stomachache

Not too much to write about today, except for the fact that I love Fall. Last night I dreamed I was in a pumpkin patch picking pie pumpkins. I woke up craving pumpkin pie, but instead I opened the fridge and proceeded to consume way too much leftover pear-apple crisp. I am now in bed with a stomachache. It really hurts, especially when all I really wanted in the first place was a piece of gastrointestinally-friendly pumpkin pie.

But my love for Fall remains intact. So far this season that love has manifested itself primarily in my stomach. For example, I have eaten over 40 apples since the weather changed. I have baked one pie and one crisp, and every Saturday at the Farmer's Market I eye the Concord Grapes and contemplate making a grape pie.

Have you ever made a grape pie? During another employment-free period of my life, I found myself filling an entire week with grape pies. The thing about a grape pie is you have to peel and seed every single grape that goes into the pie. Let me repeat: you peel and seed EVERY grape that goes into the pie. It is a project reserved almost exclusively for the unemployed. But the end result is so yummy. In my recipe book, The Pie and Pastry Bible, the author writes that she knew one of her ex-husband's students had a crush on him when the student baked him a grape pie.

My days to bake a grape pie might be limited, though, since I am now more earnestly looking for a job. (And by earnestly, I mean I applied to a grand total of TWO jobs this morning.) I had the chance to do a little nannying for a great family earlier this week, and the experience reminded me how good it feels to work doing something you feel good at.

I never felt good at being a teacher, although with more experience perhaps I might eventually feel like I could reach the point of competence. But since that point would take several years and I only have a couple months to work with, I figure might as well get better at something more realistic. Here's hoping someone in Hyde Park wants a pregnant, part-time nanny to come over and bake their kids some pie.

wave

Yesterday occasioned my first major meltdown in months. Poor Abe got home after a long day, and then he stayed up past midnight while I sobbed and snorted out my tale of woe. These days I'm perpetually out of breath anyway, but crying fits of hysteria translate into sentences that take a full five minutes to complete. I'm sure Abe had no idea what I was talking about until thirty minutes into the conversation, but he just held me and listened as if what I was saying made perfect sense.

Here's why I was crying: My mom's mission call came yesterday. She got assigned to the mission of her dreams, the Church and Family History Library Mission at church headquarters, for 18 months. She leaves on October 18, which seems so soon. While I am happy for my mother and completely support her decision to do something she has always wanted to do, I am terrified to bring a child into the world without her help. Just the thought of it fills me with something that feels a lot like panic.

Before I type myself into meltdown #2, let me share a few thoughts I had in the temple that have helped me through this present situation. I went to the temple feeling a little grumpy at God for inspiring my mom to go on a mission at such an inconvenient time, but while I was there I found myself looking at a picture of Mary and Joseph on their way to Bethlehem. Mary is pregnant and sitting on a donkey, and she's looking down at her belly while Joseph leads the donkey in the direction of Bethlehem.

It occurred to me that Mary must have contemplated the fact that none of her family would be around when her baby was born. She had to give birth in a stable (or cave) with only the support of Joseph, her brand new husband. I don't even know if she had the help of a midwife, although I hope someone in Bethlehem was compassionate enough to go find her one. She probably missed the support of her family terribly, but God helped her through her ordeal. She ended up having to raise her baby for the first few years in the entirely foreign land of Egypt--just imagine the lack of a support network there--but again, the Lord was with her. She trusted in him, and He did not let her down.

I do not wish to compare myself to Mary in any other way but this: I believe that if I trust in God, just as she trusted in God, He will supply my needs. He will be my support, a more than sufficient stand-in while my mother is gone.

Sometimes I feel a lot like Peter walking on the water towards Christ. When my eyes and thoughts are centered on God, I feel full of faith that He will get me through. But then, sometimes (as in last night), I shift focus to the raging water around me--in this case, the thought of having my first child without the immediate advice and help of my mom--and I feel my faith falter.

Abe told me last night that I'm stronger than I think I am, and that everything will be okay. I do think that if I could just learn to keep my thoughts always focused on God, then perhaps I really could be stronger than I currently am. In the meantime, though, I'm going to have to give Him something to work with, so I've decided to boost my confidence by researching babies. I checked out my first book on the topic from the library this morning. It touts itself as "the ultimate guide to understanding, caring for, and raising your new baby...trusted by over 16 million parents around the world." I'm hoping it will help calm down these awful waves.

another sleepless night yields blog post #2

...I wonder how long the insomnia will continue?

Secretly, very secretly, I suspect I am lazy. Currently, I am 100% employment-free, and this fact only underscores my suspicions. Oh, I have lots of excuses and in emergency situations have been known to account for my time in semi-credible terms, but deep down, I know the truth. I love having nothing to do.

Under normal circumstances, this would be a source of tension in a marriage. Somehow, though, I lucked out. Not only was Abe completely supportive when I told him last spring that I needed to leave my job (it did help that I got paid through the summer--thank-you, Chicago Public Schools!) but he continues to be almost alarmingly angelic about the current situation.

On his own workday, he will often get up at 4:15 and return home approximately 12 hours later. (Sometimes, as on Monday, that number stretches up to 15 or 16.) He works hard. Really hard. And when he comes home, his work continues as I regale him with tales from the pregnancy front. My head hurts, my back went out, we're out of toilet paper (sorry, the baby's still sitting on my bladder) and oh, by the way, even though I napped three times I'm still exhausted so what do you think about ordering pizza tonight? And in return I get hugs, sympathy, and affirmative answers to all of my unreasonable requests. It is sick.

The other day we were in the car and I was moaning about how much I wanted Dairy Queen, and Abe turned to me and said, "You know, your life is really hard." I stopped moaning and eyed him cautiously. Was he finally going to call me out? I was almost wishing he would when he dashed my nascent hopes by saying--in all earnestness--"No, I mean, think about it. You are a die hard sweets fanatic and foodie who is desperately trying to go vegan. I never thought about it before, but your life is one continuously painful battleground!" He looked at me with admiration gleaming in his big eyes and said, "I just want you to know how much I love you."

Uhm. Really? I stay at home all day napping and eating while you go out and work twice as hard to pay back my school loans, and that's what you have to say to me?

That's when I decided I need to get a job. But here's the problem. I don't want a real job. (RE: first paragraph on laziness.) When my mom asked what jobs sound fun to me, here's the list I came up with: greeter at professional functions, grocery store cashier, mattress tester, organic farm hand, and--this one's slightly better--piano teacher. At the end of the day, all I really want is to become is a better wife than I currently am and, eventually, be a good stay-at-home mom who bakes awesome vegan cookies. But in the interim between now and when baby is born, I should probably do something more with my life than eat and sleep. Wow, that sounds intimidating. Maybe I should go take a nap.

real estate

I have always considered myself a pretty seasoned and skilled cuddler. My mother always told me that when I was a baby, I was only happy when someone was holding me and that I loved snuggling. I spent the rest of my childhood (and beyond) honing my cuddling skills, and I have to admit, I thought I was a pretty decent cuddler. That is, until I met Abe.

Abe is, quite possibly, the world champion of cuddling. Sometimes I will wake up to discover that I have been cuddled almost out of bed; a precarious couple of centimeters is all that stands between me and a vertiginous drop to the floor. Before my belly started to become a serious bump, it was a lot easier for me to turn over and snuggle my way back a more secure position on the bed. However, my ever-growing middle--and the back pain that accompanies it--prevents me from currently employing this counter strategy. So I need to get creative.

Take this past night, for example. I woke up at 3:45 am (oh, and did I mention pregnancy has turned me into an insomniac?), unable to breathe from congestion (another perk of pregnancy. Who knew?). After lying wide-eyed and breathless for several minutes, I heaved myself out of bed and dragged myself to the kitchen, where I self-doctored via the simultaneous consumption of apples, cookies, and an article about hazelnuts in Martha Stewart Living. Feeling slightly better about my life, I wandered back to bed.

It was then that I discovered Abe, who had already cuddled me to the edge of the bed prior to my departure, had sprawled all the way to the edge of my side of the bed. I had approximately 3 inches left open for my ample form. It was time to employ the only working instrument at my disposal--my butt. This part of my figure seems determined to steal thunder from my growing belly, and has recently expanded for no reason other than purely competitive purposes.

Although this fact has previously caused me many a moment of despair, last night I was grateful. As I scooched my way into bed, I used my butt to carve out just enough space to lie on my side. And then, I waited. Every time Abe so much as twitched a muscle, I used my butt to maneuver myself into newly-freed bed real estate. By the time twenty minutes had elapsed, I had stolen enough property to make a comfortable 360 degree turn. I did a couple rotisserie-chicken like moves to revel in my newly butt-created space, but the joy soon wore off when I realized I was still awake (it was now 5:20am) and more congested than ever.

I weighed my options. Give up my new territory for another trip to the kitchen, or lie there staring at the ceiling contemplating the geometric patterns of moonlight on our ceiling. Glumly, I rolled out of bed a second time and made my way to the  kitchen.

It is now almost 7am. I am exhausted and congested, but awake. I have occupied myself with one bowl of barley-kale soup, five Martha Stewart articles, two bathroom trips, and one tooth-flossing session (to ward off pregnancy induced teeth rot). But the night's accomplishment that makes me most proud? I type this entry from the very center of the bed. Thank-you, butt, from the bottom of my thankful belly.