The Pregnant Waddle

Pre-Pregnancy Weight Just Around the Corner (It's Trying to Run and Hide)

Monday, February 27, 2006

Dead? Russian? Composer?

If I were a Dead Russian Composer, I would be Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.

Considered the leader of the 19th Century Composer group "The Mighty Handful," I am indeed the teacher among them. My orchestration skills are superbly colorful, and are explained in my book on the topic, but works like "Scheherezade" explain my mastery better.

Who would you be? Dead Russian Composer Personality Test

I think I may have heard something by Rimsky-Korsakov, at some point ...

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Yay God!

Arwen is pregnant.

Those of you who haven't encountered her on the Internet before might want to read some of her backstory. This news has been a long time coming.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Why do babies' heads smell so good?

Friday, February 17, 2006

Oh, the guilt

When I was pregnant, I read all sorts of books to prepare for childbirth, and even a couple to prepare for child-rearing. I don't recall any of them mentioning the horrible, crushing guilt that settles over some elements of parenting.

Have to head back to work so that the bacon keeps dropping in on a regular basis? Guilt, check.

Have to cause untold angst by removing a desired object from tiny grasping hands? Well, slightly less guilt, but guilt nonetheless. Though it does give me an opportunity to school the small Squid in French. ("Ngaire, I'm taking away t'objet désirée right now." For some reason, I remember this from college French.)

And the kicker: our dear 7-month-old is very cuddly. As in, she loves to cuddle. For the last seven months, nearly every one of her sleeping experiences has taken place either on the lap of or snuggled next to an adoring adult. The problem? She rarely sleeps EXCEPT in this condition. And it gets a bit wearing, as the adult, to have to sit or lie there for hours while she sleeps, with one's every move causing her to startle.

*DISCLAIMER: She sleeps intensely well at night, rarely waking at all. But she also still sleeps in bed with us, with ready access to the breast.*

For the last few days, she has taken short naps and awakened not-so-sweetly. So the Husbandlet and I decided to try the modified cry-it-out thingy with her last night. We let her cry for five minutes; then I went in and patted and soothed her. I left, and she cried for ten minutes. The Husbandlet did the patting/soothing thing. Then she fell asleep. She woke up half an hour later screaming, so we put her in bed with us and she slept through the rest of the night. Overall, we felt like our first baby step towards getting her to self-settle went quite well, and we'll try it for a few nights to see if it's effective long-term. But oh.

The guilt.

The big, tearstained, tormented eyes silently accusing us of betrayal! The crumpled little face and puddle of tears on the sheet! The pitiful cries! The clutch of little starfish hands!

Meep. Even if she's not traumatized for life, I'm sure I will be.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Reason #798,205 why I love this guy

I have an ironic, somewhat backwards sense of humor. I blame this on my mother’s being from Oklahoma. I personally find myself hilarious, but the problem is that people often don’t realize that I’m not serious. For instance, last September I saw my brother-in-law Nathan, newly out of the Army and with a haircut to match (i.e., less than a quarter-inch long), and remarked that he was looking a bit scruffy. The next time I saw him, he had SHAVED HIS HEAD. Because he took me seriously.

So anyway, yesterday the Husbandlet and the Squid and I were out for a walk, and we passed a mobile home swarming with roughly 47 cats. (Well, maybe more like six or eight.) The cats’ owner came out to hush up his dog, who was barking at us. The owner had one of those Einstein just-stuck-a-finger-in-a-socket hairdos; somehow, he went all too well with the trailer and the plethora of cats. I said to the Husbandlet, “You know what my problem is? I look at that guy, and what I want to say is, ‘Well, I can tell you don’t like cats.’ But people don’t understand that I’m joking, and they just look at me funny. I could say that to someone like Nathan—”

The Husbandlet: “And Nathan would have to go shave his cat.”

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

And then, sometimes, it's all worthwhile

Juliet: “What says Romeo?”

Student 1: “Why can’t they just say, ‘What does he say?””

Me: “That’s not how they talked back then.”

Student 2: “No wonder they’re dead.”

Monday, February 06, 2006


Busy, I am. But:

* Milk production is up again, slightly. I mean, it seems to be gradually lessening overall, but I'm reliably getting 3-5 ounces per Side. My last two at-work pumps have produced 8 oz. in total, a fact which impresses the Husbandlet's officemate Lance very much. Hi, Lance!

* Ngaire is really cute. She has learned to play peek-a-boo. Lying in bed a couple Saturday mornings ago, she started pulling the sheet up over her face. "Where's Ngaire?" we obligingly said, pulling the sheet away. "There she is!" She chortled and pulled the sheet up again. We played at this for quite awhile. SO cute.

* Also, we bought her a johnny-jump-up. Oh, the jumping. The first time I put her in that thing, she started bouncing and kept at it for a Very Long Time. I ate dinner without a squirming baby on my lap for the first time in months, that evening.

* ALSO, she appears to be teething, if the angst, intermittent sleeplessness, congestion and gnawing are to be interpreted thusly.

* The transformer blew out on our block on Sunday morning, just as the coffee was beginning to drip into the coffeepot. This began a frantic hunt for the tender cup of coffee, which is beyond necessary for the Husbandlet to function. We finally located this nectar at a small diner, which also provided us with blueberry pancakes. And all was well. The end.

* I have been oh so busy. Last week included the Wednesday of Great Horrificness, featuring the Class of Great Evilitude Hitting the Bottom of Great Rockiness. So I'm turning myself into the Witch-Teacher from Hades for that particular class, and that has involved a lot of work and lesson-plan-rethinking. I'm tired. Also, I feel like a bad mother, because here I am spending days with ungrateful little squirts instead of with my baby whom I adore.

* But hey, at least the milk production is up!

Moo. Now I'm off to tutor my dad in computery things.