Explore, Armed with Needle and Twine

My baby was born safely and with a great story. That I'll tell later because it's so detail-filled and because it dredges up lots of intense emotions; we love birth stories because they're so dramatic, but they're also really hard to write down right.

His name is not Toby, but that's what he'll go by on this journal. His existence right now puts a wild card into every mundane task; every activity is made complicated because he lives. Eating meals consists of one of us eating while the other pacifies the baby. Sleeping has become a pleasurable thing again, but only because it's interrupted at least once during the night. This entry has gone too long unwritten because any activity on the computer is trumped by Toby's feedings and diaperings.

The only thing I wrote during my hospital stay was a sentence or two right after the birth: I have had an explosion in my heart because it's the only way to create a new room for this squirming, chirping, little thing. Right now, that room is occupied with making sure that Toby gets bigger; it will always be busy with action to be sure he has the best chance to succeed.

I have always wondered what that month or so of seclusion consists of, that time period after the birth where a mother simply refrains from going to work or school or church. The baby has an erratic feeding and sleeping routine to the extent that there's really no routine at all, but I just couldn't fathom what she did with all that time and what would keep her so apart. What would require her mom to come spend a week or a month with her.

I've discovered that Toby's wild card status has a lot to do with it. He adds an extra dimension of activity to anything and makes even every leisure activity more complicated. I'm also receiving all sorts of relatives and neighbors; there's some unspoken and previously unknown rule that if you want to see the baby, you ought to come to us. It means meals that fill our fridge without any of our effort, but it also means productivity goes down because visitors are genuinely happy and concerned for you.

I find, a week and a few days after the vaginal birth, that I can't stand for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. I've had my mom and my husband with me all week--one took paternity leave and one flew up to meet her first grandchild-- and even when we do go on shopping outings, they look at me with concern after one store because they don't want me to over-exert myself. I feel well cared for, in a slightly coddled sort of way. And I do admit that this store was enough and that the other stores can wait while we go home to have lunch.

And nap. Not only do I have sleep deprivation from multiple midnight feedings, my body is also healing from giving birth. I hadn't considered that before. But on the last day or Just'In's paternity leave, I can see more clearly how to jiggle the small things I want to do around feedings and diaperings. The mystery of that period of time is unveiled--it is simply a time to readjust the debris left around the explosion. And as my quiet son makes little bird noises, chirps and squawks, I can see how to fit the everyday music around his sounds.

I'm still pregnant. I was due yesterday. Because the baby hasn't come out on its own, I went to a non-stress test today at the hospital I'm delivering. To test the baby's liquid levels, heartrate relative to its movement, and all that jazz. Just to make sure its still a healthy baby while it refuses to come out. Just to be sure there's not a physical reason it's not coming out.

This uses audio ultrasound and motion-sensitive monitors. Even though I made sure to eat a good meal before I went to the appointment so the baby would move around a lot, the baby only kinda passed the test. If it didn't pass at all, I wouldn't be sitting here, typing this out; I'd be in labor and delivery, being induced out of fear for the baby's health. If it passed with flying colors, we'd still be in the hospital twice a week, doing more of these tests, until it comes out on its own, probably out of madness or boredom or claustrophobia.

The middle ground between passing wonderfully and failing miserably is going in tomorrow for another test instead of next week. A re-take, basically. Another really good meal, only this one can't be timed because tomorrow is a Saturday. Only the labor and delivery part of the building will be open, and they'll call me when they want me to come in. Oh, boy.

If I'm not induced because the kid fails one of these non-stress tests, I'll be induced because my doctor is no longer delivering at this particular hospital. She'll be on this stage until next Saturday, which marks the end of the month, and then she's moving with the rest of the show to a new location. The entire doctor's office--all the physicians and nurses and paintings and equipment and office girls-- is moving down the road. Way down the road. Their last day open at this location--two bus rides away, equivalent to about half an hour's travel for me-- is Wednesday. On which day, my doctor and I will discuss induction options.

If not for one reason, then for another. Unless I start labor right now. Or... now. Or right... now. sigh. And I'm actually in good spirits about all this. Either that, or I'm slightly anxious, but apparently both of those feelings are normal. If it were my choice, we'd all just kinda wait until the baby is ready to come out, even if it's in two weeks' time. The doctor offered to strip my membranes at my last appointment, which is a technique that might encourage labor, and I declined. Part of it was because she warned me that it would be more painful that the cervical examination she'd just performed, but the other part is because I want to give the baby every chance I can to let it come when it wants. Without me prodding or pushing or shouting in its ear.

I could eat spicy food every night or introduce sperm into the mix or take a ride around the complex with all its speed bumps. Or ask for induction before it's medically necessary for some little one's health. Induction isn't a desirable action here at Explore with Twine. It might be unavoidable at this point, with all these obstacles, but not desirable.

There's this commercial that's playing recently on public television. I'm talking about a commercial for a fibromyalgia medicine that suggests that you run to your doctor, insist that you have this disease because a two-minute narrator made you an expert at self-diagnosis, and demand a prescription for this particular stuff, whether it suits you and your health issues or not.

I'm writing about it because I admire the clever visual cues behind the message. These types of commercials usually have the spokesperson walking around, doing some sort of task in some sort of setting while they talk directly at the camera or magically voice-over their own actions. This one is no different--our character is in a suit jacket and dress shirt with a briefcase, greeting people as she walks, ordering coffee, and sitting and talking with friends.

It's the first two seconds of the entire commercial that tell you what her profession is, and those first few seconds connect all the rest of her actions throughout the commercial into things she would typically do. It's a shot through a window into an empty auditorium, with our star standing on stage, at a podium; the window has "Lecture Hall" printed on it. Those printed words establish that our character is a professor, and that she's walking around a college campus, greeting students, having a snack with colleagues.

If you took out that shot through the window and just showed her standing at the podium, putting her stuff away, the entire commercial would be harder to put together. That shot makes or breaks the whole thing; there's still the information about the medicine, but it would make less sense visually. That's the work of video editors and directors. It takes thought and planning to make sure a setting like that makes sense. That commercial is someone's work of art.

...draped in a gorgeous tent I got from sparrowfae and her mom.



Other than this, I'm simply trying to do something productive each day. This does not include sleeping, reading a book and favorite places online, or watching TV, and sometimes includes a motivation list on paper of two or three things. I also strive to get ready for the day each day, even if it's at 3PM; being hygienic is somehow linked to my mental well-being and my productivity rate.

Meanwhile, isn't that shade of orange gorgeous?

I had an interesting interaction with my doctor today. Since last week, I now see her every week until I pop. I've had lots of practice contractions, both Braxton-Hicks and false labor, some that hurt and some that don't, and I'm wading in all sorts of birth and labor jargon. My family is excited--they put me in their prayers every chance they get, mom's crocheting around cloth I picked out months ago and contemplating what stuff to buy me, and my siblings are just excited to get a few unknown days off of school to come visit us.

Other people are excited, too. I had a surprise baby shower on Saturday, and I have a planned one this Saturday. We had one shower on a Saturday before my birthday, and we'll have another one when the baby is born for another side of the family. Lots of parties for lots of people who are all sorts of excited--it must be their bundle of joy as well, of course.

It's kind of alarming to read that no one knows what exactly starts labor. We know some activities that can encourage it (sperm, castor oil and spicy foods) and what doesn't (jarring or jumping or walking), but no scientific individual has found any conclusions on the chemical/hormonal/state of being that actually triggers that process. Have they? Does the baby instigate it by flipping some sort of switch? Is the mother's body responsible for a specific state of being, like a perfect stew in a cauldron?

But we're talking about my doctor, who is an interesting mix of scientific fact, medicinal knowledge, a really good listening ear, and a satisfying soother of petty patient concerns. She tells me during my appointment today, "You're getting big for such a little person." With a smile, of course.

She also tells me that last week, I was effaced 30 percent, this week, I'm effaced 50 percent, but I should get used to the idea that I might be delivering after my due date. She ends our visit by telling me, "See you next week, if you've still got that baby in you." All these mixed messages should probably have me worried or concerned with the state of our medical system, but instead, they just reaffirm that uncertainty I was expressing two paragraphs ago.

There is an air of mystery to this whole birth process. Every pregnancy is different, every baby is different, and every girl involved is different. I could efface fully in the next day and start labor, or I could still be "oof"ing and "phew"ing after October 22. I could give birth like Mary, my grandma, whose five births were all so quick that her husband asked, in earnest, at one point, "Do I have time to get a haircut?" Or I could labor for twelve hours before going to the hospital like many first-time moms do.

So for now, I'll just keep staring at my empty crib with its gorgeous bedding, working through contractions that aren't regular, and sifting through the stuff I get from baby showers. And eventually, you'll get a final belly shot and a post from the hospital with a name and pictures.

The weather has turned cold, as it often does right after my birthday. The event was on Sunday, during which I spoke in church. And performed with the choir. And visited some friends whom we love to hang out with. We had apple crisp for birthday cake. I got lots of boring adult birthday booty: thigh-high and knee high socks, books from lots of different people, an apple corer and onion goggles, Gattaca, a green zipper flower, and money. I didn't get anything for my birthday that was related to the baby growing inside me; the kid will get its own birthday. I'd rather celebrate my own.

Of course, people still mentioned it, just because they're all so excited when they see me that they can't help it. And I had a baby present gently given to me right before church by a stranger who was sad she couldn't make it to the baby shower I'd invited all the girls at church to. I made it a point not to open it on my birthday--not to figure out who it was from.

But this week, during the change to cold weather that only means a drastic change in my life, I've been reading someone else's take on birth. I'm reading all his posts--going back countless pages in his archives to catch up-- but my favorites so far are his post on the elimination of baby gear and his worries on the psychological effect pink-for-girls will have on his own newborn.

During the last week or so, we've made progress in our accumulation of the necessities: there's a crib here, and a carseat. I'm happy with the crib because it's smaller than standard size and it folds up quite handily so we can stash it under a bed or in the back of a closet. And it's got wheels on the bottom of it. Granted, it's also black (which is gorgeous), height adjustable (to three different settings), but of cheap quality. How was I supposed to know its quality when I added it to a registry? The carseat is convertible so it should accommodate every kid we have until each one reaches seatbelt age/weight or until the carseat wears out or expires.

We've also ordered a stroller that I'm thrilled with. And it's evident that I'm in preparatory mode again. It was nice not to think of birth and babies and material things for a day, though.

I love this guy I live with. Yes, I'm married to him, and yes, we have the level of commitment that a marriage requires, but I'm just dwelling on the love right now.

I have a song stuck in my head that starts with the line "Your smile lights up a room like a candle in the dark; it warms me through and through."

That's close, I've decided, but it's not quite it.

While I'm sitting in the bedroom, reading stuff, I'm feeling impatient for the pizza that we've ordered. I'm trying to be comfortable on my chaise, and I've just noticed that I've had the ceiling light on for awhile. It's probably the harsh, weak light that comes from there that's making me irritable; I'm not a fan of one source of lighting that tries too hard to fill up the entire room from overhead. I adjust my sitting position to accommodate the growing weight inside me and the shifting center of gravity.

And then this handsome guy I live with walks in the room. He's just looking over my shoulder at what I'm reading, and he just has an innocuous comment about something, and he only wants a kiss or two. But suddenly, everything is right and I'm at ease. I can laugh, I forget I'm pregnant and uncomfortable, and I'm enjoying the time I have with my best friend. And my best friend thinks I'm worthwhile to talk to and to be around. I feel confident and that my opinions are valid and worth expressing.

I had an early doctor's appointment this morning, and the sun rose just before I left the apartment to get to the bus stop. While walking through the apartment complex, I almost stepped on something small laying in the middle of the sidewalk; I noticed it just as my right foot was about to hit the pavement. I stepped inward at the last moment and barely missed crushing it.

And I was instantly glad I did--it was a monarch butterfly, its wings both flat on the ground, one on top of the other. Fully colored: vivid orange with lots of tiny black spots and very long, black antennae. It must have been rather large for my dim eyes to notice such detail. As soon as I wondered whether it was dead, the wing on top started twitching. Recovering from a fresh emergence or from a chance encounter with something fatal? Dying after a full summer of searching for a mate and having either exulted success or disappointment? Or just resting in an odd position?

Do butterflies sleep? We know they hibernate and metamorphize, but do they transfer pollen and collect nectar at night? Whatever the answers to all these squiggly lines, I chose to let it alone, to leave it be, its wing still twitching away. I hoped it survived, or, at the very least, I hoped some toddler with an attentive guardian got some sort of awed and reverent lesson on nature from it.

All thoughts of butterfly passed cleanly through my head as I continued onward. Until several hours later when I returned on that same sidewalk. I watched the butterfly fly from ground level toward me, behind me, and then ascend until it was far above the buildings around me, a perfectly healthy specimen of its race with no limp in its flight. I didn't actually see it lift off the ground, mostly because I wasn't looking for it, but it's almost as if it got out of its seat as I entered the room. Why did it choose that particular moment to take off? Did I startle it? Was it waiting for me?

Perhaps it's some metaphysical manifestation of my baby. Or maybe I've got a guardian butterfly, and it was just making sure I made it home safely today.

I took this picture in a fit of inspiration by the color and composition of the scene. These pillows and afghans normally dwell on my dress-up box, draped and tucked on top and around, but I tossed them all here so as to get inside the treasure chest. It's full of brightly-colored hats and scarves and clothes that I don't care too much about, but would be lots of fun for little hands and flighty minds to rifle through in play. Aren't they just the right thing to bring cheer and keep us all from being too serious about ourselves?

(From One of Apartment Therapy's Kids' Room Tours here)

I have this idea in my head, this concept. It has to do with what I want my home to look like, but also with what kinds of toys my kids will own. Like all idealistic concepts that get formed in my brain, this one is probably unrealistic and fluffy. It formulated itself into images and phrases last week; it’s ready to be projected.

This funny idea has formed because I’ve babysat in people’s homes. I’ve seen what their living rooms look like. I look at how people around me allow their children to live. And I think it’s ugly. I also think it can be prevented. The best way to present this concept of how I want to live can best be expressed in disjointed images, so read along and bear in mind that all of these are connected.

You’re sitting in church, and you’re surrounded by children at various stages of development. You look behind you and you see an infant in a large, plastic carseat with a handle on the top. From the sunshade above the kid’s head and from the handle are draped lots of bright, cartoony stuffed animals. Not just bright and stuffed, but primary colors, plastic, and with the capability to light up and make noise. Several of these, hanging above the child’s head.

Another infant, sitting in a parent’s lap, is gnawing on a paper cup. You’re at a family reunion, outside, so the kid probably snatched the cup from the tabletop. The parent notices and pulls a brightly-colored, plushy plastic toy from a nearby bag and tries to distract the infant with it, but the kid likes the cup better and won’t let go. There’s probably an element of boring, familiar toy versus something new and exciting, and you wonder why the parent even bothers having the toy when everyday objects work just as well.


(From Etsy)

You walk into a home with several children, all under the age of seven. You can tell that the parents have cleaned their home to make it look as neat as possible. There’s no clutter that usually accompanies typical chidren’s play, the surfaces on the nice, cherrywood entertainment center are all clean and the furniture is fingerprint free. None of the glass in the room has streaks on it and the carpet is free of crumbs. It looks ready to receive company.

There’s also a pile of plastic children’s furniture in the corner of the living room, in front of the bookcase. A play kitchen in white and purple, a walker that is essentially a plastic feeding area on wheels, and one of those red miniature cars that the kid can sit in and move with her feet. You think little of it until you’ve been in the house for awhile: the backyard is covered in snow and the bedroom has toys neatly tucked onto shelves that fill the walls. The small house doesn’t have a garage or a shed, as far as you can see. The corner of the living room IS the storage place for the kid furniture.

There is an abundance of ugly, plastic toys out there. All of these incidents make me sad because they can be avoided. I’ve also got words like “overstimulation” and “unecessary entertainment” popping into my head; it appears that this idea’s conclusion is incomplete. It has to do with parents being aware of the toy purchases they make for their children, but it’s more than mere appearance.

I’m having trouble coming up with a tidy ending for this idea—the closest I can get is that I want to be able to tuck all my child’s toys into containers, bins, cupboards and onto shelves, to make my small space transition completely from play time to quiet time, from daycare to adult conversation, from a period of social interaction to a period of spiritual education that has no toys in sight.

Many plastic toys I’ve seen look unwieldy and bulky, but I don’t think it’s just the plastic: Legos are fine, as are dolls and toy cars. It could be my aversion to developmental toys that are intentionally big and brightly-colored—I prefer the aesthetics of simple wood and felt--but is it necessary to dangle them in the face consistently, from the carseat, the crib, the stroller, and the high chair? It is possible for parenthood to be graceful and physically manageable and appealing, right?


(From Nova Naturals)

Instead of a carseat lugged into the grocery store by a handle, I’d like a sling; instead of lugging a heavy stroller onto the bus and then going back for the child and the diaper bag, I’d like the transition from bus stop onto bus to be a fluid and graceful dance. And that requires the right equipment and a consciousness of its functionality in the store, at the time of purchase.


(From a beautiful store called Romp)

By today, the last day in August, this is the final portrait of my porch garden:



It was fun trying to see if I have any sort of green thumb. Not only did Snuffy and Murdock thrive in the summer light, but I kept a whole bunch of other plants alive, too. I even grew two from seed: the two in the milk jug on the far left that vaguely look like fruitless tomato plants. The rest of the seeds sprouted in one green mass and even produced two flowers before they died in the hot August heat, but look at all that lived. Most of these were plants I got from funerals this summer, but I kept them alive. There's an ivy plant from those urns that I successfully transplanted to a milk jug. Aren't you proud of me?

Unfortunately, I know Utah weather, and I know that the nights get cooler in September. I prefer to give everything but Snuffy and Murdock and that other one in the pot away to people while they're still alive. Every plant has a chance to live--and who knows? Maybe those unidentified tomato-looking plants are weeds. I certainly don't have room for more than three plants inside my apartment, even if I did sprout them from seed. Technically, the definition of a weed is something that's prolific even when it's not wanted; by that definition, none of these are weeds. I just hope they find homes where they can be given a thriving chance. Besides, that's all plants want to do: proliferate.








In stark contrast to plants, I've got two boxes in my apartment that fascinate me. The first is our microwave box that sits in our spare bathroom right across from the toilet. We're keeping it because it'll be the best way to pack the microwave when we move again; it's also handy as a table for the magazines in that bathroom. Apparantly, boxes need certificates. I think it's cool.

The second box is a granola box I bought two weeks ago. Your average cereal box from a well-known cereal maker, except for this stamp on the top flap. The question is: are they referring to the cardboard, the stuff inside, or both?

I've gotten some attention about a post here that needs some clarifying; I'm referring to my recent thoughts on class. I asked my mom for her honest opinion when she told me that she'd enjoyed reading my blog; I love her and value her insight.

"You sound like a snob, and it sounds as if you don't like Just'In's family."

Hm. I hadn't meant to bring that tone, and it certainly isn't my opinion. I appreciate Just'In's family, and I enjoy spending time with them. Their family dynamics are very different from my family dynamics, but that's only because they're a gathering of adults--aunts, uncles, parents. When I see my family, which is not nearly as often, we're doing kid-oriented activities because I have siblings who are in middle school; whenever I see them, someone's on vacation. Just'In's family gatherings usually involve a meal and lots of talking, but it doesn't mean I don't enjoy those activities, too.

That last paragraph is awkward in its phrasing; I don't think in terms of "his family" and "my family"; I feel very much an active part of both groups. I apologize for sounding like a snob; uncollected and frank thoughts on class are bound to pull on a loose string somewhere.


Meanwhile, here's a recent picture of my growing belly that everyone can enjoy:



I had a co-worker tell me this week, "Your belly is growing out and up."

I told her, "Well, it's got to grow somewhere, and I'm glad it's doing what it's supposed to do."

I also find that babies, the experience of bearing and delivery, cross all boundaries of class and time. Everyone can talk about babies. Thank goodness.

I enjoy a well-placed compliment. Too often do I hear, "You look cute today!" I thank them for the compliment, as one ought to when given one, whether one likes it or not.

I've expounded on my thoughts of the word "cute" before; "Cute" is reserved for babies and little girls, and I rarely dress to look like a little girl. There are items of my wardrobe, mind you, that if worn together, look exactly like something a frilly, sweet little girl would wear, but I don't wear them together intentionally.

I have come to a conclusion, however, that society is lazy. Well-placed compliments aren't thought up anymore. We use "cute" nowadays to indicate "I like that" or "you look good today". It's just a general phrase that applies to anything that appeals to us as females. Thus, I don't feel nearly as insulted as I used to.

Besides saying, "You're always cute when I see you," which is something I heard recently from a friend, I prefer something more specific:

"You look remarkably put-together."
"I love that dress. Where'd you get it?"
"Your outfit is well-coordinated today."
"The look you've got going on is really attractive/interesting. Were you going for punk rawk or casual emo?"

This might be hoping for too much, though. I'll just have to get in the habit of translating "cute" to something else whenever I hear it pointed at my direction.

The big event of the week for my congregation has been to get a member and his family moved. Just'In spent Saturday morning hauling boxes from one of the two sheds they've got full-to-the-ceiling with stuff. He finally just had to throw up his hands and tell them, "That's enough for me. I have to go home." The task wasn't done, and probably still isn't done.

On Tuesday, I went over with four other women and two teenage girls to help them pack. When we rang their doorbell and told them we were here to help, their response was, "We'd love you to help pack, but we don't have any boxes." So we spent the night looking for boxes, each of us scattered pell-mell over the community, and we came up with quite a bit. At nine in the evening, they finally asked us to stay and help pack; we'd already helped since 6:30 that evening. Dark had already fallen, and it was time for our families to sleep. We had to politely extract ourselves.

I promised, before I left, that I would show up the next morning to help them pack. "Them" consists of an elderly gentleman, his wife, and her twin sister. When I arrived the next morning, a stranger let me in their house and told me that they weren't home. The gentleman was at work, and the twins had gone out for breakfast and planned to go out for lunch as well. I called a cell phone and left a message; I was there, like I promised, but I didn't know what they wanted me to do.

Meanwhile, I helped the stranger who let me in the house; he was a friendly handyman of sorts, and he took down the three ceiling fans that they wanted to take with them. I packed them: found boxes that would fit, then found the packing material and the tape. While looking for all these things, I saw that much had been packed since I was last there. It no longer looked like they had just started packing, but rather like they wanted to move in a week or so.

The girls came home and, after a couple of small errands, asked me out to lunch. I wholeheartedly agreed. I chatted with them as we went to their regular lunch joint: a truck stop called Sapp Brothers. Fascinating establishment. The food at the buffet was mediocre, but edible; for two little old ladies who probably don't cook for themselves too often and who don't care much for tasty food anymore, it was understandable why they were regulars to this place.

There were phones on the wall in every booth for truckers to call their families or their employers while they ate. When we went to the bathroom, we passed a gas station-like area with snacks and medicine and such, but we also passed racks of clothes and movies for sale. There was a fast food establishment there as well, in case you don't feel like diner-atmosphere food

The most fascinating to me was a large sign that pointed up a flight of stairs. The place was strangely lacking the usual state souvenirs, but this sign said "(Dr. Izzy's) Chiropractor/DOT Physicals" and "Dental/Showers (up this way)". In examining their website, they also have a small movie theater; I find it funny that they've included a picture of their bathrooms. And of course, they've got a huge truck repair shop, sized to fit those dinosaurs of the road.

The sisters, who have the same hairstyle and wear matching outfits, took me back to their place after "feeding their worker" and had me do some real packing in one of their two sheds out back. I quickly packed three boxes before I had a tour of my local grocery store to get to; that was fascinating as well, if not deserving of an entirely different post. Just as I suspected, however: they weren't out by Thursday like they'd hoped. But their three lifetimes of stuff that's never been sorted through make me feel nice and tidy, compared to them.

This week, I found myself in an ice cream shoppe, devouring delicious cold mangoes and tiredly contemplating class on my wedding anniversary. It's funny what comes out of your head when you're tired yet feeling celebratory.

I don't care much about class in the societal sense. It has its presence, and I notice it a vague sense that one notices one's surroundings. When I'm on the bus, many of the people who surround me have stretched, stained, or torn clothing. Missing teeth and body odor are frequent on buses and at bus stops; how odd that the majority of class is determined by appearance.

It's also determined by word choice, which may or may not reflect education. How funny that my religion defines both of these traits, to some extent: we have modesty and language guidelines. Does this mean that religion attempts to transcend class?

The thought along class lines came about because I was watching the people around me; I was sitting in the window while licking an orange cone, looking out across the courtyard. Most of the people I saw were physically very boring; no one dressed in anything that caught my eye; no one had interesting hair styles or clothes. Of course, some of this has to do with the types of people who live in Utah and who frequent malls like the one we were in: malls in general are geared toward upper-middle class women, and in extension, their children and their partners.

Yet, it was Just'In's idea to go to this mall, and there we sat, he in his loud Hawaiian shirt and I in rich saffron silk and a funny hat, both of us carrying a load of books: our treasure-catch from bookstores. I contemplated simple facts, sitting there in the window: I knew Just'In was of a slightly lower class when I dated him, but I obviously didn't care all that much about the fact because I married him. His parents are interesting: his mom is probably at poverty level and his dad and stepmom live as middle-middle class people, both working, but both remodelling their small four-bedroom house.

I went to a high school of mostly inner-city kids because of the programs that were there, and most of my friends were of a slightly lower class than I was. I didn't live in the same neighborhood they did, nor did I care much about our money status. I lived in the neighborhood of one of the rich schools in the city, but I chose to attend school elsewhere. I didn't care about class, nor did I ever stick my nose into the air or down into the ground in blissful ignorance. I also didn't associate with the popular preppies or the people who might be considered of highest class.

I find the people I'm friends with are interesting and vivid. I just naturally gravitate there. We dress colorfully, we throw around fascinating ideas, and we have scintillating conversation. I have friends who are thinkers, artists, dancers, laughers, musicians, and true geeks. I like to think that I choose to surround myself with people who transcend class and monetary classification in general. I always knew I'd marry a poor, starving artist or a teacher. Realistically, we're barely above the poverty level, mostly because we're just out of college, and as frugal as we are about money, I don't think any sort of classification crosses our minds very often. We're happy living as we are, even if we're not where we want to be, geographically.

I'm curious as to what you think: is this an American trait, this mild yet intentional ignorance to class lines? Have I covered all the traits that define class, and are we more conscious of class than we think? Do you see it around you more prevalently than I?

I often sigh in bliss of the smell of summer. I much prefer summer to winter, but what exactly does summer smell like? I'm not talking about smells associated with summer, like fruit and grass and sweat and chlorine. Certain candies, sugars in popsicles and shaved ice, the sand on beaches, sunscreen. I'm thinking of those first few moments of summer after all the winter has gone away in spring; we step outside and we can just tell it's the beginning of a new summer.

I guess the easiest answer is that we can smell the warmth; after all, summer is warmer than spring, which is how we know of the transition between the two seasons. But, really? Can we smell warmth? Can we smell the green of full summer? Does the sun make the world smell a certain way when it heats the world up? Do the bugs and the green trees contribute to that summer smell?

I'm going to postulate, very unscientifically, that we can smell heat and the color green. We can smell the teem of trees and the birth of bugs, the anticipation of paradisical weather and of many, many outdoor parties under warm nights. We can smell the possibility of sprinkler shrieks and soaked gasps, and we can also smell the exhaustion of the entire body as it flops onto the bed after a heavy, hot day.

What a beautiful scent, the aroma of summer.

Yesterday, I had a little energy leftover after work. This doesn't usually happen; I usually drag myself home with aching feet and a starving body and stay off my feet as much as possible for the rest of the day. So, I dropped by a store that sells new books with the intent of buying a book that I knew was on sale and maybe another book as a treat for myself.

The book I wanted was there, and so were three others, two of which I thought were also on sale by where they were placed on the shelves. None of them were marked down, even when I asked the cashier to double-check. You know that awkward moment when you're standing at the checkout counter, and you're shocked by the price that you're expected to pay, but the cashier is looking at you expectantly? I had one of those moments. But I paid for the books and felt numb as I walked out.

The numbness didn't last long. I ran the numbers of my last paycheck in my head, still unspent, and told myself that I didn't rack up debt, and I still had more than half of my paycheck leftover. I don't often buy myself new books,--why, when used bookstores and Amazon exist?- and it won't become a frequent occurrence. Still, later that day, I felt foolish. Under that moment of confidence, I had written my name in all the books to prevent myself from regretting anything; it didn't work. I admitted my impulsiveness to Just'In, and he shook his head in disbelief when I told him I couldn't return them. Still, he ruffled my hair and called me silly, and I was just relieved that his confidence in me hadn't wavered.

That foolishness only intensified when I realized that there was a need that had to be fixed. I'd discovered earlier that the display on my watch had faded, but knew that the instruction booklet for it was somewhere in Just'In's files. When he got home, he confirmed what I'd suspected: it was the watch battery, which is not protected under the watch warranty.

I need my watch for work. Retail environments intentionally don't hang clocks in their stores, and they don't want their employees to have cell phones on the sales floor, either. The only clocks, therefore, are on the store phones and on the registers, which has me often walking to the back of the store to check if I'm off my shift. Thus, I needed to get my watch battery replaced today so I could use it for the rest of the work week. It figures that my watch dies during the week I'm scheduled to work for four days versus one, like I've normally been scheduled.

This only added to my internal angst, and when I woke this morning, I felt very insecure about my money-spending abilities. Only a dunce will spend almost $50 on a want when she ought to spend the money on a need and when she's got a book-buying outing planned next week for her anniversary. The dunce managed to shake herself out of the worry on her walk to the appropriate bus stop--all sorts of things to look at and watch; the motion of newly-rested feet was pleasant. She also managed to stay distracted with the people on the buses and with the need to walk to all the right places and through all the right doors.

I had written down the name of a store to go to for watch battery replacement, but it wasn't anywhere in the mall I went to today, like I thought it was. (We didn't buy the watch in this mall, but rather, one in Ogden. Thus, the store recommended to get the watch battery is not in this mall, but in the one in Ogden) So, I did what every normally-frugal person does: I asked all the jewelry stores in the mall for the price and time it would take for the service and the battery. I was just about to head to the lowest-priced one when I realized I'd forgotten a store. And to my astonishment, when I asked there how much a battery replacement would cost, the salesguy told me it was free. For the battery and the service.

If you live in the Salt Lake area and you need a new watch battery, go to Schubach's in Fashion Place Mall. I didn't pay them a dime, and the salesguy changed the battery right there on the glass jewelry counter, in front of me, dressed in a snazzy, salesman suit and wielding tiny screwdrivers from a cardboard box. His co-worker even set it to the correct time for me.

And I felt so good about the free battery, I bought my favorite mall food for lunch: a garlicky pretzel with marinara and a delicious smoothie. With all regret and insecurity erased.

With this sort of start, this proves to be an interesting week as well. Hooray for summer adventures.

At a fascinating garden lecture by a tree expert who was walking around downtown Salt Lake, pointing out various trees and what their strengths and weaknesses are. From a lady within the crowd:

"Are those the ones I like?"


At a Pioneer Day picnic, from a lady in our congregation:

"You're just cool."

She was talking to me, and it made my day. During my teenage years, I strove to be cool, even if it was only within our strange, quirky group of theatre friends and societal misfits. We all know there will come a day when my kids will realize that I am totally not cool; I'm not looking forward to that day.


At a family reunion last weekend, from someone I know only by face and who had commented several times on how cute my belly was. Toward the end of the activities, while we were arranging people so we could take their family pictures:

"The reason I'm so tickled about your pregnant belly is because you make pregnancy look easy; you just glide everywhere. I was out to here when I was pregnant, and I was just miserable. You look like you're enjoying yourself and having fun. You make it look so effortless."

I'm pleased today with what I'm wearing. It is possible to look put together with a bun in the oven:



I only work one day this week, but it still proves to be full of activities and interactions. A family reunion, a garden lecture, a doctor's appointment, several Freecycle interactions, several ward activities, and a list of lots of things to do. I feel like I haven't been writing here much; a change in activity should bring new material.

This journal is in the middle of a transition because I'm in transition. I'm no longer a student who's married and living in a strange land that is Utah, but a girl who's transitioning into the habits of parenthood and the more languid leisures of adulthood. I'm warning all who read this: this might become somewhat of a mommy-blog. I've settled into this fact; my children will be a large part of my life for at least the next twenty years.

Of course, I don't know how much of my children's information I'll impart to you, the public. I've seen different approaches from other mommy-blogs I read, but I don't read them because they are mothers. Some don't post their children's faces or their real names, and some do. In any extent, I still hope this will be a good writing source. I'm sure I'll find moments where I need to escape into the adult world with adult words and thoughts; I'll have moments where I won't want to even mention my kids. I'm also sure I'll need a set of hobbies so that I'm not Constant Mommy; I know beautiful women who have writing careers with their blogs and with free-lancing projects on other blogs and who also have children.

I don't know how I'll fit in with them. Rest assured, I don't think my old interests will die. Not completely. I still love books and theatre and trees. I still enjoy a good link, a pretty and useful product, bright colors and both new and old ideas. I still have a weird sense of humor and share nightly laughs with my best friend right before bed. Those old habits will just change in intensity because I also enjoy kids--I've done a large amount of babysitting and I feel like I helped my parents raise my three youngest siblings. Right now, I'm frequently babysitting a toddler named Wyatt as his mom starts her own massage business and am enjoying my interactions with him. He makes me feel competent in my upcoming role.

Heaven knows I'm keeping myself busy, and in the last two weeks, it seems I'm all about nurturing, creating, and enriching. I was feeling rotten yesterday, and I made cinnamon rolls. Last week was full of sewing projects to accommodate a larger bowling ball. I acquired another plant from my grandfather's funeral on Monday. and it joins the beautiful green out on my balcony; most of the plants I don't know the names of and will probably Freecycle when September rolls around, but the summer wealth of growth seems to mirror that of the growing fetus inside me. I'm loving a new digital TV channel called Create, and the shows I most frequently catch are cooking shows.

I hope you'll stick with me as I discover what parenthood is like, and how I change in spite of it or within the role. It truly is an adventure, and the course of this blog is unknown.