Thursday, March 24, 2011

True Love

Two days ago as T and I sat at breakfast, I told him about having some cheesy instrumental 80s TV theme song in my head. I could not remember which show it was, and it was driving me crazy. Upon my belting out the first bar, he immediately joined in and we sang it together.

"Is it Magnum?"
"No, no, that goes dum bum bum BUHnahnahnuh..."
[and I then joined in and we scatted out Magnum, P.I. together at the table and laughed hysterically.]
"But that's not it...what IS IT?"
[long pause]
"CHiPs! It's totally CHiPs!"

My husband's recall for the utterly useless is excellent. This is why 1) I had that damn song in my head all day, and 2) it's one of many, many reasons we're so well-matched.


Yesterday was my birthday. I'm thirty-fortunate, as dear Idealist puts it. I thought about it, and I realized how right she is. I had ideas as to what I'd be doing at around this age, those nebulous thoughts of "where I'm going to be at age ____", that sort of thing. I figured I'd have a couple of kids, married, job (not's the teacher), living somewhere in New England or something. Nothing fancy.

I still don't have anything fancy, but that seems right to me. I have a lot more than many people: I have a husband whom I love dearly, who loves me just as much. I have dear friends and family both far and near whom I can count on. I get to work in a profession I love that allows me to use my strengths to their utmost as long as I'm savvy enough to keep recognizing it. I'm growing a healthy baby boy, and my grandmother is still alive and sharp enough at almost 96 to know that I'm calling him after her husband and my father. My sweet little dog cannot stop cuddling with us. We have a house that remains relatively cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

I don't mean to brag. I just want to attempt to express how deeply fortunate I am and that I recognize it. Maybe not as often as I should; I think in many ways we tend to complain or brood about things going wrong. I don't know if that's media or the crazy pace of the world or what, but I do try to see at some point every day what a blessed and wonderful life I have.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


Thank you, Amalah, for the inspiration for this post.

On Thursday I did my glucose test for gestational diabetes (extremely routine, for those who don't know). First of all, good thing I spoke with sister M beforehand because she told me I had to sit there for an hour afterward while the glucose...did its thing. That's how a number of our conversations have gone during this pregnancy:

M: Well, you have to do X/you can't do Y/did they tell you about Z?

Me: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? We have the same doctor! Why don't they tell me ANYTHING?

M: Did you ask them about it?/One of my friends told me.

Me: Oh, well, [rant rave calm down eventually]. Glad you told me.

Thank God she did this...she has saved my bacon more than once. Hence, I took a book to the Quest Diagnostic lab where they run all sorts of fun medical, blood work-involved tests. Went to the one nearest me where they informed me that I couldn't do the test because it was 3:20 and they closed at 4:00. Then she told me I better hurry to the next nearest place, gave me vague directions, and left the room. And I left my insurance card there. FYI: Don't try calling a medical diagnostic lab anywhere close to closing time because they will not pick up the phone. Shocking.

Fortunately I did get into the next place, and the woman who gave me my sugary orange glucose drink was lovely and reassuring. So I got to sit in the dingy waiting room for an hour, a room filled with numerous men. That wouldn't have mattered so much had the TV not been tuned to Oprah, whose happy topic dealt with men who had been molested. Not awkward at all. Thus I tried to dive into my book and ignore the story about the twins whose priest had singled them out for five years while they served as altar boys. Not kidding. (I'm glad she did the show; I know many men probably needed it, but I felt a sort of desperation to turn it to Ellen and see what silly game she was playing with some attractive male actor guest.)

One hour and three vials of blood later, I headed home. I realize now doing this test probably accounted for me falling asleep at 8:30: I was crashing hard from the sugary concoction, which reminded me of childhood birthday parties drinking Kool-Aid out of little Dixie cups. I find out at my next visit how it all panned out; meanwhile I will attempt to stave off my craving for Cadbury eggs, which I love even when not pregnant. We'll see how that goes.

Ah, and here's my latest bump picture, taken about two weeks ago. I should just take another because I know he's gotten bigger since then. I've also begun exposing him to music via headphones on my tummy. T said we should start him out on funk, but I thought we should ease him in with the Beatles. However, rest assured he will be funkified at some point. He'll be the only three year-old who can identify George Clinton, Soulive, and Lettuce. I love it.

Saturday, March 5, 2011


I meant to write about this before, but the week went by in a complete blur. Anyway, last Sunday I headed to the coffee place the next little town over to get some grading done. I go there fairly often because it has the right white noise atmosphere that helps me get work done, a combination of big band/jazz music and human conversation. Plus they have delicious pastries. I did some grading, left, and as I walked through the parking lot, I found $12 in the snow. I looked around and didn't see anyone, thought about it for a minute, and made a decision: Walking back into the coffee shop, I put $2 in the tip jar and handed the $10 to the barista behind the counter, asking him to pay for the next person's coffee. I could've kept it for myself, but I figured since the thought crossed my mind to give it to someone else, I should. I have no idea if coffee boy simply pocketed it or did a good deed; I at least made an attempt to pay it forward.

Upon getting ready for work the next day, I realized I couldn't find one of my homework folders, filled with assignments my one class period had turned in. When I got home, I planned to ransack the house to find it even though I'd already looked once. As I got ready to go home at the end of the day, I received a call from the front office saying someone from the coffee house had found a folder of mine and they had it waiting for me. It turns out I'd left it there (pregnancy brain or just me? probably a combination of both...) and an out-of-work music teacher who works there as a barista had spotted it in the lost and found. Fortunately, she realized it belonged to a teacher and actually called two schools before calling mine to see if a Mrs. Frau who taught ninth grade worked there. I discovered this when I went back to get it and fell all over myself thanking this young woman that she'd taken such time and effort to make sure I got my materials back. She truly saved me a lot of agony in that simple yet significant act.

Would I have gotten the folder back had I not given up that $12? I don't know. I hope so, but I prefer to look at it as one good act begetting another. The entire cycle of events gave me a nice boost of faith in the importance of doing good for others, no matter how small.