting room...so we could all do this together...sounds good on paper. (No, not even then?) Only Child was expecting to see a "baby" on the TV screen, so he was duly unimpressed.

I also had a regular ob/gyn appointment right after. My doctor got called to deliver a baby just as I was assuming the position. Did I mention what a long day that was?! The boys had to slip out to find the nearest fast-food-with-playground facility or dad was going to flip out.

The results confirmed that The Sequel is a boy. I pointed out a suspicious growth between his legs back at the ten week ultrasound. But my husband and the doctor both shushed me and said it was too early to tell. They did instill some doubt, but in my heart I knew.

So I let myself admit a couple of weeks ago that if I don't have a girl, I will miss picking out sweet dresses and decorating a fussy pink room. But then I thought about the potential heartache I also get to miss out on, like setting rules and boundaries about dating and makeup and, shiver me timbers, discussing sex with my sweet little girl. (Presumably, dads should have the man-to-man when that day comes.) So in about five minutes I was over it.

There is another specific reason I'm happy he is a boy. MMA has two lovely sisters that would do anything for us, but no brothers. So I thought he would enjoy seeing his sons grow up in relationship that he didn't have. I also think that two brothers together, or two sisters together have the potential to be really close friends; more so than a brother and a sister. I have no proof, just Superstar theory.

So anyway, Girly Stuff, (I would call her my designer friend, but she's so much more than that, really) has offered her services for The Sequel's nursery. The catch (for her) is that I never execute anything to completion, making me her worst client. And what gets done is done under pressure of deadline. Then again, we do have a September cutoff...so let me show you what I had in mind.


It was love at first sight when I saw this nursery at House of Turquiose. It is the handi-work of Megan at Me and Wee. (Check out her sweeeeet newborn baby.) I poured over all the details, thinking, "I can recreate this." But now I'm wondering how that color will do for a boy's room...what do you think? Too girly? I want the color to hold up for 5 years. Hmm. Sure is a pretty, that robins-egg-Tiffany blue.


So finally, on to baby names. We've had the perfect girl name on deck since a super long road trip that we took back in 2003. It's such a great name, that I try to keep it under wraps. Trust me when I say that people I know personally have been the victim of out and out baby-name-stealing! Shameless stuff! Anyway...

Mutually agreeable boy names are more elusive for us. Only Child was named after his dad after months of negotiations...and here we are again: pregnant with a boy, and we can't agree on nothin'! Since we're not of the George Foreman mindset, we have to come up another good name. Which to my husband sounds something like Vito Corleone, or Augustus Ceasar.

We are taking any and all reasonable suggestions for boy names. My husband says I only like white bread names. Translation: strong, classic, no funny business (and I am especially fond of biblical ones.) I don't want anything that sounds overly ethnic or super hero, because, (and I realize this is a new and modern world we live in but) being of my crazy lineage, isn't that enough without having a weird name too?

(Just send your good suggestions for the sake of the kid.)

I guess this post was all over the place. That's about right for me these days.

Let's recap the lessons we learned today:

• Don't take kids to the hospital unless they are sick.
• Keep your pantry well-stocked with cute genitalia euphemisms; its like keeping your gun on safety.
• Mom should always trust her instinct.
• Dads should take turns, and let the Moms name one.
  
• Mother's Day is coming...bring your A-game when you wife is pregnant. ( OK, that's a new point; just checking to see if you're listening.)

Prom Queen

Peep Toe Pumps and Pearls is my cute blogger friend (Jill) who is everything girly, pink and uptown. She invited me to participate in a little self-hazing ritual, she calls the Prom Queen Post. (You post your prom picture and everyone gets to laugh at your big hair.)

I laughed out loud when I saw Peep Toe's pictures because no one was immune to the Glenn Close hair that took over! She and I are close in age and we're both from Houston...let me just say that prom in Texas, in the 9o's, was all about big permed hair and sequins. Think: beauty pageant gone terribly wrong.

And just for fun here's a link to the pop music charts from the year I went to prom...Yes, I do remember dancing to MC Hammer in that dress. I probably left a trail of red sequins everywhere I went. Do you remember being eighteen and dancing to Baby Got Back (and feeling it?) Maybe that was just me. I can only laugh about it because, to the best of my knowledge, no video evidence of this mayhem exists.

OK, laugh away, and then post your pictures!

I'm going to tag:

Girly Stuff

Chasing Imperfection

Miss Priss

Stay At Home Dad 101

Circling the Square Table

Mamas, don't let your Babies grow up Apathetic

We went to lunch at a local eatery on Sunday. It was a nice day to share some family time over a couple of fish tacos. We were seated, then we waited, and waited, and waited until two waitstaff had a discussion within earshot about who would be taking care of our table.

Finally, we heard which one would be taking us on, and he sulked over to ask what we would like to drink. I felt instantly irritated by this young expressionless zombie...what my mom used to refer to as a "dead fly." I had one or two friends that were the kind that never looked her in the eye and only spoke (as little as possible) when spoken to. I learned early on that Mom was not impressed by a distant "whatever" attitude, and it was just easier not to bring those kind of kids around.

"No, I'm a monster. An aloof monster." "I can't live without you. Look at me, I'm dying."

And honestly, "dead flies" don't have much to offer in the way of companionship, anyway. Bella.

In college I worked in restaurants. I never considered it too much to offer a smile and a sincere greeting. I was, after all, expecting something in return for my outgoing service. The better you are at convincing the customer that you care (even when you do not) the more money you make. Instinctive right? Just a good life lesson, right? And aren't there easier jobs to be had than slinging food if you're pining away and can't even muster a smile?

MMA sensed my contempt, because he instantly offered up consolation and told me not to judge this inexperienced kid on his demeanor. "There is no ill-will there, he's just part of the Apathetic Generation," he says. Then he goes on to explain that he's not being polite or impolite, he's just speaking in the generally accepted (mono) tone that kids understand as normal."

What? So, aloof is the new norm and that's OK?

MMA has always been my culture coach, being far more hip than I.

Maybe he's right and I'm expecting too much (from the service industry!?) because it seems everywhere I go, I run into young people with their heads down, voices barely audible and their faces devoid of expression as they take my order, bag my groceries, and sell me things. The customary "thank you" [for your business] is clearly from a bygone era.

At the risk of sounding way older than my 35 years, I can't stand that our kids won't open their mouths anymore...not to say something nice or something not nice; they just don't open their mouths anymore!

This apathy-plague is not a question of competency. How many proud parents have I met who lovingly enumerated their child's academic accomplishments while I secretly speculated that the child was mute? Then, you find that the kid can speak, but word-conservation is way cooler, so usually you get a slow "yes" or "no." Is frivolous conversation dying?

Kick me the next time I complain that my three year old won't ever shut his mouth, because when he hits his teens he may decide that talking went out with Obama. And eye contact is overrated. He very well may kill me with Apathy! (New House Rule: saying "whatever" is equally punishable and equivalent to dropping an F-Bomb.)

As our meal unfolded, we were able to slowly lull our waiter out of his coma. (That's right, we warmed the waiter up.) And despite his best effort not to, Only Child did make him laugh. Physically, he can smile and carry on a conversation. No, he didn't know what Pontchartrain Pasta was, but he did offer to go find out if I wanted him to (I'm rolling my eyes a little bit...but MMA assures me that it was not his intent to be lazy or rude.)

To be fair, there are some great kids out there who haven't lost their ability to articulate through a conversation with old-fashion pleasantry. And for those outgoing, eye-contact-making kids who are not afraid to risk a little emotion...the sky is the limit! I have to imagine that a little personality sets you apart when you are of the Apathetic Generation. (I'd leave 25% for that.)

Is this happening because electronic devices that we sit in front of and carry in our pockets all day have a sedative effect? Or maybe the texting generation has evolved to a level of communication in which symbols and abbreviated speech supersede human warmth. What seems blase and mopey could read as passionate yearning to the 21 and under set. (You saw Twilight, right?)

Now, somebody please just shoot me, because I AM the crotchety Old Lady on a rant about "teenagers these days." Oh the misery!

Double Chin's Back! (for a limited time)

This changing body is so gimmicky. "Oh, there goes my waist!" It's been done so many times, and the day-to-day changes so predictable, that I no sooner notice a new itch or an ache and I'm reading about it on my weekly Babycenter email updates.

This is a well-oiled miracle going on inside me, folks and I'm just a vessel. And a vassal.

Speaking of those emails, every week they give me an approximate baby size. This week's estimator compared the baby to the size of a turnip. A Turnip!? Does anyone under the age of 80 know what a turnip looks like (or even tastes like for that matter.) Turnips went out with the Great Depression. How about, the baby is approximately the length and weight of an iphone...

I'm just saying.

I got a haircut the other day and I kept looking in the mirror to figure out why I looked, not right. I knew it had nothing to do with my asymmetry; which is my favorite thing to obsess over. No, it was something else. It took me while to figure out that my already round face is starting to take on a pumpkin-like quality. And my normal haircut is sitting on a huge head that I don't altogether recognize. There is a familiarity there: me plus thirty.

And I've already given up on looking at my butt in the mirror. My mind's eye already knows my horizontal width and I don't need any horrific images stuck in my head for last leg of this race.

And don't you find that the eyes can play tricks on you? I pulled out a pair of panties the other day fully expecting to wear them, only to find that it wasn't even close. I held those little trouble makers up, examined them closely. Yes, these were the same panties that were a joy to wear (three weeks ago.) They hadn't noticeably shrank in the dryer, but apparently that's what happened because I haven't spread so far so soon.

Hmm...not that I can see.

I saw a very pregnant woman (with a small child) in the grocery store the other day who was all done up: hair, nails, an outfit that took some thought to put together. I wondered where she gets the endurance to make an effort like that so close to the finish line. Then, later in the week I came across a mom with 3 month old twins, (she was also looking cute) and I said to myself, "Finish line? There is no finish line!"

I'm in a life marathon and I won't get my second wind for about a year. Help! I need a Red Bull, because my husband won't let me drink wine anymore! I'm having to sneak Diet Cokes when he's not looking. Jeez!

It's only month four of the great life transformation and I'm already rationing energy and sanity. I can't imagine menopause has anything on pregnancy. Inexplicable fits of rage and/or tears? And then what do you do after lunch? At least by menopause my sweet darlings will be able to fix their own sandwiches, leaving me some time to compose myself.

I'm compiling a list of things to do to make myself feel good during pregnancy because, doing God's work, while a beautiful privilege, is also quite taxing. Maybe you, clever friends, can help me add to this wish list. Maybe someone very close to me who is known for generosity will take note.

1. Pay whatever it takes to have someone else clean my house
2. Date night
3. Someone with more will power will make the dog and the Blue Bell disappear (no questions will be asked)
4. The men in this house will use ONE change of clothes per day. ONE.
5. A vacation before third trimester (while I can still stomach a bathing suit)
6. New Sofas or new Countertops *

*I will entertain either as my push gift.

What else am I forgetting on this list? I mean to ask high.

I asked my husband if he would rub lotion on my feet every night for the rest of the pregnancy, you know, since I'm doing all the work. And do you know what he said? "Every night?! That's alot. How about every other night?"

I can't get no respect!

So maybe that's how often I'll cook dinner! Beenie weenies if you're lucky, baby.

Thank you very much! Don't forget to tip your waitstaff! Have a great night!