Double X

Our little fetus decided to play at modesty today, and almost refused to disclose her gender. But, after much, much, much stomach prodding, the Cheerios stayed down (thankfully) and the little one gave up the fight and let us know she's a she!

Break out the pink.

A few of my goals for the remaining 20 weeks (ugh) of this pregnancy are:

1. To convince Eliza we're not naming the baby "George" or "Liza."

2. To decide on a name long before the baby's birth.

3. To definitely decide on a name before leaving the hospital.

4. To absolutely, positively decide on a name before 30 days after bringing "Female Williams" home from the hospital. [If I sound anal, it's because having to submit a formal name change for your 1-month old baby is really annoying. I guess sending "Female Williams" to face the kindergarten teasers would have been worse.]

5. To convince Mark that "Lily" is a GREAT name. Even if it does rhyme a tiny bit with Williams.

In utero rivalry

I committed a serious error when I posted this on my family's blog. Since (and before) then, I have been regularly bombarded with a barrage of somewhat goodnatured challenges and threats such as "Our baby's going to be bigger than yours" and "Our baby kicks more than yours" and "Our baby is going to beat yours up."

Actually the error came long before "The race is on" post. Unbeknownst to me, my gravest mistake occurred when I conceived a baby on the same day as my most competitive sister conceived her first baby. Krista is my most competitive sister, and probably the most competitive female I know. I've spent a lot of years shutting down many of her attempts to compete with me.

For those who don't know Krista, let me indulge you in an example. For family home evening, our parents occasionally treated us to ice cream cones from the ice cream counter at a nearby grocery store. Krista was a fast eater. Before we arrived home, she was often long done with her cone. As soon as the last lick of mint chocolate chip ice cream had been devoured, she'd pounce on me and say, "I'm a faster eater than you" and would likely demand payment for her genius in the form of a few licks of my cookies'n'cream cone.

The next time family home evening graced us with a trip to the ice cream counter, I would remember my "failure" from last time, and I'd devour my cone as quickly as possible, surely suffering from brain freeze and lack of enjoyment in the process. When the last bite was gone, I'd rush triumphantly to Krista to report my win, and there she'd be, carefully licking her cone, and savoring it in a very un-Krista-like way. She'd shake her head patronizingly at my empty napkin and say, "It's better to eat your ice cream slowly. I'm the going to be the last to finish of the whole family." Deflated, I would pout all the way home, without the benefit of a few victory licks from Krista's long-lasting cone. [Lest you think Krista actually won her own "slowest eater" contest, let me assure you that she didn't. Kim always held that title...how was Kim so patient? Krista didn't really care, though, as long as she beat me. Or Danielle.]

Now, babies aren't ice cream cones. But anyone that's ever been to a mother's group will know that comparison of children is inevitable! And when the babies are too young to do much that's brag-worthy, like cooing and gripping toys, mothers will still find grounds for competition on the basis of labor and delivery stories. [I am totally guilty of this...I admit it, I am irrationally proud of my labor stories. Because clearly, I had a lot to do with my body's involuntary responses.]

So, if someone can make a competition out of eating ice cream quickly (or slowly), that is NOT the best person to share a due date with. Or a delivery date. Or, at the very least, a common baby gender.

So, wish me luck. Tomorrow's my big ultrasound. In 12 hours, I'll know the extent of the competition. And since Krista's ultrasound was today (of course she was more than pleased to be first), and she's having a GIRL!, wish me luck. Cross your fingers for an XY Williams baby. Because then, maybe, Krista and I won't have to compare quite as much. That is, once I get over gloating how much faster my labor went than hers. And she gets over gloating how she gained 1/2 the weight I did. And then, maybe we'll go out to ice cream, for old time's sake. And then we'll see who wins.

Two years worth of Twinkies

Once every two or three years I get a craving for a Twinkie. I think it takes my brain a couple of years to forget how unappealing Twinkies actually taste. On the grocery store rack, they look so tantalizing. The description of “spongy gold cake” always sounds too good to be true. I mean, where else would I ever get something spongy and gold…other than any old yellow cake mix package? They glisten from their package (no doubt from loads of saturated fat that is trying to ooze out of the wrapper), and the little cowboy Twinkie mascot (or is it a banana in disguise?) beckons me to saddle one up in my shopping cart.

So, after a three year absence from the Hostess world, I yielded to my childhood (or pregnancy?) cravings, and grabbed a package of Twinkies in the store today. When I was little, Twinkies were the unattainable treat. Individually wrapped, name brand, processed food…these adjectives denoted contraband products at our house. At 79 cents a package, Twinkies were a luxury that we refused to save our change for. As I stepped up to the checkout counter with my Twinkies, I felt…grown up (to be affording Twinkies), and slightly naughty.

I had been feeling a little sorry for my big, pregnant body, and decided that a little greasing up of my arteries would be the perfect thing to lift my spirits. Unfortunately, splurging on the package of greasy Twinkies gave my wallet a little lift as well, as the unbelievable childhood price of 79 cents had sometime in the last 15 years met inflation, and rose to a ridiculous 1.19 plus tax. That’s sixty cents a Twinkie! But I had already crossed the Rubicon. Twinkie in hand, I pulled out my wallet, deliberately ignoring the nutrition facts on the back of the package that were slightly blurred from grease.

On my way out the door of the store, I ripped open the package, and broke off a chunk of that “spongy golden cake.” It was spongy and golden. I popped it in. It was also dry and greasy (how in the world do they manage that?). My taste buds recoiled in disapproval. I tried another bite to make sure it wasn’t just the edge. It wasn’t. There went 30 cents, and probably 30g of fat. The “creamy filling” was no less disappointing.

Now the big question was, should I keep eating it? I suddenly felt embarrassed to be holding a Twinkie package. I looked around to see if I recognized anyone that might tattle on my Twinkie affair. I heard quick footsteps behind me. I slowed to let the speed walker pass me, so I could continue deliberations about grease-binging in relative peace.

My stalker turned out to be a very, very, very friendly little redheaded college freshman who wanted to chat. We made small talk; all the while I was very aware of the half eaten Twinkie package I clutched in one hand, and my greasy fingers on the other. When we reached the end of the interminable sidewalk, and we were to part ways, she stuck out her hand for a shake. I stood, frozen, for a second. Should I just shake her hand boldly, and hope she didn’t notice the sticky greasy residue that would inevitably exchange hands? Stammering a little, I told her my fingers were dirty. She gave me a big smile (as if to say “I ate a Twinkie a few years ago, too. I know just what you mean.”) and squeezed my (now flabbier) upper arm, and flounced off. Once I was hidden away in my car, I quickly downed the second Twinkie without enjoying it. A little bit of the creamy filling got on the steering wheel.

I am writing this post in hopes of extending my regular 2-3 years of Twinkie abstinence to 2-3 decades. Twinkies constitute a serious violation of the “caloric waste” principle (If a food item is not good, don’t waste calories by disposing of it in your stomach; use the trashcan!) If you’re REALLY dying for the spongy golden cake with creamy filling, I’m pretty sure that making a golden cake mix in a jelly roll pan, and rolling it up with marshmallow crème, then dipping the finished product in a cup or two of butter will yield about the same results, for probably around the same price, and about the same amount of satisfaction. At least if you make your own, you can binge on them in the privacy of your own kitchen, and you’ll probably have a roll of paper towels around to mop up the grease before someone wants to shake your hand.

My own Project Runway

Today I decided to get motivated and do a project. My first thought for a good project was to take a nap. Then I realized I do that every day anyway, so I should probably pick a more challenging project. How about…folding all the laundry on the same day I wash it? Nah, too challenging. I need a project that would get something off my list of things to do. Last week I cleaned up my computer desktop with one eyeball glued to my igoogle homepage, hoping someone would post a blog entry. No one posted, so I was able to make some good progress and put all six “to do” desktop documents in a folder where I can look at them some other day. Someday when the planets align, I may venture to open one of these documents.

Half a century ago, when I had energy, I bought some “Diego” fabric to make Sage a pillowcase so she could hand down her “Dora” pillowcase to Eliza. Today a few Nick Jr. stars must have aligned, because I got out my sewing machine, dusted off 6 inches of dust, and got to work on the darn Diego pillowcase. It actually felt really good to get down with the domestic skills I last practiced over a year ago in Indiana. The pillowcase turned out so well that I knuckled down and cranked out two other sewing alterations that were also long overdue.

Now, if you don’t think completing three sewing jobs in one day is good enough to count for my aforementioned “project” goal, let me indulge you in the events accompanying my sewing stint. While looking for my misplaced Diego fabric, I discovered a water leak in our front closet. (We finally got our automatic sprinkler system powered up yesterday. Apparently, the "Lawn Genie" felt so underused and neglected that it decided to make up for it by refusing to stop watering at 4am, after the two hour shift was done, and instead cranked away until 9am, when I realized what was going on and cut the power.)

I cleaned out the waterlogged closet (which, unfortunately, happens to be my favorite place for jamming things that I don’t want to put away, and don’t want to be seen by all guests), and aired it out by leaving the closet and front doors open. Sometime during this procedure, Eliza abandoned her less-engrossing projects (I admit it, she was watching a movie) and absconded with my sharp sewing scissors. I found her, barefoot in the driveway, sitting on her bicycle, happily snipping with the scissors, obliviously shredding her shirt. Miraculously, she didn’t cut herself. Not so miraculously, she had shredded the shirt I had borrowed from a friend. Unfortunately, repairing the new fringe on her shirt is way beyond my sewing skills. When I tried to take away the scissors (and later on the pincoushin that she was enjoying), she said "Mom, I'm using sewing!" My own little Project Runway candidate.

So much for my big project day. I think next time I’ll just choose “Make popcorn and watch a movie” as my project. And if I get really optimistic, I might add “Eat Dove chocolates” to the agenda. And before starting I'll hide all the pairs of scissors in the house, because you can't dress your 2-year-old in a shirt with a fringe every day.

Sticks and stones

I can't write about poop. I've banned myself from it because it would be too easy. There's always another story, equally disgusting as the last ten that I have written about on my blog. I refuse to tell you about Eliza's fingerpainting today. I won't. Because then I will officially have to change this blog's name. And who wants to read about some other kid's poop every day?

On the other hand, if you want to read about some other kid's tantrum, read on. This gripping tale begins when Sage had a massive breakdown (and subsequent time out) at 8:00am today. As a cranky pregnant woman, I am not well equipped to deal with massive breakdowns at all, much less that early in the morning. Sage was removed to the bathroom for a(n eternally long 3 minute) time out.

Once in the bathroom, Sage spouted off the most creative string of insults I've ever heard (a new habit she adopted this week). I'm pretty sure she was trying to convince all the upstairs tenants to cancel their contracts and move out before the end of the week. Here's what thundered out of the bathroom.

"You're a naughty coco stinky poo poo, Mommy!"

...then...

"I'm not going to let you do this!"

I could not help but chuckle, and that quickly turned into a laugh, which I unsuccessfully tried to muffle. (Apparently "coco" belongs in the same category as "naughty" and "stinky?") My laughter trickled off as I remembered that it was ME that was the target of the bathroom character bashing. The ridiculous elementary school chant "Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me" seemed as dumb as ever. Whoever made up that was an idiot, because there is nothing like having someone you love call you a name (or four names, for that matter).

I know Sage is only 3. And I know that the Diego computer game that I made her turn off was really, really, really enthralling, and she probably will never be happy again now that she has to wait until after naptime to play it again. But could her anger towards me really be as severe as it sounds from the bathroom? And wasn't it just last night that she spontaneously and happily sang to me "I know a name, a glorious name, dearer than any other...It is the name of Mother"?

Suddenly a little memory surfaced. It was me, not Sage, on the other side of the bathroom door. ( It's clear where Sage got her vocal cords from, and her temper.) I was putting Sage to shame in the area of character bashing. The target? My mom, of course. The reason? She was making me practice the piano. The nerve.

And now, 16 years later, I can play the piano. It's not because I've practiced at all in the last five years. It's because I practiced 16 years ago, against my will. It's because my mom had a vision for me--one that I didn't have. And somehow that vision was strong enough to get her through the name calling, even though there were times that she probably would have preferred sticks and stones.

I hope, 16 years ago when my mom stood on the other side of the bathroom door, that she had memories of me singing something like "I know a name, a glorious name, dearer than any other...it is the name of Mother." And I hope she knew that I would be so grateful for not only not giving in on the piano lessons, but also for not believing the heated declarations of an angry child.

And so, it is with relief, that I have decided to let myself off the hook with regards to Sage's accusation of me being "coco," or being a "coco," or whatever she meant. Someday, she'll thank me for it, I'm sure.