Month: February 2011

Sooooooo….Abe had a little run-in with rush hour traffic a couple weeks ago, and his poor car is currently kaput. As in, we are selling it for scrap metal. Don’t worry! Abe is completely 100% unharmed, and the only casualty in this little accident was his car. Phew.

Actually, I am kind of glad this happened. The paranoid part of me loves to see Abe driving with both hands on the wheel, refusing to snack on my open bag of chips because he has committed to never multi-task in the car. I also appreciate his new if-I-don’t-make-this-turn-it’s-not-the-end-of-the-world attitude. Yay for super safe driving practices!

That said, we are down to one car now. I rarely use my car, so this is usually not a big deal. However, I have been commuting weekly back to Hyde Park to teach piano, and on Hyde Park days coordination gets a little tricky. Take yesterday, for example. I didn’t have to be in Hyde Park until almost 4pm, but since Abe had work meetings all day, he dropped me off in Hyde Park at 10:30am.  I had almost 6 hours to kill.

Luckily, the Hyde Park Borders was having a huge sale. The sad news is that the store is closing, but the good news is everything in the store is at least 30% off! I walked in determined to exercise restraint, but then Abe called and told me to go crazy and buy whatever I wanted. (I think he felt bad about the 6-hours-to-kill bit of my day…) So I did!

I think the employees thought I was a little cuckoo; by the time I made it to the top of the stairs, I was practically hyperventilating because my basket was so full. Two kind-hearted Borders people immediately besieged me, offering to take my basket and inquiring with concerned looks about how soon the baby was due. I thanked them for their help and made myself at home in the children’s section. I gathered a giant pile of books and then plopped down on the floor to review them and calculate their cost. What a waste of time.  I am terrible at math and couldn’t seem to remember how much any one discounted book cost, so my attempts to add up all of the books were futile. After sitting there for the better part of an hour while the employees repeatedly checked in on my condition, I decided to give up trying to figure out how much the books cost and just bought them all. I told myself that Lydia would be happy with that decision.

With that activity down, I called Abe and broke the news about my splurge. Buoyed up by his affirmative response, I cheerfully made my way here:

I killed the next couple hours cozy in a comfy chair, drinking a giant cup of hot cocoa and reading How to Teach Beginners (a book on teaching piano using the Suzuki method), one student’s music theory book, and the novel, Suite Francaise. Life felt pretty good.

Then I decided it would be prudent to eat lunch. Just across the street was Ceders (http://eatcedars.com/index.php), a great little Mediterranean restaurant with knock-out lentil soup. Yum!

By that point, it was almost time to teach piano. I looooooove teaching piano, so this felt like another treat. By the time Abe picked me up at the end of the day, I had passed the time going from one pleasant activity to the next.

It really had been a great day, but for some inexplicable reason, I was a grump the whole way home. Maybe it’s because I’m actually 2 years old and need a nap in order to maintain a semblance of civility during any given 24 hour period. Or maybe it’s because I ate my dinner, a sandwich from Jimmy Johns, in the car. By the time I was done, my hair was full of crumbs, my coat smelled like sandwiches, and I was dying for a clean restroom. In any case, I arrived home irritable and full of complaints.

I had a meltdown about how messy the car was. Abe cleaned the car. We got to the hall and I had a meltdown about how messy the hall was. Abe cleaned the hall. On my way to the bathroom I had a meltdown about how messy the bedroom with the baby stuff is. Abe cleaned the bedroom. He then cheerfully announced that my Martha Stewart magazine had arrived and that he was sure that would help make me feel happy. At that point, I had a meltdown about all of my meltdowns.

I don’t recall being this crazy before I was pregnant, but maybe I was and just never knew it. My last hope is that after Lydia comes (and I’m praying she comes SOON), I will somehow morph into a calm and wonderful person who never ever does or says anything irrational. I had the benefit of being raised by a mom who was always–always–loving, kind, and rational. Hopefully she’ll agree to live with me so that my poor children can have the same experience.

4 comments:

1. UnknownFebruary 10, 2011 at 8:08 AMok Lily, next time this happens, you’re coming to my house. Deal? I hate to think of you out there in the cold! Although Borders probably really is the best place to spend any free time…Reply
2. AshleyFebruary 10, 2011 at 8:08 AMOh, honey! Meltdowns makes for a rough, rough day–especially multiple meltdowns, ugh. I’m so sorry!Reply
3. Barbie MadsenFebruary 10, 2011 at 3:26 PMummm.. call me next time!! I am always up for a lunch date and I love Borders! And don’t worry about being irrational, you have a right to be.Reply
4. LilyFebruary 15, 2011 at 2:27 AMAshley, I live for and thrive on sympathy. Thanks for yours! Betsy and Barbie, I’ll be in Hyde Park again this Wednesday if either of you want to do lunch. =)Reply

This is what I got for calling Abe at work on Friday and complaining in graphic detail about how miserable my pregnant body feels.

I guess it’s not that bad after all. I love you, Abe!

Agghhhhh! I am so. freaked.out. Last night it thundersnowed (thundered, lighteninged, and snowed all at once), and this morning there were about three bajillion feet of snow covering the city of Chicago. People abandoned their cars to the elements and left them sitting in the middle of major thoroughfares (re: Lake Shore Drive!!).It feels like, as one friend wrote on her Facebook post, “the end of days.”

But that’s not what’s freaking me out. Snowstorm of epic proportions = people can’t make it to work = Abe’s job just got a whole lot harder. He was up almost all night fielding phone calls and making last minute schedule adjustments, and today things got even worse. At one of his client accounts, every single officer called off because of the weather. That means that Abe just left to drive to that account (which is one hour away in good weather and good traffic) to work an all night shift because no one else could do it. I am normally paranoid about his driving anyway, but right now I am on the verge of a full blown panic attack. The thought of him driving that distance on these roads makes me feel ill.

To make matters worse, he did not realize he would have to go in until a couple hours ago, at which point I realized I needed to run to the store. On my way to the store, I had the opportunity to acquaint myself with the dismal state of our snowy streets and thus returned home in a state of high anxiety.

I was determined that Abe get on the roads as soon as possible because I did not want him speeding in this weather. As soon as I entered the door, I rushed to the kitchen and began ripping packages apart and scooping substandard foods onto plates and into the microwave. Meanwhile, Abe wandered into the kitchen carrying a book he’d discovered in my absence.

“Listen to this!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I found this wonderful book on the intersection between science and the gospel, and this passage does such a great job explaining evolution.” I stared at him, mouth slightly agape, as he read me a long passage from the book. He seemed completely oblivious to the obvious need for haste. I had, I silently reflected, called home twice to remind him to be ready to get on the roads by the time I got back. As soon as the microwave beeped, I switched plates and tried to be patient while noting that he had yet to put on his tie, and that one pant leg was securely tucked into his sock.

When the second plate was done, I rushed the food to the table and plopped down. Abe reluctantly shut his book, and I said grace quickly, making sure to include a plea for Abe’s safe and slow driving in the prayer. As soon as we started dinner, Abe immediately began speculating about the relationship between meta-cognition and the breath of life. I shoveled my food in as fast as possible, hoping against hope that Abe would get the message and start eating already, but my good example was totally wasted. Occasionally, he would take an absent minded bite of our substandard fare, but he was way more intent on figuring out the relationship between apes, God and death than eating his dinner.

By that point I was practically in despair. “Do you need snacks for tonight?” I interrupted brusquely, clearing my plate to the sink.

“Snacks?” Abe asked vacantly. “Oh, um, yes, snacks would be great.”

I threw some snacks into a bag, set it down next to Abe, and looked pointedly at the clock. “You need to go. Now.” I said, ruthlessly. “I don’t want you to die on this commute because you were running late and speeding on those roads.”

Abe nodded compliantly and continued his verbal speculations as he put on his tie and straightened out his sock situation. “Okay!” he said cheerfully as he leaned down to kiss me. “I’m going now–and I’ll be very safe, I promise.”

“Good,” I replied. “You’re allowed to keep thinking about evolution, but only if you promise to pay attention to the roads, too.”

He nodded good humoredly and promised again to be safe.

But I am not convinced. Somewhere out there, my husband is pondering the mysteries of the universe while driving on snowy, icy roads. I know he’s thinking about dinosaur bones instead of focusing on how to keep his own bones intact, and that scares me.

So please say a prayer for my sweet, spacey husband tonight. And if you feel so inclined, feel free to throw in a line about his paranoid, anxiety-ridden wife, too.

Poor residents of Illinois. First the tax apocalypse, then the snowcapolypse.  On top of our state woes,  our home experienced a cookie-capolypse last night. My mom and our friend, Jan, get together every year and bake TONS of valentine day cookies to ship to their friends and children. Due to this beautiful tradition, for the past ten years I have always received a box of tasty, pink valentine cookies in February. Even though my mom is gone on her mission this year, Jan and I got together to keep the tradition going.

Cookie-capolypse!

Jan and I are hard at work shaping and cutting the hearts. This is the first year that not a single cookie broke!

I have spent the morning hiding at the other end of the house, trying to avoid the cookies. At some point, I will have to face up to the task of packaging them to give away, and I am terrified that I will eat them all in the process. So I have decided to–once again–use blogging as a means of putting off items on my to-do list.

After Abe’s birthday on Friday, we spent the entire weekend in a birthing class learning how to do Lamaze, becoming educated on the joys of epidurals, and, best of all, learning about how husbands can help their wives through labor. The instructor was awesome. A nurse with 26 years of experience, she made all of the hubbies in the room practice massaging their wives and doing all different kinds of pressure-relieving holds to relieve pain. She then repeatedly encouraged the men to practice the massage techniques often, and to make sure their wives are always comfortable.

I married an over-achieving perfectionist, and Abe made that glaringly apparent yesterday by insisting on giving me a massage after working a fifteen hour day. Yay, husband! During the class itself, Abe sat in the front, took copious notes, and asked so many questions that by the end of the weekend, he and the instructor were on a very friendly first name basis. At one point I glanced over and caught him copying this down  into his notebook:

P – Powerful/purposeful
A – Anticipated
I – Intermittent
N – Normal.

Right. I smiled and nodded while the instructor soothingly talked about how pain is healthy and natural, but I didn’t buy it. I have met exactly one person who told me that not only did she not mind giving birth, but that she loved it. After three children, she said her births were some of the greatest experiences of her life. She wasn’t just talking about the meet-your-child part, either. This woman was referring to LABOR. Suspicious, I asked her if she had had natural births.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “I had an epidural with all three.”

In my book, this type of advertisement trumps mnemonic devices any day. Bring on those beautiful drugs!! Except…Abe has a fear of needles, and this could prove problematic. He loved watching the natural birth videos, but he had to leave the room during the epidural birth video. It made him queasy and lightheaded, and ever since that experience he has been ever so gently talking up a natural birth.

This morning at breakfast (a time when he’s normally so tired he can barely put single syllable words together) he casually mentioned that he talked to his mom yesterday and discovered that natural births aren’t so bad. In fact, the only part of Abe’s birth that was unbearably painful to her was when the doctor stitched up a tear sans anesthetics. Abe then proceeded to tell me that he’d support me either way, but if I get an epidural he’d probably be holding my hand more for his own sake than mine. Oh, dear.

So it turns out the choice isn’t super easy after all. A) Experience a blissful ride in the “Cadillac of pain relief” and watch my husband pass out in the process or B) Stick it out naturally with the support of a fully-present partner. Hmm….

To make matters more complicated, my heart stopped when the instructor introduced us to the wonderful world of back labor. Back labor is when, as the instructor put it, “Baby didn’t get the memo to turn her head to the floor,” and therefore the hard skull of the baby is rubbing directly on the mother’s tailbone. This is, the instructor slowly explained, a very painful process for the mother.

My heart dropped. Back labor happens to women whose babies “didn’t get the memo.” Abe and I are two of the spaciest people I know. The only way I made it through school was making responsible friends who could tell me where to be and when after I’d lost my seventh copy of the syllabus. Abe has hilarious stories about forgetting about finals and walking around in his own little world, oblivious to everything around him. The chances of us producing a baby who actually “gets the memo” are approximately zero. I have confidence our daughter will be precious, beautiful, talented, and sweet, but I don’t expect her to be on top getting the memo. That appears to be a genetic impossibility. And so I prepare for back labor.

On that happy note, let me leave you with a wonderful chili recipe. I made it last night for the cookie-capolypse with Jan, and the chili turned out terrifically. I got the recipe from this month’s issue of Bon Appetite (and if you know how to do one of those accent thingys in blogger, let me know!): http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2011/02/black_bean_chili_with_butternut_squash

And since my chili came out monochromatic in color, here’s their picture:

Happy eating!