Suiting up

After all my kvetching yesterday, the sun has come out in glorious force--it should get up to 70 today! Gabriel has a half day on Wednesdays, so it's perfect timing for us to have a picnic and some ice cream and wander around outside with just him and not the baby, who is happy as a clam at daycare (although I have an ongoing struggle to get them to offer bottle before food and not vice versa...I'm afraid Eloi's weaning and I don't want it to be because they aren't doing what I ask them to...).

Somehow, on Monday morning, Gabriel got fixated on the idea of going to the beach. The Mister kind of played along as they had breakfast, which must have turned a pretend scenario into what to him was a fact and concrete plan for the day. So when I started making his school lunch, he cried and said "We not going to school," and when I said very clearly that indeed we were, he burst into genuinely devastated sobs. "We goinna beeeeeach!" (The plan also somehow involved a truck, but I wasn't around for the development of that so not sure how it fits in.)

Poor kid. I wish we were going to the beach too. He has remained stuck on the idea, to the point where he is reluctant to enter his classroom in the morning (it's not the beach) and asks to go to the beach as soon as I pick him up from school. We've explained that when we fly to Boston and visit grandpa and grandma in a few weeks THEN we can go to the beach, but though he gets that idea and talks about going on the airplane to go to the beach, the amount of time he has to wait until then is hard to understand for a three year old.

The latest development in the ongoing saga occurred this morning, when I was dressing him for school. He balked at taking off his pajamas because he saw the clothes I had picked out, and said, "I want to wear a...a... suitcase." Confused, I thought maybe he was thinking about packing and told him we'd put his clothes in a suitcase when we fly to America, but he said no, WEAR the suitcase. To go to the beach.

AH, I said. A swimsuit?

Yeah! With turtles on it. (He is remembering his swim trunks from last summer, which he hasn't seen since last August.)

SUITcase, swimSUIT. Language is funny, kid.

(In unrelated language funnies, he has taken to asking for "cozy bread." Which means, NOT toast or dry bread, but soft. Which makes perfect sense--all the other things we describe as cozy, like his bathrobe, a blanket, his fleece pants, and snuggling on the couch, are soft and squishy too. So cozy bread it is.)

Rumbles and travels

I'm still here, although I've somehow let more than a few days go by without further commentary. March is being very...March-y, with a few scattered days of sunny promise tucked into the usual damp gray cold of Belgium. We're flying to Barcelona today for a long weekend and another grab at Catalonian spring, and the forecast promises some lovely weather. Gabriel is finally old enough to require his own seat, which I'm relieved about because it means we have much more space and take up a whole row of our own. Plus, the flight is not rescheduled for some late hour, instead falling in the middle of the afternoon, which *should* make things smoother (although my first rule of travel with children is that any time I anticipate a smooth flight the whole thing is a disaster and vice versa).

Other than that, we've had more visitors, which is always a treat, I've been plugging away at Dutch and a few academic projects, and Gabriel has been a delight and a crazy two-year-old (more blogging on that later, I promise). Oh, and this has been happening ten inches from our front door:

Most mornings I have to wave somebody down to make sure the digger operator sees me and doesn't swing the...digger part towards me and Gabriel, then precariously maneuver the stroller along the soft dirt edge of the massive pit that is our street. Someday, this will pass. Someday.

I've entered the third trimester of this pregnancy, which means there are three months to go. ONLY three months to go! I'm mostly taking it easy and alternate between feeling like we still have lots of time and worrying that it will be here in a flash.

For now, a weekend in sunny Barcelona with extra grandma-aunty-cousin hands to help wrangle the toddler sounds pretty nice. We're bringing no computer, just the iPad, so I plan to read and play Words with Friends and check Facebook and blogs but not much else. We'll come down loaded to the gills on the return flight, of course, because there are still piles of baby blankets and baby clothes that we migrated from America to Barcelona but not yet to Belgium.

One of the construction men with a rather smelly cigar, in fact one of the guys from the picture above, just knocked on the door and asked to see our basement. I hope this doesn't mean the walls will cave in, which we actually do worry about given how much the house shakes at 7am and throughout the day as trucks rumble past and diggers smash into the ground. Here's hoping that the house is intact when we get back from the weekend away!

Monday thoughts

A collection of thoughts today...my attention is scattered but I feel happy, as the morning has brought that rare combination of sunny and above freezing!

***

For the last five months or so, I have had Gabriel sit at the bottom of the stall while I shower in the mornings. He happily plays with his bath toys, I wash his hair, he gets clean, and I can more or less take my shower in peace. But afterwards is no fun, because he HATES getting out of the warm shower and getting dried, lotioned, diapered, and dressed (a justified reaction, especially of late, because with the cold snap our bathroom is awfully chilly). So, recently I've tried sitting him down on his little stool in the bathroom, giving him a pile of books and toys, and taking a shower by myself. And it's working! By and large, he is able to entertain himself, and has only thrown toilet paper in the toilet, and has only dumped out or gotten into things that I can easily clean up. When we first moved here I tried the same strategy, but he cried and wailed when I disappeared into the shower stall. Now he knows that I'm not going anywhere and can sit for a short time independently while I listen to him babbling his books to himself. This feels like a big step. Plus, now he gets real baths, which he LOVES, instead of a semi-shower, and less often, which is better for his skin.

***

Gabriel's birthday party on Saturday was a success, fun had by all. I made an owl cake like this one, which turned out adorably, even though I had a complete icing crisis just when people were supposed to be arriving. The buttercream frosting I had made the night before was hard as a rock from the fridge, so I stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds, which melted it to a liquid. Frantic, I stuck it in the freezer, and after a few minutes smeared the goopy stuff all over the cake, which picked up crumbs like crazy and ended up not even being enough to frost the sides. But once the big cookie eyes and the almond feathers were on, it was so cute that the icing debacle wasn't too apparent. And it tasted great, which is really what matters!

***

One of the good side effects of the party is that we finally hung some paintings and mirrors on the walls! We also got a coffee table, some new chairs, a lamp, and so forth...all the little decoration-y things that make the house feel more...proper. And we hung a beautiful mobile that we've had since the summer but never gotten around to hanging. It's this one (although the picture here does not do it justice at all), we hung it in the dining room, and it's so stunning in person. I just adore mobiles (a huge fan of Calder), and have always looked for the perfect one to hang in the house...not too color-blocky or modern, not too twee or kid-like, just graceful, full of movement, and delicate. This is it.

***

I shrunk my most favorite sweater. It was a simple but high-quality gray wool cardigan that I bought maybe ten years ago at the Brooks Brothers outlet store, but it always looked like new, and was super warm without being bulky. The perfect length, went with everything, and I've been wearing it nonstop lately since most of my sweaters don't fit over my belly but I needed serious warmth with the cold we've been having. And I shrunk it!!! It's one of those things that I want to cry over but know that crying won't help whatsoever. M. was so sweet--he told me that he had been out hunting for a replacement for me, but of course didn't have any luck, especially since all the stores now have spring clothing on display. But so thoughtful nonetheless.

***

Gabriel got a couple of "my first game" kinds of games for his birthday, one from us and one from some friends, and it's been really interesting to teach him how to play and learn the fundamental ideas of game-playing...setting up the board, throwing dice, taking turns, moving pieces. I'm simultaneously surprised at how well he has taken to these concepts, and frustrated because after a few turns the game usually devolves into him scooping up the cute wooden pieces (fruit in one case, and animals in another) and either throwing them or carting them off for some other activity. Which is totally fine! But it's so fun to see him throw that chubby dice and move the pieces and of course I, orderly mama, want to finish the game! Oh well, he's learning, which is what counts.

***

Maternity clothes. Sigh. Last time, I really didn't run out of clothes until very near to the end, and at that point I could often stay at home all day and live in yoga pants. In fact, that post seems to be about me enjoying the pared-down state of wardrobe affairs. But this time, I have a much bigger belly much sooner, the cold limits my choices (NOT wearing a skirt, and MUST wear sweaters and/or layers because I'm walking outside a LOT), and some of the maternity pants from last time have now stretched out so they slide down my hips. The bella band helps with that problem, but I'm still left with a rotation of three everyday pants, one (and maybe two) of which will no longer fit soon. I thought I got enough of a supply of maternity clothes when I was in the US, and I am more or less set with shirts, but not so much with pants and sweaters (see also above re: the loss of my beloved cardigan). A friend loaned me a big bag of maternity pants to try on but they were all smalls and I'm really not a small, and many were too short because I'm really quite tall, and the couple that DID fit, of course, are lightweight pants that will not work until the spring. The maternity clothes here are EX-PEN-SIVE--no Target-like options or secondhand stores to get me through. And unlike in the US, wearing yoga pants out of the house is just NOT going to fly. I already feel slobbish enough compared to the chic European mamas, so I insist on wearing real clothes and putting on jewelry. So. I may have to shell out for expensive clothes, or I may be grumpy about my wardrobe until it gets warmer (which won't happen until April, at the earliest).

***

But this is where I say it's totally worth it. (Obviously.) Our Junebug is so active, I feel him moving all the time, and I feel it so...vividly, compared to Gabriel in the womb. I just adore this heightened sense of the baby's activity. I was stretched out in bed this morning and chasing his feet and hands across my stomach, and I swear I could feel exactly what was what, and even laughed at him trying to scootch out from under my hands. It practically feels like I could hold him, still so tiny tiny, but growing so big.

And! The Mister and I are both pretty convinced about his name, and have tried it out with Gabriel, who pronounces it very well and very adorably. Don't ask us to commit and/or tell you the name, because we will hedge our bets until the very end, but I'm quite excited about it and think of him by his name already. We've moved on to trying to find a middle name, which presents its own particular pickle, in part because this name is one that will be slightly tricky/unusual for English speakers so we want the middle name to be more straightforward (but still work in both languages). But still, it's so fun to know who he is!

Cultural etiquette

We attended a kids' birthday party on Saturday, and we brought a gift, but nothing else. Turns out that other guests brought food as well. Which leaves me wondering if I was expected to bring food. In general here, I've been surprised at the lavish bearing of gifts and food when invited to someone's home: when we had two families, colleagues of the Mister, over for a casual lunch, they each brought a (substantial) gift for Gabriel (when it was nowhere near his birthday or Christmas), plus chocolates, wine, a gorgeous bouquet, and homemade cake between the two families. It was lovely, of course, but to me that seems a little...excessive? When we went to their respective homes, we brought gifts for their children and something homemade, plus chocolates, but it was mostly because I felt we needed to reciprocate their generosity. And it leaves me wondering what the "usual" or expected thing is. In the US, we usually ask what food we can contribute to the meal, or just bring a bottle of wine, and in Spain, we almost always bring a bottle of wine or a dessert or something (totally acceptable if it's purchased, because bakeries are so good) and that's what our friends usually bring to our house, too.  It feels a little more casual, and can be adjusted in complexity to the formality of the event. But the multiple, deluxe offerings for a simple gathering of friends? Also, the gift for the child(ren) of the family is also new to me, and I don't know if it's always expected? Or just the first time you visit? I'm glad, at least, that we had these folks over before they had us over, so that we could follow suit. These sorts of expectations are usually unspoken (and of course everyone is totally nice, so I'm sure they wouldn't be shocked or upset if, say, we hadn't brought a gift for the kids) but still, they exist, and one wants to do the correct thing. I'm on unsure footing, I guess is what I'm getting at, and I don't like it, because I want to "quedar bé" as they say in Catalan, "turn out well," or make a good impression.

Another little etiquette thing that I find varies from the US to Europe is the culture of thank-you cards and Christmas cards. In the US, both are pretty de rigueur, and even if they don't get written, there is usually the aspiration to write them. (I'm very bad about thank-you notes, but have been trying to send out Christmas cards the last few years.) In Europe, I don't think we've ever once received a handwritten thank-you note, and can count on one hand the Christmas cards we've received from non-political or non-business entities. Certainly, none of our peers in our friends group send them out, short of an email greeting with a picture of their children. So I haven't sent Christmas cards to friends/family in Spain, and nor did I write official thank-you notes for, say, baby gifts that were given in Spain when Gabriel was born (although, of course, we thanked the giver informally, and we always thank friends for meals via email and so forth). But I still wonder if I should have, because that's the ingrained American response! And I sometimes wonder if I'm wrong and am committing a huge faux pas without knowing it? And now, living in Belgium, I am once again in the dark. Does one write thank-you notes here? We received a thank-you note for a birthday gift after a party we attended a few weeks ago, but that was from an American, so not necessarily an indication of the culture here. I guess I would need to give a gift to someone from here before receiving one in order to find out, but seeing that Gabriel's birthday party is in a few weeks, it's likely that he'll receive some presents first. The best bet, I suppose, is to err on the side of politeness and send good, old-fashioned handwritten thank-you notes!

Random endorsement

A week and three days after getting home from our long trip, I finally finished clearing out our suitcases and putting everything away. The last step of the process was to buy some plastic bins for bathroom storage and divide up the travel-sized or rarely-used items from the jumble of toiletries and makeup, and stash them along with the travel cases and extras.

This activity got me thinking about makeup, and travel, and my top product recommendation, for what it's worth coming from me. Because I'm not much of a makeup person, in that I don't wear a whole lot--usually just a sweep of blush, maybe some lip gloss or lipstick, and if I have an extra few seconds, some mascara. But I love makeup anyway, which I think has mostly to do with the petite size of the products: the cunning round pots or square palettes or oblong tubes, the tiny brushes, the glossy glints of metal, the hint of bright colors inside. Oh, and the satisfying snap of a compact, the sound a lipstick cap makes when you put it back on, the click of a shadow box, the way they lie smooth and weighty in the palm of your hand.

For this reason I love makeup samples, because they are even tinier, cuter versions of themselves, and also, since I don't wear much makeup, I can actually use them up (or not feel bad when they expire and I need to throw them away). I never buy full-sized mascara, for example, because I never can finish a tube before it's time to toss. Plus! Since I travel so much, they are the perfect size for taking up less of my precious carryon space.

Which brings me to my recommendation. It's not for makeup, but for a face cleanser, one that travels really well. I have always had rather dry, sensitive skin, prone to random pimples, although the latter has--thankfully!--all but disappeared since I had Gabriel. I try to wash my face consistently, but I hate putting harsh products on it, and although I need something scrubby, most exfoliating washes hurt too much.

Enter Lush's Angels on Bare Skin. I've been using this face cleanser for probably eight or nine years now, and if a day goes by that I don't use it, my skin feels simultaneously dryer and less clean. It's a bit hard to get used to: a clay-based paste, it has actual lavender buds in it and ground-up almonds for the scrubby bits. You break off a small piece of the paste, mix it with a little water in the palm of your hand, then use as a cleanser. The clay cleans and moisturizes, the almonds scrub all the dirt away, and the lavender freshens and restores. I'm a huge fan of Lush for its eco packaging, great scents, all natural ingredients, and sparing use of preservatives, but this is my favorite item ever (second and third favorites: Honey I Washed the Kids soap, and Each Peach massage bar). It's not very expensive either, as the small container lasts me for months.

The other great thing about this stuff is how well it travels. I take a knob of it and smoosh as much as I can fit into one of those clear little plastic pots, the kind that come in those travel container sets (mine is very small, not much bigger around than a dollar coin, and quite flat, no thicker than a chapstick). The beauty of it is that because you need so little for each wash, that tiny pot lasts for about three weeks of daily use. I brought two for my five-week trip this holiday (the second pot was even smaller and I didn't pack it quite full) and I ran out the day before we flew home. Plus, it's not a liquid, so you don't have to put it in the carryon plastic bag, but I just stick it in there anyway since it takes up so little room. There's no worry about leakage, either.

There, that's my big beauty recommendation, one product I really would endorse. Of course there are a number of more boring items I'm also loyal to, like Cetaphil face lotion, Dove deodorant, Body Shop body butter, and Clinique lipstick, but people probably already know about those. I'm very fickle when it comes to things like body wash and shampoos and makeup because I like trying different brands and colors and scents, but I can't wear drugstore lipstick (they have some ingredient I'm allergic to).

Writing this, I had a funny memory from a few years back of my little nephew, 3 or 4 years old at the time, dashing into the guest room where I was staying at my sister's house. He was carrying my little pot of cleanser and had opened it, and he said, breathlessly, "Robin, look what I found! It smells SO GOOD!" So I guess I'm not the only one who endorses it.

Fuzzy

In order to go to the grocery store today, I layered up in jeans, warm socks and shoes, a fuzzy sweater, a striped jersey scarf, and a bright coral trench coat. I bundled Gabriel in his fleece and zipped him into his stroller's raincover (he doesn't like it very much). I pushed the stroller with one hand, and with the other held my blue polka-dotted umbrella.

What I'm saying is: it's cold. And rainy. I do the best I can with the cheery colors but it sure doesn't feel much like summer around here.

So when I get home, I open the big bag of ripe peaches that I had carried home (technically earmarked for the banana-peach-yogurt popsicles I plan to make for the kids who will be over for lunch tomorrow, along with their parents--M's coworkers--in yet another attempt to pretend it's summer). I eat two of them, one right after the other, standing over the sink, juice dripping down my wrist.

What I see, looking out the window, does not look like July.

But what I taste...ah, that's July.

Happy-making

I've decided to write about two things making my life great this week, in order to combat the frustrations induced by wading through dissertation revisions; a toddler who now thinks that the appropriate response to any of life's indignities, large and small, is to throw himself on the floor in a sobbing heap; and the discovery that this city has many more children than it does daycare spaces, but no one who can clearly explain how one goes about getting one of those spaces.

***

If you had asked me how I liked our lightweight Combi Cosmo Ex stroller, until the day we moved to Belgium I would have said it was great! Particularly good for hauling up stairs and easy to maneuver due to its narrow width and small footprint, Gabriel had been comfortable in it since around three months old and had taken countless naps, eaten countless snacks there, happy as a clam.

But then we got to our new home town, and the cobblestones and work zones and uneven pavement and curbs chewed up our Combi and spat it right out. The wheels got stuck in every crevasse, it balked at every curb, and half the time we ended up hauling it around with sheer force.

Fortunately, we had another stroller waiting in the wings. The bumblebee yellow, super deluxe Quinny Buzz that I randomly won on the internet. We had brought it with us to Barcelona in March, aware of our future move Europeward, and left it there. Honestly, I'd thought it would stay there until another baby comes along, because it's heavy and wide and takes up the entire trunk of my father-in-law's midsize (=compact in American terms) car.

But oh my lands. We did the switcheroo this trip, so the lightweight stroller good for carrying up many flights of stairs to our elevator-less apartment stays there, and the heavy-duty, air-filled tires of the Buzz can help us push Gabriel around here (not to mention giving him a more comfortable ride). There are no stairs here, just one step up to our front door, so the weight isn't as much of an issue. I was worried about the width, and in some places we'll have to take detours or abandon ship briefly, but so far it's not too much of a problem.

The difference is, no exaggeration, life-changing! I schlep so much stuff around with the stroller (no car=frequent heavy loads of groceries), and I can now steer the thing with one hand, even while it's fully loaded. In fact I did steer it with one hand, pulling a suitcase with the other, when we came back from the airport this weekend, and never felt so much as a twinge of stress on the steering arm. It easily rides over curbs with no extra lifting on my part, and it even fits through the narrow alley on our street that skirts the large, deep pit we have dubbed "the Hatch," due to its imposing metal substructure and our Lost geekery. The thing practically drives itself.

***

The second miraculous item is a knife. I should backtrack a minute and explain that when we got married we registered for a perfectly lovely set of Henckels knives, but I made the mistake of selecting them without trying them, and I've never been completely satisfied with how they sit in my hands, the length (too long), the weight (too heavy), the blades (too thin), etc. Then we moved to the US, and my mom loaned us a knife. This particular knife was a gift to her from my brother, brought home from a trip to Taiwan, I believe, and (am I remembering correctly?) made from recycled bomb metal. It has a santoku blade, is shorter than the chef's knives I was used to but still plenty long, and I fell in love with how it felt in my hands, how sharp it remained despite daily use (and even some unauthorized trips through the dishwasher). I was loathe to give it up, but mom wanted it back, naturally, when we moved out of Bloomington.

So I was on the hunt for a new knife to furnish my empty Belgian kitchen. While we were in Barcelona, we made a quick trip to the store where we registered when we married, and where we still have store credit, even though we've been steadily chipping away at it. Come to think of it, I guess it was kind of appropriate that we used up some of our registry money the week of our five-year anniversary! Anyway, I was determined to buy a knife that would equal or surpass that beloved old Taiwanese friend. I tried out a bunch as best I could, and settled on a 16-cm chef's knife by Global, hoping that the feel would translate well once I actually started chopping.

I opened it eagerly once we unpacked our suitcases and got to making Gabriel his latest favorite food, lentils in the Catalan-grandmother style (seriously, I've never seen him open his mouth so wide). I pulled out a few onions and carrots and garlic and tomatoes, and sliced away. Since I already gave away the punch line, let me just say "wow." Even carrots feel like butter under this blade. It handles so well, and I love the size, the weight, the feel of the handle in my palm. My only wish is that it had those santoku-like divots so food would fall away from the blade (the store didn't have any santokus), but it's a small quibble for something that will be practically the only knife (I've got a small paring knife and a slightly bigger prep knife) I'll need now and forever amen.

Like I said, it practically drives itself!

The find

I love interior design magazines and blogs, love drooling over images of other people's homes--people with great taste, innovative personal style. I love the "sneak peeks" feature over at design*sponge, because the homes are loved and lived in, not the ones in the glossy magazine spreads devoid of all signs of actual human habitation. I'm a sucker for casually but tantalizingly arranged vignettes, and especially those involving vivid typography of some sort...prints with words, old signage, rusty letters, vintage letterpress blocks.

But what gets me every time is the text that accompanies the image. "We found the [adorable, perfect, just-worn-enough item] in a flea market in France!" Or, "We stumbled across that [awesome mid-century piece] on the street!" The words "flea market find" get real old real fast. (Also overused: "I'm obsessed with..." Really? Obsessed?) Here's a perfect example: In a lovely budget redo, somebody airily mentions a print they "picked up at a Paris flea market."

Sure, I think. "Picked up," as easy as an errand to the dry cleaners. As if we all rummage around in French flea markets every day. As if there is anything besides cracked and water-swollen particleboard furniture on our street.

But then. We went to France, see. Last week, on vacation, with my parents. We rambled around Provence, bought bunches of lavender, lived in a little apartment in a town so small it didn't have a boulangerie (just a madcap baker who showed up with deliveries from the next town over, beeping his horn like the roadrunner at 9 am). And we went to a flea market. And behold! The flea market had woodblock letters, in big ramshackle piles, in which I could rummage to my heart's content, smudging my fingers with dusty ink.

We came home with a lovely selection of letters, and it's like candy to me. But I heretofore promise that I will not be the jerk who says offhandedly, "oh, we just picked those up in a French flea market." I will instead admire the letters, and point out how, among the other letters we picked just because they looked funky, we chose a tall mommy R, and a bold daddy M, and a little baby G.

Now I need to figure out how to arrange them in my own little vignette. On a table? A shelf? On a wall? I think this project is so cool (and yes, the words "a flea market in France" appear once again), but I don't have enough of them to pull it off. I'll have to experiment a little, which of course is half the fun.

Spicy

One of the unfortunate side-effects of this pregnancy has been the near-constant pain of fiery heartburn. This has been mostly kept under control with the blessed relief of doctor-approved Zantac, taken twice daily. But I still have breakthrough pain: mostly due to my inability to stop eating spicy foods.

I never realized just how dependent my diet--or, I should say, my cooking repertoire--is on the spicy foods. In the last week of meals, I have made:

1. thai green curry with shrimp, spicier than I had planned because the curry paste already had a lot of heat built in
2. rice and beans with chipotle chilis
3. burritos made with the leftover beans and extra (hot) salsa
4. fried rice made with the leftover rice and plenty of pepper flakes
5. this broth with soba noodles, to which I could not resist adding judicious glops of sambal oolek
6. home fries, with plenty of red and black pepper

I'm probably forgetting some. Each time, I dither about whether I should make the dish because I know it will cause (usually late-night) distress, but I still make it. Each time, I try to make the dish only a *little* spicy and still end up with some degree of fire. Why?

Also, I drink loads of cold water with the spicy meals and the midwife told me that drinking liquids with a meal can increase the effects of heartburn. She also told me that drinking water before bed can make things worse, but I can't help it because I'm continually thirsty, and can't stop drinking as much ice-cold water as I can get my hands on. Then there are the smoothies... because aside from the spicy dishes I keep making, mostly I crave cold, frosty beverages. I NEVER drink soda and I've even had a few cokes in the past weeks because the idea of a really cold one sounds so delicious to me.

Looks like I'm creating a fire-and-ice situation in my gut that is bound to end badly. Oh well, the Zantac takes care of most of the problem, and this all should go away once this kid is out and about and no longer hogging my personal gastrointestinal space.

In other news: my mom arrives today! I guess that means this baby is really supposed to make an appearance, and I'm actually going to be, like, the mother of an infant. Huh.

Body, mind

I had a prenatal massage this afternoon, a fantastic Christmas gift from my parents. I always love getting a massage (not that it happens that often; maybe the last time was a year ago?) and I was especially looking forward to this one, given the extra aches and pains associated with loosened joints and a squirmy baby's worth of extra poundage hanging off my frame. Also, last night I found it nearly impossible to sleep in any comfortable fashion, so I was really ready to relax.

The body-length bolster that I was to curl myself around looked promising, and the room was, as one would expect, suitably soothing. The massage itself was fantastic, thoroughly working all the sore spots I knew I had and some that I didn't. I was just disappointed in my inability to just let go, TURN OFF my brain and fully enjoy the moment. And then I found myself analyzing the fact that I couldn't turn off my brain, an endless loop of internal narrative.

One among many of the subjects that flittered across my consciousness concerned the music playing in the room: the obligatory Native American flute and oriental plucked strings. Who decided that this kind of music says "relax" to people? What if I would relax more easily to the strains of Bach or some smoky jazz? In fact, the more I thought about it, the more the airy flute and pseudo-eastern plucking got on my nerves. Counterproductive, to say the least.

Then, various anxious reflections on the state of my body and continual self-reassurance that any massage therapist will have seen things much, much worse and that's his job anyway and if he was grossed out by touching other people's feet he wouldn't have chosen this career.

And of course, the background hum--the insistent basso continuo of my days--of wondering about baby. When? is the first bone to worry over pointlessly, and then, scenarios of labor and delivery, and postpartum recovery and visitors and in general...life. With a baby. I'm constantly trying to visualize it but no matter how much I imagine and plan it seems impossible and distant and not something that is going to happen to me any moment. Technically, I could have a baby--our baby!--in my arms by this time tomorrow. If that isn't an overwhelming and scary thought, I don't know what is. Both because of what has to occur before getting to that point, and because of what being responsible for a whole new person means.

For what it's worth, though, I don't feel like anything is about to happen. My due date is another week and a half, and I think it'll be at least that, if not beyond, before baby makes an appearance. There are no signs--no further contractions, no nesting (I wouldn't mind a little of the nesting urge!), no dilation. But again, maybe it's just my inability to imagine it happening that makes it seem so far away!

Sigh. I'll just keep on with my daily smoothie fix (20 degrees and snowy outside and all I want to eat is frozen and cold food!), running around to appointments, trying to get enough sleep, and lots of leaning forward to encourage the baby to stay in a labor-friendly position. And then one day it'll happen. Just like that.

New year, snow

Today has been a quiet, hot cocoa kind of day. The snow hasn't stopped coming down since last night, so we are enjoying the feeling of being blanketed in a soft sweep of white. The Mister stayed home instead of going to the office, we got to have lunch together, and we worked quietly throughout the day. To-do lists seem to be put on hold (and they are many). Peppermint hot chocolate in the afternoon was a must. Students still haven't returned to campus, meaning the streets of the town have been quiet and peaceful. We went out for dinner last night and had to try four restaurants before we found one that was open.

Oh, and the Kings made it to Indiana! I pretty much forgot that the night of January 5, the three Kings deliver presents, and when I woke up on January 6 sure enough there were some surprise packages on the breakfast table.

The baby's bum is currently wedged tightly under my ribs, and his hiccups are making my whole belly shake. He seems to be running out of room...his goal for the new year, I think, is to find a different residence. But he has no idea what he's in for. We finally set up his furniture, which doesn't amount to much: a pack n' play, a stroller, a car seat. Probably none of them will feel as cozy as his floaty round cocoon.

I'm so glad we had this time between our Christmas trip and the beginning of the semester. We've spent time with friends and with each other, and have continued to get ready (as ready as we can) for the February newcomer. These days have each felt like gifts, as the first days of a new year should.

About face

Here is a question that I do not know how to answer: Should I join Facebook?

On one hand, pretty much everyone I know is there, and I have received many requests to join, and I think it would be a nice way to keep up to date on people's lives, while they keep up on mine. The Mister is on it, and I see the value of maintaining connections with people who otherwise would be lost to my past.

On the other hand. Oh, the other hand. I haven't joined so far because on a practical level, I think it would be just one more time suck on the internet. I also haven't joined because I'm exceedingly wary of managing my online presence under my full name. There's a reason this blog never mentions my last name, the Mister's name is not public, I don't post too many pictures, and many topics are off limits.

I also don't like the jumble of everybody in one's life being thrown under the category "friends" and everyone being privy to the comments and conversations of everyone else. (Which, admittedly, is part of the attraction of Facebook on the voyeuristic end.) I tend to have very distinct and small knots of close friends from the many places I've lived, and I don't think the kinds of relationships I have across the board necessarily "translate" from one group to the other. They're all facets of me, but they're different facets. I can imagine this leading to awkwardness. Maybe I'm too concerned about how people view me, but that's part of being a quiet/private person.

As a simple example, back when we first told our family about the pregnancy, one of my aunts congratulated M. on Facebook--perfectly natural and very thoughtful of her to do so. But he hadn't told any of his work colleagues yet, including those who were doing legwork for potential job placements for him. So he had to delete her comment (awkward) and hope that no one had seen it. I can imagine situations even more awkward than this one.

In addition, having resisted Facebook so far, I'm really indignant about the assumption that *everyone* is on it. I have missed important news from friends and relatives--the "we're moving!" news, the "I'm pregnant!" news, or worse, "the baby is born!" news--because they assume posting it as a Facebook update means that then everyone knows. In other words, I feel like Facebook sometimes cuts into the (dwindling) amount of personal connection we have with our friends and family (even if it's just an email) under the guise of a purported greater connection. Maybe we're mistaking connectivity for connection?

All of that said, I'm still really tempted to join, especially now that we're pregnant. It would be a good way to let friends and family have quick snapshots of our lives and our growing child, especially as it gets more difficult to write more thorough updates, and the blog might be too public a forum for baby pictures and so forth. So I'm open to being convinced. Should I join Facebook?

Living the questions

"Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves liked locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given to you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

- Ranier Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet

Should

I shouldn't be blogging. I should be:

1. packing

2. writing any of a gazmillion emails I have to write

3. attending to details for renting for the downtown apartment (new renters move in soon! but too many pesky things to do/fix/print/sign/move)

4. finding housing for a semester

5. finding housing for several of the five cities of my summer peregrinations

6. buying plane tickets and changing old ones

7. sorting through rafts and reams of papers and books to figure out which ones to take with me, with is basically:

8. packing

I really would like to bury my head in a hole, ostrich-style. (Do ostriches really do that? Or is that a myth?)

Oh! I would also like to write about Hungary, and how cool Budapest was, but that's not what I should be doing.

I should be packing.

First gear

Of the rental car companies that I consulted, only one had vans available that we could take out of the country. But they were out of minivans, so we had to go with a cargo van, the size-of a nine-passenger dealio. But then they didn't have any of those actually in the lot, so we were upgraded to an even bigger size, the kind with the roof pushed up like a bouffant hairdo.

The idea of me driving this beast through the French countryside is simultaneously amusing and terrifying. We have reservations at a little bed and breakfast for tonight, but I have visions of getting the van wedged into a tiny village lane, so I might just end up parking on the shoulder of the highway and hiking in from there (kidding, I think).

I've hardly driven in Barcelona, and never in Brussels, so I'm also nervous about negotiating my way in and out of the cities, neither of which is known for its pleasant and patient drivers. I guess there's something to be said for learning as you go, but: gulp!

If you need me, you'll find me in the slow lane.

Card, credit

Yesterday I finally got my Spanish residency card. It's colorful and iridescent and conveniently fits in my wallet. Hooray! Now I can legally... get started on yet another pile of paperwork that was awaiting my official identification number. Still, it's nice to be official.

Speaking of paperwork, I got a scary loan default letter yesterday, threatening all kinds of dire bad credit issues if I don't cough up the money.

But wait! I have paid off all my college loans! Why am I being bugged for money?

It is because of the folly of youth: in college, I co-signed a loan for a friend. I have not spoken with this person since college, so evidently it was not the kind of friendship that outlasts working together in the resident assistant program. But since she is not paying her loan, I am being hounded (my parents get all kinds of calls as well).

I have tried to find a way to contact this woman, but all I have at the moment is her street address. I guess I'll have to write an old-fashioned letter and ask her indignantly politely to pay her stupid $8.10.

Yes, all of this is over an unpaid eight bucks. Still, it really kind of stinks to be facing bad credit over not a lot of money, and I worry that she will continue to not pay off her loan, especially given the economy, and that this could get a whole lot worse.

Florid

The gargantuan bouquet of flowers the Mister brought home for me on Saturday was almost too big; it was hard to take it all in. So when the flowers started getting a little droopy and the water needed to be changed, I decided to spread them all around the house, a bit of brightness in every room.

There are gerbera daisies on my desk...


Blue irises in the bedroom...


Roses in the living room...


Lilies on the dining room table...


And on the coffee table, a, um... a lily-winged flying cow.

Off key

There was a time in my life when I didn't have any keys. I had sold my car: no car keys. I had moved out of the House of Love: no front door keys. I had left campus: no office keys or mailroom keys. I was living at my parents' house, and they never lock their door (it's Vermont, after all), so I didn't need keys while I was there. In those few months between moving away from Indiana and getting married, I felt a bit unmoored.

Because keys are like little metal dog tags; they tell you who you are and where you belong. I guess they're a sign of possessions, as well, and not having them might be freeing. But they also do what their shape promises. They unlock, they allow access, they permit you to enter the familiar interiors of your life.

I saw keys in a different way, however, when I watched a beautiful documentary about a young Bulgarian woman working as a cleaning lady in Amsterdam. The camera follows her through her lonely days in empty rooms, communicating with upper-class Dutch families mostly through notes, as she straightens and sweeps and vacuums and scrubs. Speaking to the camera, she says she thinks she is losing herself. She feels like a ghost.

But she also takes pictures. Self portraits of herself in the cleaning closet or the bathtub, surrounded by household cleaners. Empty rooms with rumpled sheets. They could be out of an interior design magazine, but because of the point of view threaded through the whole of the collection, they present a diametrically different message.

To the back of the photograph she pastes the words from those notes, repetitive in their obligatory "how are you" and their demands to sweep the back stairs, wipe out the cabinet, change the laundry, a never-ending to-do list. She hangs these photographs and the notes inside a paper cut-out house, and on the floor of the house, she places her large collection of front door keys, all pointing upwards, a menacing carpet of jagged metal.

For her, the keys mean alienation, entrapment; they are a barrier and a burden. She is permitted to enter everywhere but is denied anything that make a home a home. Far from her family, working illegally, she is stalled and alone. Remarkably, though, she seems genuinely optimistic and her smile is always at the ready.

The woman's name is Hristina Tasheva, and the documentary is called The Houses of Hristina (see the trailer here). You can see many of her photographs here (click on the collection "A better life" for the ones shown in the movie).

By following the story of one woman, listening strictly to her voice, the documentary presents a beautiful meditation on domesticity, immigration, interiority, gender, social class, and art.

I'll never think of keys in the same way again.

Dregs

The end of January is a tough part of the year. Christmas is over, the shiny newness of those resolutions has worn off, and it's still winter. I find myself:

Eating a lot of cheese.
Spending too much time asleep.
Battling the dreaded dry skin of winter.
Unmotivated to work.

Fortunately, there are some things that help:

My mom is coming to visit!
The sun is bright and the sky is blue, bearing a hint of promise for an early Spanish spring.
Warm tea and simple soups.
Actually getting the hang of some of those aerobics spins.
Nephews' smiles and laughter.
Good swinging jazz.
Dogged perseverance.

Hah! There are more things on the second list than on the first--take that, winter!

(PS: Happy birthday, sis!)

There but not there

I called my husband and dad on skype yesterday, eager to hear how the inauguration had gone... And it turns out, they didn't even make it inside! They stood in line starting at 8 am, and the line simply didn't move. There were no signs, no authorities, a sea of bodies as far as they could see, and the crush of people made it impossible to go anywhere. Other ticket holders started to protest, it was a chaotic scene, evidently, people clambering over walls, even some arrests after a while, and although they did everything as they were supposed to, they, along with hundreds of other people holding tickets, never got through the gates into the Mall. How disappointing! I'm glad I wasn't along, because I would have been just devastated. My husband, much more able to take these things in stride, was laughing about it already. He flew thousands of miles to attend the biggest event in recent history, only to stand in the cold for a few hours, unable to see or hear any of it! He was interviewed by a reporter and is already in the news, if that's perhaps some consolation. Sigh. He'll just have to watch the inauguration on the internet, like the rest of us poor overseas saps.