Category: Uncategorized

This is our overachieving, type-A lily. She’s trying to make up for the state of sloth that characterizes all of the other lilies (and Lily) in the house.

Ashley KFebruary 19, 2011 at 4:17 PM

You definitely don’t look pregnant with twins to me! How come your post says 39 weeks, but your little floating baby widget says 37?Reply

LilyFebruary 19, 2011 at 9:50 PM

OOPS!! Talk about seriously wishful thinking. I’m 37 weeks, but in my head I’m absolutely sure I’m 39. Gotta change that!Reply

Susie K.February 22, 2011 at 3:30 PM

You look beautiful Lily! I am so excited for you and your new addition … it will change your life in so many wonderful ways. I can’t believe I am only 6 months away from my first one actually leaving the nest. It goes way too fast!!! Enjoy every moment!

Your other cousin Susie:)Reply

LilyFebruary 23, 2011 at 12:01 PM

Thanks, Susie! I know–time really flies. I remember when you and Mark came over to our house after you got engaged. I can’t believe how fast everything goes!!Reply

This is Abe again.  I felt a strange itch to blog again.  Lily and I just got back from a “caring for newborns” class.  It was very insightful for me.  I think most of it was review for Lily.  She has had a lot more time than me to read books about baby care.  But for me, a lot of this stuff was new!  I learned how to change a diaper, how to burp a baby, how to bathe a baby and even how to put a shirt on a baby.  Looks like I’m ready to be a dad!!!………..well, at least I have a few more logistics figured out.  The truth is, though, that I am still very intimidated by the task at hand.  There is so much that goes into being a parent, and I feel sometimes like I barely get by as it is.   Still, I know for sure that God will help us raise little Lydia in the way He wants us to.  I am so happy that Lily has had so much time to read and think about how best to raise our baby.  It really is a blessing that she can be so informed since I am so often tied up at work. I’ve also been distracted because I’ve spent a lot of time recently deciding about whether or not to follow-through on my plans to go to grad-school.  I’ve already taken the GRE and the decision to go into academia is a monumental shift from corporate America.  So between brooding about that, working excessive hours and just trying to stay on top of life in general, I’ve been swamped!!  By the way, I did decide that I am going to stick with corporate America.  The decision process was long and labored, but it feels good to have made a decision, and I feel good about what I decided.  I hope now I can turn my attention to something far more important which is pondering what kind of father I want to be.  Lily has so many wonderful thoughts and ideas for raising Lydia.  It’s about time I start crystallizing some of my parenting philosophies so that she and I can have a truly meaningful exchange about how to parent.  I am excited to parent with her!!  She is going to be such a good mom.  It’s already clear how much she loves Lydia and how much she wants for her.  I already know that Lily will make any sacrifice required to bless her daughter and I am so grateful that Lydia has the mother she does. 

I got to be honest though, responsibility aside, I am just beside myself with how much fun I think having a baby will be.  I intend to just have a blast .  It is going to lots of laughs, priceless photos, hilarious stories and just cuteness all around.  It will be just a complete blast.  I think the fun I anticipate will be a great counterbalance to the great responsibility I feel.  It will be challenging sure, but even more I’m going into it expecting lots and lots of joy. 

I don’t know what else to report.  Lily is getting close to the due date.  She is in a lot of pain….a lot of pain and I do what I can to help soothe her. Despite her discomfort, she still goes out of her way to do sweet things for me. She made me filet mignon on Valentines day and I felt so loved. The steak was ammmaazing. I even had leftovers two days later that were equally satisfying.  That happened to be a really hard day for me, but I just kept going through my day saying, “How can I complain? I had filet mignon for breakfast.”  It’s no joke, Lily is just the best wife ever.

I had something special all planned out for her over the weekend, and to make a long story short, my special surprise for her just fell through.  It stinks feeling like you want to show your love to the most meaningful person in your life, and then having those plans collapse.  We do, however, have a long weekend.  Lily was so understanding about the plans not turning out and it made me realize that simple and sweet time together is what she wants more than anything anyway.  Honestly, it’s my favorite thing too.  No frills. No fancy plans.  No expectations.  Just a quiet day or two to kick around with my favorite pal and to just be together for the first time in…….well, I’m not sure when the last free time was.

Lily gets embarrassed when I go on about how wonderful she is………..so I’ll just end by saying this marriage continues to be the best thing that ever happened to me.  Sometimes I get glimpses on just how weak and flawed I really am and I just feel grateful to live with someone who truly reciprocates my love.  I still have a lot of holes, but she loves me so I count myself as blessed.

So after getting my morning Valentine’s Day panic over with, I napped for a couple hours. When I woke up, the sun was shining and the beautiful weather called me on a long walk. I ended up walking around Evanston for five hours and then came home and cooked for two more hours. I think that’s why I’m up and typing at 3am; I woke up at 1:45 in so much back pain that it was impossible to fall back asleep. I figured I could lie there drooling onto Abe’s sweatshirt for a couple more hours, or I could get up and blog.

My walk was lovely. First I went to the lake and saw three stunning cardinals; two were vibrant, red males and one was a distinctly fat female. I wondered if she was pregnant like me. Then I made my way to the library and checked out three very exciting books: The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (for my Hyde Park book club, even though I know I won’t make the March meeting), Planet Home: conscious choices for CLEANING and GREENING the world you care about most, and Superbaby: 12 ways to give your child a head start in the first 3 years.  If you read last night’s musings, you will understand why Abe was terrified to see that last choice in the house.

After the library, I made my way across the street to Whole Foods. After failed attempts to go vegan and then vegetarian, Abe and I are now happy flexitarians. Basically, a flexitarian is an undisciplined foodie who knows that a plant based diet is best but still occasionally indulges in the guilty pleasure of eating happy animals who were well acquainted with the concept of grass. Okay, okay, I admit–sometimes on a meat night I buy those rotisserie chickens from Jewel–but their little gimpy wings never fail to induce prayers for forgiveness and firm resolutions to opt, once and for all, out of the system. After all those prayers, I still find myself drooling when I pass a KFC… Also, if someone were to analyze my diet, it would probably center around a wonderful little chemical compound called glucose. But sugar is plant based, right?

Anyway, the point is, I don’t prepare meat very often, and I can not remember the last time I ate–much less prepared–red meat. But when I perused potential Valentine’s Day dinners, a high number featured filet mignon, and I found myself becoming alarmingly attracted to the pictures of those juicy cuts of beef. So I resolved to overcome my fear of red meat, and when I walked into Whole Foods, I made a beeline to the meat counter before I could lose my resolve. My heart did a slight flip flop when I saw the price of filet mignon, but I already had a recipe, so I tried to sound confident when I asked the butcher to give me 16 oz of the stuff.

I spent the next couple hours trying to forget the imminent pre-dinner face off between me and the meat. This amazing recipe for asparagus soup was a wonderful distraction. It’s flavored with basil and garnished with goat cheese/basil balls. So yummy! And the green color was a delight to behold:

Isn’t that pretty?

Goat cheese and basil balls. They melt in the soup and turn into white and green streaks of salty, tangy goodness.

Yes, that is a bowl of popcorn on the table. We were too full to make a huge dent on it at dinner, but knowing that a full bowl of chocolate caramel popcorn existed in my house gave me a little extra impetus to get out of bed and blog.

Janelle BargarFebruary 16, 2011 at 7:24 AM

Lily – I have to say I love reading your blog and I do hope you continue when Lydia arrives. I am always looking for new ways to make vegetables into soup. I am going to try this recipe in the next few weeks!Reply

LilyFebruary 16, 2011 at 8:38 PM

Thanks, Janelle! I loved reading your fb note the other day–your hubby sounds adorable!Reply

Yesterday I had a hard time getting out of bed. So instead of trying, I gave in and quietly narrated my physical woes to the headboard in song. (Remember that scene in The Lion King when Zazu, the parrot, warbles, “Nobody knows the trouble I’m in, nobody knows my sorrow…”? That was the inspiration for my very own song of sorrow.)

Abe, who was studying scriptures on the other side of the room, promptly came over and applied some of the techniques we learned from The Happiest Baby on the Block DVD. In the video, Dr. Karp recommends that parents turn on a “calming reflex” in their fussy babies by swaddling them, swinging them, turning the on their side, shhh’ing them, and giving them a pacifier to suck on. When Abe’s loud ssshhing noises failed (Dr. Karp recommends sshhing “with vigor”), a mischievous grin appeared on his face.

He ripped off all the covers and proceeded to do this:

Yep, I got swaddled. And you know what? It totally worked! With all of  my movement constricted, I found myself staring placidly at the ceiling in a state of contented stupor. Abe was very pleased with himself.

On another note, happy Valentine’s day! I woke up this morning in a panic because I had planned absolutely nothing for this day. I knew Valentine’s day was coming, but I have mentally equated it to a midterm paper that I’m putting off. But this morning, there was no more getting around it. Valentine’s day was here, and something had to be done about it.

Like any good procrastinator, I switched into emergency mode as soon as I realized that the deadline had arrived. I went to the kitchen and got to work.

I cut some hearts into toast and fried an egg in each. As you can see, one heart looks like it needs an angioplasty.

I then made a bunch of heart sandwiches for Abe’s lunch. Some of them are peanut butter and cherry jam, and others are cucumber and trout pate.With breakfast and lunch now taken care of, I can go back to procrastinating for a couple hours until dinner approaches. Up until now, the heart shaped cookie cutters have saved my life. I wonder how far I can take this…heart shaped salmon, anyone?

5 comments:

1. JulieFebruary 14, 2011 at 8:09 AMLily you always make me laugh! Happy Valentines day.Reply
2. CandaceFebruary 14, 2011 at 9:16 PMYou are the cutestReply
3. LilyFebruary 15, 2011 at 2:23 AMWhy, thank you ladies! Happy Valentine’s day to you, too! xoxoReply
4. ElissaFebruary 15, 2011 at 12:27 PMHahaha. This is hilarious. The picture of you swaddled just made my day.Reply
5. LilyFebruary 15, 2011 at 2:26 PMAnytime, Elissa! =)Reply

Yesterday Abe found out how much our health insurance will go up once Lydia arrives. Already ambivalent about the whole concept of health care, this news pushed him slightly over the edge. This morning, as Abe absentmindedly ate his oatmeal, I was treated to a cost/benefit analysis of compulsory health care (with an emphasis on cost).

It’s not that he’s against health care, but he sincerely struggles when he thinks that he’s paying for the unhealthy habits of others.

“If everyone just ate right and exercised,” he said, absent-mindedly stirring around his oatmeal, “these premiums wouldn’t be so out of control.” I sipped my hot cocoa silently and thanked my lucky stars that Abe wasn’t around yesterday to witness my unhealthy habits (the Toblerone hidden in the cabinet, the leftover icing snitched from the fridge, the episode of Iron Chef America which replaced my yoga session….)

Not that Abe is easily located on the political spectrum. If I had to label him, I would say he’s a fiscally conservative environmentalist who flirts with libertarianism every time he calculates how much he pays in taxes. But even when he is repulsed by certain concepts (for example, having to pay for the consequences of other people’s unhealthy habits), he still tries to see things from another person’s point of view. That means breakfast pontifications are constantly qualified with attempts to articulate reasons why his speculations might be wrong, and the whole process of consuming a simple bowl of oatmeal ends up taking a looooooooong time.

I silently monitored the ratio of bites taken to sentences spoken, and things weren’t looking too great. Abe was just getting started, and already it was time for him to go. Thus far, I had mainly provided a listening ear, but when I saw the time and realized that if Abe didn’t hurry up he would be rushing on the road, I took matters into my own hands.

“Well, honey,” I said, smoothly, “it’s a good thing you’ve hedged your bets on the unhealthy habits of the American public. We’ll just hope that whatever we lose in unnecessary health insurance gets made up by the insulin stocks.”

I was referring to the stock Abe bought after hearing over the radio that in a matter of mere decades, one third of the American population will suffer from diabetes. “This is really tragic,” Abe muttered, as he came home and immediately began researching the top producers of diabetes products. “Can you imagine the magnitude of this health crisis?” he asked, while simultaneously processing an e-trade that invested our fate with the makers of insulin.

He still feels some guilt over betting on the bad habits of the public, and my comment produced the immediate desired result. More oatmeal, less critique of the system. Finally, as he stood up, he announced with a grin that we should start an insurance company for healthy people. “We’d monitor their groceries, test their urine for traces of caffeine and alcohol, make them keep exercise logs…and make a ton of money!” he said, cheered up by the thought.

“Mmmhhmm…” I replied, reflecting again on my hidden Toblerone, but rejoicing that he had finished his oatmeal and no longer had to worry about rushing on the roads to work.

Now that Abe is driving safely to work, I guess it’s time for me to make up my missed yoga session from yesterday. But if I end up procrastinating more and eating that Toblerone instead, at least my bets are hedged.

Tonight I’ve been feeling Lydia hiccup, move, and kick, and she is already so cute. I love her little hiccups, and it’s rather amazing to watch my stomach move. I feel overwhelmed with a desire to be a good mom. She totally lucked out in the dad department, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like to grow up with a dad like Abe.

My own dad passed away six years ago, and in the time between his death and now, my feelings towards him have become increasingly less complex. I used to feel such a mixture of emotions when I thought about him, but now I mainly feel love and gratitude; I can see he loved me and did the very best he could, and that’s all that matters to me now.

But I can not fathom what it would be like to grow up with the type of dad I know Abe will be. I’m sure it would be wonderful. The other day Abe called home to see how I was doing, and I told him I was about to plunge into yet another child development book. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss any opportunities to help Lydia develop all of her neural pathways and maximize the firing potential of her little neurons. Abe grew silent on the other end of the line, and I asked him what he was thinking.

“She doesn’t have to be perfect,” he finally said. “I mean, we’ll still love her even if her neurons aren’t perfectly developed, right? I think it’s more important to make sure she’s happy than developing that final brain groove that would get her first place in some school math competition.”

I was taken aback. Up to that point, I’d already rehearsed in my head the conversation I’d have with Lydia when the time came for her to choose between Curtis and Juliard; I’d already envisioned her playing her first Suzuki recital at age 4 and her first public concerto at 8–or 10, if she seemed to be lagging. Scary, right? Tiger mom in training. But Abe is not quite on board. In fact, every time I slip in a tiger mom reference, he states that he is outright scared by Amy Chua.

And, to tell the truth, I am so glad he is. When I take a step back, I realize the most important thing is to make sure Lydia experiences gobs of unconditional love. I want Lydia to know God loves her and to understand how to access His love and guidance always. I also want her to inherit her dad’s integrity and virtue. These traits trump any skills she may pick up along the way. I know what matters most in my family’s value system, and outward achievements pale in relation to the development of character.

And…yet. Achievement and the development of beautiful character can (and often) go together. However, when I try to figure out what my role is in helping my daughter develop, I get confused. Should I push her to be her best, or should I just let her develop naturally (whatever that means) and allow her the freedom to choose academic or musical mediocrity? That’s not a rhetorical question to me–it stems, rather, from a place of genuine confusion.

I have always idolized my mother, whose life explains, in many ways, my ambivalent approach to these questions. My mom was a corporate lawyer with a ridiculous number of degrees from Stanford and the University of Chicago. These degrees are especially ironic because I can think of no one I know who is, or at least used to be, as explicitly anti-intellectual as my mother. Although she has softened in recent years, I remember her despising overt intellectualism and completely rejecting the value of her degrees. Although she once majored in English during her undergrad years at Stanford, I never once witnessed her read a non-religious book. (She tells me she has read some in recent years, but I have yet to see this.) She was infinitely more proud of my decision to serve a mission than she was of my decision to go to grad school at Harvard. In fact, I didn’t even bother to attend graduation because I knew she wouldn’t be there. (In fairness, if I had really cared, I’m sure she would have come.) Her driving passions are God and family, and I remember her telling me from a young age that nothing–nothing– this world could offer could compete with motherhood. If my dad had acquiesced, she would have quit her job in a heartbeat and stayed at home with us full-time. I knew that her priority was her children, and I was happy to occupy that spot of importance in her life.

I feel absolutely no ambivalence towards staying at home; it’s what I have always wanted, and already I feel like I am living out a dream.But what about my daughter? I hope someday she will want to be a mother too, and I hope that she will find the same satisfaction staying home with her children that I anticipate finding with mine. But I also want her to feel fulfilled as a person, to develop her talents to the point of no regret, to achieve whatever she needs to achieve in order to better know herself and her own potential. Maybe it’s partly because I am entering motherhood at an older age (at least in the Mormon world), but I feel very satisfied as a person; I don’t need any more degrees or professional advancement to feel self actualized, and that makes the whole decision to stay at home soooo much easier. I want Lydia to feel similarly satisfied with her life so that when the time comes for her to decide how to best express her talents, she will actually know what her talents are. At the end of the day, I don’t want to push, but I do want help give Lydia wings. When it comes to raising my child, I don’t like the idea of making tons of mistakes.

Abe says it’s a good thing we don’t have an inflexible formula about child-rearing, and that we will raise Lydia one day, one case, one prayer at a time. He also says it’s actually a good thing we have no idea what we’re doing because then we can lean more completely on God to lead us. I take comfort in these thoughts, and I hope that Lydia will feel our unconditional love–even when we make mistakes.

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!