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Monday, July 30, 2007Sniffles and ContractionsThat about sums up my weekend. You know those annoying, little summer colds we sometimes get? Nothing serious, doesn't confine you to the couch for the day or even spike the tiniest fever. Just...sniffles and scratchy throat. Well, I've got one. Normally it wouldn't bother me much. Toss great-with-childness into the picture, though, and you've got one fairly uncomfortable woman. And, of course, as Murphy's Law would have it, yesterday was a let's-see-how-many-contractions-we-can-fit-into-one day sort of Sunday. Great stuff, these Braxton-Hicks. Gives me something to practice relaxing through without actually hurting. Reminds me how close I am, and how capable my body is of actually birthing this baby without ridiculous medical intervention. But the sniffles and scratchy throat on top of all the contractions made yesterday...well, a bit rough. Want to hear the Perfect Husband Response, though? He stayed home today. He knew, instinctively, that I needed him today. He did some work from home in the morning, of course. But he's taking care of me as well. Doing things for me. BABY-related things. Making sure I don't overexert myself today. Holding me when I need to be held. Checking up on me. Because, yeah, he's not quite ready for this baby to make her arrival yet, either. And, too, my doula is in Michigan until Thursday. She's a gem, though -- as we were saying good bye on Saturday morning, she assured me that, should I need her, she had a plane ticket at-the-ready, in order to come straight home. And her five delightful children? Nicole's mom is ready to drive them back to Tennessee for her. Is that dedication or what? I love this gal. I think I love her mom, too. But there's a moral to this story, and Eric's good at reminding me of it: I've got to learn to relax no matter what. I've got to stop relying on the situations around me in order to find my peace. I've got to trust God to take care of everything. Period. An ongoing lesson for this frenetic, tightly wound, passionate woman. Would that I'd learn it already and move on! So. It's another sniffles-and-contractions day, but just having Eric home is an amazing balm. I may even be able to sneak in a little nap. I suppose I should post a See If You Can Guess The Date and Time of Baby's Arrival contest soon. I'm not sure what kind of prize the winner ought to get, though. Suggestions? Friday, July 27, 2007Baby In a Gross LiquidMy brief lessons on life in utero mustn't be getting across too clearly. Naturally I simplify things quite a bit when discussing the pregnancy with eight-year-old Spencer, but still. To give him credit, he is by far the most enthusiastic and excited sibling. He talks to Baby Girl daily, and gives her good-night kisses. He gasps with delight when he feels her kicking. And he's told me that he loves her already. Very cool. Spencer's an unusual little dude, though, with his own perceptions and ideas about life. So I wasn't completely surprised when he came up with his own description of amniotic fluid. "It smells awful." "Um, Spencer, it doesn't smell awful. It's a clean liquid that keeps replenishing itself." "No, it's really gross and it tastes awful." It tastes awful? "Well, the baby doesn't think it tastes awful." And have you noticed that Spencer doesn't ask questions? It's not, "Does the amniotic fluid smell awful?" or "Does it taste awful?" No. It's, "The amniotic fluid smells and tastes awful." Period. A declaration without debate. Once Spencer has decided that something is true, there's no telling him otherwise. (Someone please tell me he's not going to grow up to be one of those types of people.) So now, no matter how hard I try, I cannot convince Spencer that his sister isn't going to come into this world bathed in a smelly, nauseating liquid. That's what I get for trying to educate my children. Give them a little bit of knowledge and their vast supply of creativity kicks in and has its way with it. Especially Spencer. I don't even want to think about what's going to come out of his mouth when he finally has the Birds and Bees talk with his dad. Fortunately I won't be there to hear it. It's "all boys together" and "all girls together" in our house for the Biggest Prepubescent Discussion Of Them All. Lucky Eric. Wednesday, July 25, 2007A Page A DaySounds reasonable, doesn't it? I'm thinking in terms of Baby's Due Date. Of course, the term "due date" is complete hogwash; nobody really knows when a baby is ready to make her entrance -- except Baby herself. Still, I'm sequential enough that I need a date, so I'll continue to use September 5 to denote the Big Day. Now, that's exactly six weeks away. If I were to write one page a day in my current WIP (Work In Progress), that's forty-two pages. That translates to roughly four or five chapters. Four or five more chapters before the baby comes! That would make me officially-just-about-exactly-halfway-finished with the first draft of this novel. Wouldn't that be marvelous? I could have my baby, rest a bit, and jump right back into a project that's already halfway finished. Attainable? Yes. Realistic? Yes. Probable? I'm not sure. I do need to insert at this point of my hormonally disturbed narrative that Dear Eric, having read my last blog entry, rose to the challenge and finished painting the nursery last night. I might add that my last blog entry was the sole reason that he finished painting the nursery last night. So now I know exactly what to do with my Honey-Do lists in the future. At any rate, that's one more pre-baby project completed, which gives me that much more peace. Which leads to more productivity and greater creative energy reserves (despite the killer flight of steps that I have to climb to get to my third story office). The problem is that a-page-a-day doesn't take into account those times when the story just...stalls. I sit there staring at the character in question (yes, I can see them -- can't all authors?), trying to figure out exactly what he's going to do next, and why. Sometimes it's as clear as Caribbean waters, and other times it's a complete muddle. A-page-a-day doesn't take into account endless staring-at-the-screen sessions. Still, a page isn't that much. If I curl up with my notebook and work out the kinks separately, then I think I can sit down with a fresh mind and get that daily page written. I know I'll thank myself later. Of course, there are other factors at play. There's my endless obsession with "checking for good news in my email box." I've got some promising coals in the fire right now and it's hard to put that aside and fully concentrate on my work. (Oh, for the day when I gladly hand over the business angst to a willing and devoted agent! There will be great rejoicing throughout Middle Tennessee and the World At Large...) Then there's the ongoing Baby Prep. Sure, the walls in the nursery are finished. But now it's time to do the trim work and window sills. Then we have to pay off the crib, pick it up, and put it together. Then...well, you get the idea. In short, we still have a lot to do. And we've got forty-two days or less in which to do them. So. A page a day. Will you cheer me on? I'm terribly excited about the direction my new novel is taking, and it'll do me a world of good to immerse myself in its creation, rather than wringing my hands over what needs to be done before Baby Five's arrival. Talk about the pressure of accountability. Okay, I'm at your mercy. Feel free to check up on me. And I'm off to write my daily page. Monday, July 23, 2007This and That and Very, Very Pregnant
 My heart is still at the ocean. My head, on the other hand, is very much encumbered with Life Heading Toward Baby Number Five. I've got the shuffle-waddle thing down pat. And I'm not doing it on purpose. Sometimes that little head makes it impossible for me to take a step without swinging my hips into a wide arc, like a bow-legged cowgirl home from the ride. You should have seen me tailor-sitting on the floor in Lowe's on Saturday morning. I may have looked like a pregnant hippie, but boy did it feel good. Lowe's = Home Projects (that's called "word math," for those of you who may be uninitiated), and this weekend was particularly exciting because Home Project = Baby's Nursery. With Rachel's help, Eric got the first coat painted. If I'm very, very, very nice to him, I'm hoping he'll finish the second coat some time this week, instead of waiting all the way until Saturday. My sanity requires it. I've now got a total of three delightful women working together to make my baby shower a reality. Party Attendance = Slightly Less Than Half Of the Number You've Invited, which means we can expect eighteen to twenty ladies to show up. (No, I'm not that popular. I just have lots of different "circles." Yanno?) My devoted sister, ever conscious of my need for decreased stress, has forbidden me to look at my Babies R Us registry any more. I have, in fact, handed over my password and promised her that I would be true to my word not to peek (I haven't peeked since I made the promise). She, in turn, has promised to let me know when the zeros start disappearing. "You already know what you've registered for," she wisely said. "At least allow yourself to be surprised when people give you presents." Well, okay! I can do that. I generally squirm when people "give" and "do for" me in general, so some genuine "ah!" when I open a gift will go a long way. The shower is going to be at my house, which makes me happy because I can at least run the vacuum and swish the toilet and feel like I've contributed. Eric might disagree, but I really don't do well in Prima Donna roles. ("Come hither for your audience with The Pregnant One, and leave your gifts at her dainty feet.") And I really don't like opening gifts in front of crowds. But I love parties and I'm terribly fond of almost everyone on my guest list (let's be honest, there's always the odd "obligatory neighbor" or "better include this one"). I really hope most of them come because I want to see each one of them and give them each a big hug. Yes, I'm really that sappy. As for the cute guy in the above photograph? He's a keeper. True, he's starting to say, "Okay, I'm ready to have your body back." But that is ultimately a good thing, right? Frankly, I can see the benefits of being able to see my own feet again. For now, though, I'm going to keep enjoying this pregnancy. I absolutely love being pregnant and I make no apologies for it. Besides, the little alien in my belly is endlessly fascinating, despite her penchant for head-butting my cervix and sticking her little foot into my rib cage. And that's the ramble from my neck of the proverbial woods. Now I think I'll take daughter Maggie's advice and work on my latest novel. I would whine and say that I'm only on Chapter 7, but that's better than not having started the dang thing at all. Yes. Right. Onward. Peace! Thursday, July 19, 2007Beach Bums and City SlickersSome Offspring-at-Cape-May shots (finally) and a couple of shots from our day in Manhattan. I told you I'd get around to posting vacation photos eventually. They speak for themselves, so enjoy. I need to go stick my head in a basin of cold water or something in order to wake up from my pregnancy-induced, mid-afternoon nap (during which I drooled all over my face).      (Check out Rachel in the last picture. She fits right in, doesn't she? Like a little Hip-hop queen waiting to cross the street.) Labels: life; family Wednesday, July 18, 2007OOOO, Baby!I returned from a visit to my midwife a short while ago. It's never anything short of pleasant; unlike routine OB visits, there is no medical poking and prodding. In other words, no vaginal exams or any other unnecessary intervention. It is peaceful, noninvasive, and simply delightful. And I adore my midwife. I really do! So as Eric was preparing to listen to the heartbeat (Linda, my midwife, always hands him the Doppler and expects him to do it -- I love it!), I asked for some "bump identification" on the baby. Linda pressed a bit on the upper left: "That's a knee..." She palpated on the right: "That's her little rump..." And some more: "This is her back..." Then she felt way down low: "And here's her head!" My baby is WAY head down. No wonder I have to pee every fifteen minutes. (You think I'm exaggerating, don't you?) "I wouldn't be surprised if you went by thirty-seven weeks," Linda said. "I'd love to take your word for it," I said, "but I know better." "No, I'm serious. I think you'll go by thirty-seven weeks." Hello. I know perfectly well that it's impossible to know exactly when a baby will be born. But this woman was dead serious. Let's do the math. My estimated due date, according to my own, Top Secret Temperature Chart and Sexual Activity Information, is September 5th (possibly the 3rd or 4th). My estimated due date according to the Omniscient Ultrasound Lab Technician's measurements at seven weeks is September 10th. So Linda's "thirty-seven weeks" is more like my own "thirty-eight" weeks. And that's not cutting it quite so close. I mean, my friends have planned me a Baby Shower for August 12. My own "thirty-seven weeks" is August 14 or 15. Linda's "thirty-seven weeks" is August 20. And my own "thirty-eight" weeks is August 21 or 22. Ugh, forget it. I'm driving myself nuts. I'm just immensely glad that Sweet Baby Girl is already in such a perfect position for birth. She can go ahead and wait until September if she wants. September's a lovely month for a birthday. And August is a perfect month for baby showers and painting nurseries, so I'd better have a word with my feisty little fetus about her impending Birth Day. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pee. Labels: pregnancy Monday, July 16, 2007And Jill Gets Her Day In CourtIt happened. I actually got to serve on a jury. I had this "feeling" on Friday, anyway, that I was going to end up having to actually sit on a jury panel. I'd been fortunate enough not to have been called in at all earlier in the week. And I was right. Friday was truly my "day in court." Of course, the first -- the very first -- potential juror that was pegged for a question was me. And the question? "Ms. -- Boehme? You're pregnant?" I smiled. "You noticed?" Once again, laughter filled the courtroom. I was definitely put there for comic relief. And what else did this well-meaning lawyer wish to know? "How often do you need to stand up?" Huh? And the ever-chatty "Ms. Boehme" was rendered speechless. Nobody has ever outlined the schedule for Mandatory Pregnancy Standing Rituals for me. The kindly judge intervened on my behalf. "I'll take care of Ms. Boehme." Well! Suddenly I was under the care of the Honorable Judge Robert E. Lee Davies himself. (Yes, you read that correctly, and I definitely live in the South. I don't know if Yankees name their children Ulysses S. Grant Schleffler or not. Things are different on this side of the Mason-Dixon.) I decided that I liked the judge. And the lawyers decided that they liked me, because I got to stay. "There's water in the refrigerator in the juror room." Judge Davies was addressing his comment directly to me as we filed out of the courtroom to prepare for the trial. "And there's a masseuse back there." A judge with a sense of decorum and a sense of humor! I was sold. "I love this place!" I called out as I exited. So. It was an uncomplicated case and we took all of fifteen minutes to deliberate. I'm glad to say that we did not award any damages above and beyond the plaintiff's chiropractic bill. None of this McDonald's Coffee or I'm-Fat-Because-Of-The-Oreos-Manufacturers garbage. Ah. I love living in a conservative county. And I loved my day in court. I loved it when the plaintiff's lawyer tried to make his client's conflicting statements sound like they were a result of the language barrier (the plaintiff spoke only Spanish and had to use an interpreter). Little did he know that I understood enough of the Spanish to know that the plaintiff was not having a language problem. He was simply contradicting his own testimony. I loved it when the snarky New York defense lawyer jumped up and said, "Your Honor, I object." More than once. Courtroom drama at its best. I loved the way everyone treated me with extra kindness because of my big belly. And I loved the fact that my day in court was over by 2:30. I loved meeting the other jurors, too. The stay-at-home mom of two teenagers who was sitting on her second trial. The gentleman who took my side in a friendly should-Shepherd's-Pie-contain-lamb-or-beef debate (lamb, of course). The nineteen-year-old wannabe lawyer who was happy to be there despite her severe immaturity. The ex-public-schoolteacher who held me at arm's length because I'm a -- gasp -- homeschooler. The college student who announced that she was afraid to move in her juror chair because it kept making a sound like a fart. And the self-employed pharmacist who said I could punch him in the arm if I needed to get out of the jury box to go pee. Definitely one of the most interesting experiences I've had this year. Still, I'm beyond grateful that my life is now much less complicated. This week consists of making final additions to my Baby Shower guest list, taking my children to the dentist, and going over my birth plan with my midwife. Life as I know and love it! And if I'm really on the ball, I may actually get back to writing. It's hard to be creative when you're worried about having to spend the next day in court. (And if you haven't read the delightful comment from the science editor at Highlights magazine in my previous post, please take a moment now. It's a wonderful response to my "Rejection Letter" story -- I'm honored that he took the time to write it.) Labels: life Thursday, July 12, 2007My Very First Rejection LetterIt arrived a long time ago. I was eleven years old. When I was in fourth grade, my teacher decided that my collection of nine, short poems entitled The Planets would be perfect for publication in Highlights magazine. So she typed them up and mailed them off. Fourth grade ended. Then fifth grade ended. Finally, in June of 1976, I received a personalized letter from an editor at Highlights. (Things haven't changed much in the response-time department, have they?) The letter, addressed to "Miss Jill Schafer," reads: Dear Jill: We gave your creation entitled "The Planets" to our science editor. Enclosed is a copy of a letter he wrote to me. Perhaps you will want to send this work to another magazine. Here are some addresses of magazines that publish material from children: [Five children's magazines and addresses are listed here.] Sincerely, Walter B. Barbe The enclosure, a classic, carbon-copied letter typed on brittle onion skin paper, reads as follows: Dear Dr. Barbe: This is a highly creative endeavor of Jill Schafer and we should thank her teacher, Mary Frances Schmidt, for sending it to us. In thinking about publication in HIGHLIGHTS I run into some difficulties, maybe reflecting upon my own imagination. Although Jill did properly select for most planets some important feature, some are in question (life on Mars?) and in general I think we would not want to use it as a way of telling about the planets. So its merit lies in the creative endeavor of putting ideas about the planets into poetry. Unfortunately, this seems to require the whole and rather large package which would take considerable space for reproduction. In short, however much I would like to do so, I cannot see how to use this. It may be that you can suggest to Miss Schmidt some other mode of publication. Sincerely yours, Jack Myers As far as "first rejection" letters go, this one is a clear winner. It is personalized, complimentary, and offers referrals to more appropriate venues. Mr. Myers indicated his precise reasons for not including my work in his magazine, and expressed regret at not being able to do so. Amazing. Beyond amazing when one contemplates the outrageously impersonal responses that most aspiring writers receive from agents and editors these days. Perhaps life was simpler, less crowded back then. Actually, I am sure that it was. Nobody was inundated with emails and faxes and Fed-Ex packages that they didn't request. Dealing with all the "extra fluff" must make it difficult, indeed, for most agents and editors to take the time to respond to a query as though a real person had sent it -- a person with a name and a dream and a desire to broach a professional relationship. Still, there are those out there who take the time to respond personally, regardless of "slush pile overload." And most writers are grateful to read their name and the name of their manuscript while being told "it's not right for me." I never did pursue publication of The Planets with any of the magazines recommended to me. By the time the rejection letter arrived, I was most likely on to "other things," in typical little-girl fashion. And I didn't even remember the letter until I found it in a pile of "Jill things" at my parents' house a couple of weeks ago. Thank goodness for moms-who-save-things. So I guess this means that my writing career actually began thirty-one years ago. Ugh. That doesn't sound too good. I think I'll tuck this letter away with other Ancient History instead. Poems about planets aren't really my "thing" these days. And there you have it -- my first hard knock in the publishing world. It's a good thing I didn't fall to pieces and throw in the towel. I was probably too busy playing Barbies to think about it. Onward! And to all the writers who read this blog: Onward! to you as well. Labels: writing Tuesday, July 10, 2007And There Was SunlightI didn't have to report for jury duty today. I almost burst into tears of relief yesterday when I listened to the recorded message that announced the good news. I must be pregnant or something. So guess who grabbed her eleven-year-old daughter and headed to Babies R Us? We narrowed our paint choices down to two that matched the nursery bedding. Then, exactly as I'd hoped, Rachel's eyes reflected the glee of shopping-for-a-baby as she asked, "Could we just walk around and look a little bit?" Twist my arm. I even gave her the bar code gun so that she could add a few things to the registry; a rattle here, a bib there. She loved it. No, she more than loved it. She probably could have combed the entire store over the next three hours and never batted an eye. I bought a fitted sheet for the cradle (which my unstoppable nesting instinct compelled me to set up today, with Jonathan's help). The eager, way-too-young store manager who waited on me said, "So, is this your first?" "No, it's my fifth." "FIFTH??" (I'm used to this reaction.) "Yep." "Wow. That's a lot of babies." No kidding. "I guess you really know what you're doing, then!" Well, sure, I had to admit that I do know what I'm doing. "I have one," he continued. "And I'd really like three more, you know? But ours is two and it's SO HARD." He's telling a mother of four-plus-one-on-the-way that raising one two-year-old is hard? Okay, so he was young. And yes, raising even one two-year-old can drain the life from the most stalwart parent. Especially if you're not setting appropriate boundaries with the child. Naturally, I wasn't going to go there with Howdy Doody here. "So, how old are your others?" he asked. "Well, my youngest is eight, and --" "Your YOUNGEST?" "Ur, yeah, and my oldest is fifteen." "Wow. You don't look OLD enough!" Suddenly I liked this guy. I bobbed him a curtsy and said, "You just want me to come back and shop at your store again!" Yep, I'll be back. When I'm at 39 weeks and feeling like a hippo in need of a chiropractor, I'll waddle up to his counter and wait for him to gush about how not-old-enough I am to be the mother of a fifteen-year-old. Then, in a fit of youthful glee, I'll buy something. Well. It might be cloudy today, but my life's all sunshine. I'm almost ready to face another day in the county courthouse. Almost. Monday, July 09, 2007Less Than Two MonthsAnd the Final Stretch is upon me, and I'm fighting the urge to panic. Not because I'm feeling unprepared for the birth. No, indeed. Eric and I are as excited as can be about our upcoming, Bradley-prepared, all natural childbirth experience. He's going to be an awesome birth coach. No, it's just the Baby Preparation part (they don't offer classes for this). We finally got Spencer moved into his "new" room (Jonathan's old room), and the soon-to-be-nursery is completely empty and ready to be stripped down, painted, and decorated. A real Baby Nursery, unlike anything my other sweet children had. Except. Except I can't choose the paint color because I don't have any of the bedding or accessories. The shower my dear friend has offered to throw me hasn't been scheduled yet (trying not to break out in hives as I type this). My best bet is taking my pile o' paint chips and heading out to Babies R Us, where I can tote the bedding to the nearest window and check on the color matching. Except. I can't make plans to do that this week because of jury duty. I'm forced to live life one day at a time, waiting to see whether I will be free to actually LIVE my day, or be trapped in a courtroom. Not that life is terrible. It's just that...well, I'm tired of jury duty, and this week's run hasn't even begun yet. (I'm not going to whine. I'm not going to whine. I'm...I'm whining, aren't I?) But hey. I just finished typing up the first draft of our Birth Plan. That felt good. Getting all the "don't give me any medications" and "we are declining the eye erythromycin drops" down on paper definitely reduced my stress level. For the moment. I'm still enjoying pregnancy, still loving the sensation of the sweet life growing inside me (feisty little thing, she is!). Really, it's awesome. I'd just feel better if the nursery were finished, and I could wash the small stash of infant things I've accumulated, and the not-so-small stash of infant things that my darling sister gave to me, and fold everything up and tuck each item away inside freshly lined drawers. It's OK. It'll all fall into place. Baby Girl doesn't care what her sleeping quarters look like, and she's not going to time her arrival according to my to-do list or mental prerequisites. She's going to come when the Lord sends her, and it's going to be...well, nothing short of perfect. I can have a good perspective when I put my mind to it. Blogging is, after all, fairly therapeutic. Now if I could just find something chocolate... Friday, July 06, 2007Throw That Lady Out of the CourtroomToday's session included both a plaintiff and a defendant, so it was all things go. Nineteen names were called, one by one, in an excruciatingly slow and deliberate manner. The nineteen Chosen Ones had to sit in the jury box and on six chairs in the front of it. I was not a Chosen One. At least not yet. The questions began. The prospective jurors were picked over like a bushel of peaches. And before we knew it, less than the requisite thirteen were left. Which mean that more names had to be called. And then it came. They called me. I waddled to the assigned seat and waited for the round of questioning to begin. Raise your right hand and all that. And when it was time for the plaintiff's lawyer to question me, she looked at me as though I were some kind of anomaly and said, "So, Jill....Bome? Are you...employed?" "I homeschool my children and I'm a writer." "Ah." Scribble, scribble. "And, you're pregnant, I see?" Very observant. "Do you think you can sit through deliberations as a member of the jury?" I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a disarming fashion. "I don't know. How often will I be able to go to the bathroom?" The entire courtroom erupted in laughter. Leave it to me to disrupt the solemnity of the occasion. Fortunately, the judge was laughing, too. A few minutes later, the same lawyer asked the particularly odd question, "Do any of you have bumper stickers on your car?" I raised my hand. "What does your bumper sticker say?" Holy cow, what if it said something rude? "George Bush," I said, shrinking a bit. "Am I allowed to say that?" More laughter. By this point, the woman surely believed that I was the biggest dimwit ever to grace her presence in a court of law. After the defense lawyer had completed his turn in the questioning, it occurred to me that I probably should have said something about my husband's employment. This was a "how much damages should the defendant pay to the plaintiff who was injured in a car wreck" case, and I'd noticed they seemed to be dismissing people who were even remotely related to the health care profession. Quiet deliberation had already begun between the lawyers and their clients, so I raised my hand and hailed the judge. "Your Honor!" He looked mildly surprised. I mentioned my husband's place of employment, which happens to be a hospital and university. "Is he on the academic or the medical side?" the judge asked. I informed the honorable judge that hubby was most definitely on the medical side. "He interfaces with doctors all the time." (I may have said "all the time" a bit too loudly.) There. I'd done it. I'd spilled it all in the hope that they would scoop me up with a big net and hoist me out of there. I wasn't disappointed. After three more minutes of waiting, I was dismissed. Nobody wanted the crazed pregnant woman to be on the jury stand. Know what's really scary? I was just being myself. No pretenses, no perjury. Just my "take me as I am" attitude and a flair for dramatics. Because, yes, I will admit to the occasional rub of the belly or look of pregnant discomfort upon my face. And it's true that my biggest concern is having to pee in the middle of a trial. I'm not off the hook yet. I've got four more days of jury duty to go. But at least I was able to keep my endodontist appointment today. Next week I may have to go to more drastic measures, like letting my leg hair grow and wearing a mumu with a big peace sign on it. For now, I'm going to enjoy my weekend. Hope you enjoy yours as well. Labels: life Thursday, July 05, 2007A Short Day In CourtMy initiation into the Williamson County court system lasted for three minutes. Of course, that doesn't include the ten minutes or so I sat in the galley with the other zombie-like citizens who didn't want to be there, either. It was like attending a wake. I don't think I've ever seen such expressionless people in my life. I was in good company. So the door finally opened and the judge announced with due grandeur: "All rise. The Honorable Judge Jeff Givens presiding." We all rose. The deputy said a few words, muttered a prayer. We were told to be seated. We all sat. The prosecution was announced and rose. The defense was...missing. "Where is the defendant?" asked the judge. Well golly gee, he never showed up. The judge fixed his gaze on the citizen-shaped statues in the galley. "Ladies and gentlemen, I know that it's a sacrifice of your time to be here. This trial has been set for a long time, and these are unforeseen circumstances. I appreciate your sacrifice to be here today, though we cannot proceed with this trial. You are all dismissed and free to go." No kidding. And the zombie crowd rose to their feet in one accord -- and suddenly there was life. Eyes became bright. Voices sounded. Muted exuberance filled the hall as we filed out of the courtroom and into freedom. These folks were alive after all. They simply had been feeling oppressed. Unwilling to sit in a courtroom all day. Just like me. I felt vindicated. I also felt incredibly happy. I have so much to do...so very, very much to do here at home. Baby Girl isn't going to wait around until I have all my ducks in a row. And I've got nine weeks to nag...ur, encourage...my husband to complete all the room-switching work that needs to be done before Birth Day. (He's down there right now installing a new ceiling fan. I love the man.) I've got to report for duty again tomorrow at nine o'clock. I don't think I'll be as lucky as I was today. But you know, the curious sector of my brain really does want to know what happens next. Three minutes in the courtroom didn't offer much enlightenment. I'll be sure to let you know. Labels: life Wednesday, July 04, 2007Belly On the Beach
  And here we are, basking in our delight of the sand and surf at Cape May, New Jersey. It was truly the best vacation we've ever had. I've got to report at 9:00 am for jury selection tomorrow, and unless they kick me out immediately for fear that labor is imminent, I may be gone all day. Friday's up for grabs, too. So all the vacation photos and sappy reminiscences of our family trip will have to wait. I'm just wondering what I'll do if I have to pee in the middle of a court session. Oy. Lots to tell later, I'm sure. In the meantime, I wish you all the best. Hopefully I'll be back in full force soon. Labels: life; family Monday, July 02, 2007'Mid Pleasures and Palaces Though You May Roam......Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. (Dorothy really didn't say it first.) So we're back, we're utterly relaxed from the most awesome family vacation we've ever had, and I promise that photos are forthcoming. (They are currently being held hostage on Eric's Macboy.) First, thank you to those of you who braved the comment box to add to my little "seed story" about Zane. And an even bigger "thank you" goes to my blogging colleague over at The Shuttered Eye, who took my little paragraph and developed it into an entire chapter! Seriously, you've got to pop over and read what he's written. I'm delighted to know that my words, hurriedly written, were the source of such rich inspiration for somebody. He's an awesome photographer, too, so you'll want to peruse his site once you're there. Second, our refrigerator was dead when we got home. Fortunately it came back to life, but not before having destroyed everything in it (which wasn't much, really). The nastiest casualty? A frozen fish from the Harpeth river. Close second? A plastic bag of chicken innards that were being saved for bait. Thank goodness we got home when we did. So the refrigerator guy showed up today to see what was up, and I've got to report that he's one of the most amazing people I've ever met. He removed the grating from the bottom of my fridge and pointed out the thick dust that had accumulated under there. In no uncertain terms, he told me that I'd need to vacuum beneath the fridge from time to time. Yeah, right. But here comes the amazing part. He said, "Do you have a vacuum? I'll do it for you." No pregnant woman has ever run faster to retrieve a vacuum cleaner. Moments later, the guy announced that there wasn't any suction -- all because I had failed to empty the canister. Not a problem. He said, "Where's your garbage can?" And then proceeded to walk out back with said canister in order to empty it for me. By this time, I had slipped into clinical shock. Clean vacuum in hand, he once again attempted to vacuum under the fridge. No luck -- there was a clog in my vacuum. Undaunted, he worked for almost ten minutes until my vacuum was clog-free. Then, he removed all the dust from beneath the fridge and snapped the grill back in place. And I thought he'd come to fix the refrigerator. As we stood chatting about appliances in general, he mentioned what a good dishwasher I had -- claimed it was one of the best. "But I hate my dishwasher," I replied (brat that I am). "Why do you hate it?" Good question. I opened the door and wrinkled up my nose at the utensil basket. "I hate this," I said, pointing to the offensive basket. "It's a really poor design and it doesn't work right." "Well, you have to put it in the right place." Huh? "What do you mean?" I had now morphed from feeling stunned to feeling stupid. "Right there, on the door. See those two hooks?" So that's what those were for. In mute amazement, I moved the basket from its precarious perch on the front of the bottom rack (where it was perched when we bought the house, I swear), then stood admiring it like a daft housewife. "That is so cool," I finally said (certainly reaffirming his perception of my compromised intellect). "You just made my life easier!" So I've been using this dishwasher for more than seven years now, grumbling the entire time about the stupid utensil basket and never realizing that maybe the basket wasn't in the right place. "And you can load the dishwasher without reaching over the basket all the time," my Fairy Godfather said. Yeah. I can't tell you how many times I've jabbed myself doing just that. So. My refrigerator is getting a new part, my vacuum cleaner is completely cleaned out and working like a charm, and the utensil basket in my dishwasher has a new spot right on the dishwasher door, where it belongs. I feel like I've just won the Donna Read sweepstakes. Perfect timing for this Very Into Nesting Mode pregnant mama, whose baby is due in only nine more weeks. Nine!! And the nursery isn't ready, and I have NOTHING except the cradle and some breast milk storage bags from my sister, and.... No. I'm not going to stress. I'm going to go vacuum something and find some spoons and forks to wash. 'Tis good to be home. Labels: life |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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