New Blog http://motheringminutiae.wordpress.com/

For lots of reasons, Running Rhinoceros isn’t where I want to blog anymore. I was a different woman when I started Rhinoceros. I like to think I’ve evolved and gotten better, but who knows? I’m trying.

It’s taken me a little bit, but because my doc appointment for the HPV thingy is tomorrow, I am now dwelling on that. I looked a bunch of stuff up on the web, so I’m feeling a little less freaked out. (Because if it’s on the web, then it must be true . . . )

I’m in the mood to read Moby Dick again. I think the idea of obsessing over something to the point of being unhealthy is kind of resonating with me. It’ll always be a modern story for that reason alone.

I stayed up all night long watching the third Lord of the Rings movie, The Return of the King. It’s interesting to me that I always know how it’s going to turn out–just like Moby Dick–but the telling never gets old. I know Frodo and Sam are going to make it, but I stress about how each and every time. How will they survive Gollum? How will they cross Mordor? I’m always emotionally spent-in a good way-at the end. I remember one weekend, Ryan & I watched all three movies, and I was exhausted at the end.

This is also the only movie-based-on-a-book wherein I have not read the books. I tried in junior high; I had a friend who carried all three books with her every day, and they were annotated. Her annotations. I don’t think I had the attention span to track and follow this whole new world, but visually, I marvel at it all; a shout out to Peter Jackson & Co. for this vision.

My mom has a pretty good sense of humor. On occasion, when we were growing up, and probably just about over listening to “mom! mom! mom!” all day, she would look at us (with an arched eyebrow, if I recall correctly) and tell us, “You may call me Mrs. Carlson.”

Evidently, she’s told people at work that she’ll be a grandmother soon, and someone asked her what she would have the baby call her. (I didn’t know there were real options besides Grandma . . . so I didn’t know if that question was about the relationship of the child to her, or what . . . evidently Nana is quite popular.) My mom just looked at the woman and said, “Mrs. Carlson, of course.”

Yesterday was a tough day, in part because I was anxious about today’s amniocentesis. I just thought the needle was going to be ginormous, and I was prepared for more pain, but I was wrong on all counts. No pain at all, and the needle was about the size of a standard blood donation needle, maybe a little smaller.

But I was anxious. Between the ultrasound and the amnio, I was doing calm breathing exercises, which is kind of funny because I have a tattoo and I’m pierced, but it was the amnio needle that had me worried. And, I don’t usually get needles in my internal organs.

The ultrasound was extraordinary. Baby has a skeleton now. Bones! Baby used to be a lima bean, just a blob with a heartbeat. I recognize the baby now. The heart is bigger, there are kidneys and a bladder, a ribcage, the appropriate number of arms and legs (bones included), a skull, skin around the skull . . . and baby looks busy. Very active. If the womb were bigger, it would have been swimming laps and doing those neat flip turns.

I think I would have been a little weepier if I wasn’t anxious about the amnio. I could see every tiny vertebrae. Each tiny rib.

I’m totally going backwards here.

The first part of my appointment was genetic counseling, which was very cool. Lotsa questions, even pictures of the chromosomes. Lotsa interesting information, and I thought the counselor was excellent. They clearly deal with a wide array of patient education levels.

The preliminary test results will be in on Monday, with the results of the three (I think) main chromosomes and confirmation of the gender. The full test results come back in about two weeks.

This gets more and more real.

I called and told my mother the gender, and I don’t remember the last time she sounded this happy. (I want to wait and tell my friends personally before posting the info on my blog. Not that I don’t appreciate my readership! All three of you are near and dear to me! But I’m banking on some of these people to help change diapers and keep me sane amid colic and god-knows-what-else, which seems a lot to ask of someone on the internet.)

I’ve been seeing this book around different bookstores. I’ve not read the description, but judging from the title and the cover photo, this guy is a self-professed jerk. He thinks he’s going to hell for stuff he’s done, but he’s hopeful there’s beer there.

Well, I’ve been thinking a bit about this today. I’m feeling weepy and mad and vindictive and then weepy again. (I gather this is hormone-related.)

I hope that if they do serve beer in hell, it’s both warm and bad. Like, Milwaukee’s Best kind of bad beer. And, room temperature warm. In hell, that’s gonna be pretty warm, I think. Either that, or I hope the only beverage available in hell is hot cocoa.

Went out to dinner tonight to celebrate a friend’s birthday. The food was really good, but the service was really lackluster. I wonder if sometimes they don’t get these big tables in and think that the tip is a sure thing, so they aren’t very attentive. And, I noticed that there were food runners that brought out and served the food and kept drinks topped off, soooooo . . . I’m not exactly sure why our waitress was too busy to do things like take our orders in a timely fashion, or ask about dessert, or bring us the check or even ring it up.

I’m distracted by a couple of things. On Monday, I was told to make an appointment to get an amniocentisis. I didn’t like the last specialist I saw, so I picked a new one. Free country, right? I can do that. On Monday, the new specialist called my ob to get my records, and today I got a call from both offices. The ob’s office wants to know why I’m not going to their specialist? WTF? Since when do I have to justify the selection of my doctor? Hey, if insurance pays for it, fax the effin’ records over, stat.

I think my ob is a fine doc, but the office staff is evil. Seriously, those chicks are B-I-T-C-H-E-S. I don’t expect everyone to roll out the welcome wagon, but I just don’t think it’s that hard to be polite. I understand that a lot of patients are probably kinda challenging, but for god’s sake, we’re all hormonal and most of us are probably freaking out a little.

I think it’s time to secure a new ob, too. I dread my appointments there because of her office staff.

Provided I can get the office to fax over my records, I am anxious about Friday morning’s amnio appointment. It’ll be the confirmation that everything is ok, or . . . not. The baby isn’t even born, but it’s already kind of hard to fathom the grief I’ll feel if the pregnancy is no longer viable.

Today is the last day I have to babysit the giant dog. I feel kind of guilty that I’m so relieved because he is fundamentally a good, sweet dog. He’s just so flippin’ big. I really should have taken a picture with something nearby to provide the proper scale. His head must be about the size of a basketball.

Not the single greatest day ever. Had a dr appt this afternoon; that went fine, in terms of the stowaway. Nice strong heartbeat so that’s good.

Some other test results came back that need to be followed up on, though, and between that and the on-going stress I feel about the father, I was kind of feeling shell-shocked when I left the doctor’s office. I think the father is my go-to stressor because he has a name and a face, whereas a lot of my other worries are undefinable.

I’ve noticed a large number of sandwich bags of Cheerios along my street. I imagine it’s all the stroller peeps.

Today is why I live in Chicago. It’s flippin’ beautiful. I ate dinner outside with some friends, and loved every minute of it. Earlier, I took the world’s best dog (Ruby) to the dog park. Unfortunately, the world’s best dog (Ruby) seems to have ADD. I’d throw the frisbee, but then she’d catch sight of another dog out of the corner of her eye and switch course. She’d go in for a drink of water, then see another tennis ball. Someone else would throw a ball for their dog, and Ruby would then herd the dog. I dunno. We’ll see what happens when school starts in the fall.

I also took the giant dog for a nice long walk separate from Ruby, then hung out with him for a while. I brushed him some more, and I think he liked it because he seemed to melt onto the floor. I can tell that he misses his person. I tried to play with him, perhaps a game of tug-of-war with a toy, but in retrospect, that wasn’t the best decision on my part because I’m absolutely confident that he’d win.

The past two or three years, I’ve developed a real interest in fashion. I think dressing, for many of us, is another art form. How we choose to adorn ourselves is like painting a canvas, but perhaps a greater expression of self. I know a lot of people don’t particularly care. That’s fine. It’s hardly the cure to cancer. But, it is interesting to me. I regularly troll fashion websites, but not a lot of blogs, until I really discovered The Sartorialist. http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/

I dig the site because he takes a lot of pictures of regular people and often includes explanations for what drew his eye to them. Sometimes, it’s obvious, but sometimes, he wants to make a point about textures, patterns, colors. It’s been deliciously educational, moreso than porn.

While I’ve always been a people-watcher, I’m now trolling for sartorial greatness. Unfortunately, I live too near Wrigley Field. Seriously: Sartorial Nightmare. I expect a guy on his way to watch the Cubs to dress in such a way as to support his team of choice, as well as accommodate all his gastronomical choices. So, shorts, a Cubs hat, a Cubs t-shirt or jersey, and some trainers isn’t particularly inspired, but it’s practical, especially when this nice weather we’re having evolves into the inevitable furnace o’ summer.

Most women on the other hand, well, I’m not sure what most of them are thinking. Thigh-high skirts and dresses with five-inch wedge heels? Really? And nowhere has the concept of skinny jeans been more abused than on Addison. Either the clothes don’t fit properly (behold the muffin-top) or they are wildly inappropriate. You’re trying too hard, girls. You’re going to a CUBS game; even the suburbanites know it’s baseball, a game. There’s probably a 99% chance that the fella you’ve got your eye on is going to be sloshed by the second inning. You could be wearing a gorilla suit and get lucky. Capeche? He’s not going to notice, or probably even remember. It’s a day when all’s you really need is a mere pulse coupled with willingness = score. If only everything were so easy . . .