Not-too-shabby November

My finally finished oh-so-crafty Thanksgiving Advent calendar: The idea is to write something you're grateful for in each day's pocket, and then do something to show your thankfulness. Examples: Nov. 17: Steve is grateful for zombie movies Maria lets him watch sometimes. Nov. 22: Steve is grateful for books Maria lets him read sometimes.

22nd Birthday (Steve made the cake, lemon with lemon frosting, and no, that is not too much lemon)

Snoqualmie Falls on the way to Thanksgiving dinner in Carnation. I think he was too hungry to really enjoy the moment.

On "The Shaky Bridge" during the post-meal/pre-pumpkin pie part of Thanksgiving

Post-pumpkin pie

Electric Babyland

"Would it be okay if I video document the moment?" I ask Ms. Ultrasound, holding up the video camera so she knows that I'm really serious, even though I said it in a way that didn't sound so serious (video document) so if it be that she shoots me down, gets angry at the question, snatches the camcorder from my hand, opens it up and pulls the celluloid tape with the finesse of a seasoned government agent, I won't seem so crestfallen. She doesn't go so far as to destroy the camera, but she does shoot me down. "Oh, yeah, no problem," I say, chuckling because I am good natured about it and not at all recalcitrant, and put it back in Maria's purse, as though the whole thing were a prop in a gag.

Maria reclines, looking quite comfortable. The chair that I am in has no padding on the back, so I lean forward a bit. Ms. Ultrasound is readying the machine, pressing buttons and turning knobs. Once everything is calibrated and she's turned on the baby finder, Ms. Ultrasound has Maria raise her shirt so that she can smear Maria's stomach with a gel. She tells Maria that they heat up the gel before application, which seems like a nice gesture, and I'm about to ask her why they stopped there and didn't put padding on the back of the chair I'm sitting in, when she flicks on the screen of the ultrasound machine. Maria and I are drawn to it immediately, hoping that we'll get a glimpse of our baby, even though Ms. Ultrasound has yet to probe Maria's stomach with her little radar gun. I stand up from my chair, not in protest of the non-padding, but because I feel the need to stand up and I can't sit down, I need to get closer to the screen, and I hear my mother's voice saying something about not sitting too close to the screen, it's bad for your eyes. With her right hand Ms. Ultrasound holds the radar gun, poking it into Maria's belly, and with her left her fingers deftly bounce around the control board, silently pressing buttons and keys without that click-clat that accompanies computer keyboards. She does not look down at the control board, which is complete with one of those little ball things that act as a mouse and that you'll sometimes see in old arcade games, and she does not look at her right hand. On the screen emerges controlled black and white and grey chaos. Lines are fuzzy, and you want to slap the side of the screen to get a better reception. Ms. Ultrasound's sort of waves her left hand over the control board and the outline of a baby appears, conjured and organized from the black and white and grey chaos.

By all accounts it appears human. Little hands, little fingers, little feet, little toes. And...he's a boy. A little boy inside of Maria (later I will tell her that her gender is now neutral, cancelled by the baby boy inside of her). Maria and I hold hands and squeeze, because sometimes that's enough, especially when you're in front of Ms. Ultrasound, who tells us that she has dogs not children. The baby now has a definitive pronoun. We have felt for some time that he was a boy. I had a dream in which I was holding an infant boy wrapped in a blue blanket in the lobby of a hospital. But I wouldn't consider that dream prophetic or precognitive because Will Smith was in the lobby as well. Reading a magazine.

So I am going to be a father of a little boy. Many fears present themselves: I don't think I've seriously thrown a football or dribbled a basketball in years. I took karate classes when I was a kid, but I'm uncertain as to how I would do should I have to "lay someone out" at a carnival or state fair, because that's where I always imagine that sort of thing happening, scuffling amidst funnel cakes and legs of turkey with some guy named Hank after he knocks my kid's snow cone to the ground. I'll probably be the guy who slips a big drunk a twenty so that he'll throw the fight and I'll come off as Dad of the Year, or Best Dad Ever, or whatever other paternal titles they hand out these days. And then there are things that I have to learn to do, like change the oil in a car, learn to fly fish and possibly skin an animal.

During the ultrasound I wondered if the doctors ever take that machine out to a lake or something and go fishing.

Aside from being sublime and awe-inspiring, the ultrasound was strange because I was able to see our baby in a way that I've never seen myself. This could be taken metaphysically, an introspective moment, something sweet that'll make Oprah cry. But really it's just that I've never seen my own spinal cord, nor the spinal cord of someone that I know.

The baby is healthy and Maria is healthy and I still put chocolate chips on my waffles, which is not healthy. We often sit and watch Maria's stomach for movements, tiny tremors from within. We put earphones on her stomach and play songs for the baby, trying now to give it a positive predilection for good, sound music. And sometimes when the baby is not moving, when he is resting, Maria will prod at her stomach, saying, "Wake up, baby. Wake up."

I'm not there, I'm gone...

You're next, Mr. Watermelon.

Maria learned pumpkin carving from the Norman Bates School of Knife-Wielding.

This is my best impersonation of me.

For one who has faith, the visage of a familiar face appears. For those without faith, the visage of a face that may look familiar, but isn't quite, and it's not Jim Morrison.

At War With the Mystics

According to my sources, Baby-size has gone from lima bean to grape to kumquat to avocado, and is currently the size of a bell pepper.

From where I'm standing, I'd say its a blue-ribbon festival-winning size bell pepper.

The "fetal survey" ultrasound is Nov 2, where Baby will get to go from "he/she/it" to just "he" or "she." The feeling remains that it is a boy. I asked my two year old friend what she thinks it is, and she answered boy with a huge smile and such conviction that I feel pretty convinced. But like I said, I'm sure the baby will continue to be full of surprises...

I can not express how excited I am for this. I found myself incredibly envious of my friend's 6 week ultrasound where the barely-there fetus looked like a blurry teddy graham. She had several IVF miscarriages before this pregnancy and yet I, who have had a relatively pain-free, problem-free, completely healthy pregnancy, was jealous over her black and white images. My midwives won't refer me to the ultrasound office unless there is a medical need, outside of this upcoming standard 20-week fetal survey. But as I've been counting down the days to Nov. 2 (15), I've become acutely aware that not only do I wish I already have had an ultrasound, but that I would prefer a 38-week ultrasound too. I'm still trying to figure out why Steve's sketches just aren't cutting it, but until then, the ultrasounds may be a deal breaker in the future.

Developments

As Steve once very charmingly remarked (he's also very charming in person), I dislike the smell of certain chocolate bars in my distinctive condition, among other things. Recently, my supersmell sense underwent an outdoor survival challenge when Steve and I went on the ward camp-out. Gparents Hall were kind enough to let us use their camping gear, but, unfortunately, the tent had been through kinder-smelling days. Steve, me and a Glade air freshener made it through the night.

Giant slug

Then I began to look chubby. I became acutely aware of this when Steve and I decided a couple of weeks ago to hike around Sunrise, what I've been told is the highest point one can go by car to Mt. Rainier. My favorite T-shirt felt extremely tight, but I didn't really notice this until I got in the car for the trip. By the time we arrived, I had already unbuttoned the top of my jeans for comfort, and because that's how all of Steve's gangster friends wear their jeans.

I'm sucking it in.

We went on a "moderate" level hike, destined to take us to a beautiful place called Frozen Lake.

A lake we on the way up to Sunrise, which prompted us by it's beauty to hike to Frozen Lake.

The hike was quite arduous for us, and by us I mean the baby and I, not Steve, or the elderly hikers that were lapping me so casually they had enough breath to ask, "Hi, how are you?" when I could only humph in response. By the time we reached the end of our hike, having grumpily walked through a place that I can only describe with the smell of sulfur, I had exerted myself to the point of hyper-sensitive personal space so aptly described by Steve in a previous post.

Apparently Mordor is on the way to Frozen Lake.

Steve strode a safe distance ahead of me, calling out platitudes like "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." If I was any stronger I would have killed him. Unfortunately, the Frozen Lake had already thawed and evaporated and rained on Forks by the time I arrived.

There was no lake. And the shirt was still really tight.

We ate our pears and snacks at the "lake" and then took Wonderland trail to get back to our car at Sunrise. Wonderland trail turned out to be an unused utility road. However, Steve being as clever as he is charming and full of platitudes, came up with the "lets rap like that episode of House where we each make stuff up and the other has to rhyme." Our posse of inner city squirrels that had been accompanying us started beat boxing, and my winning lyrics went something about me liking the name Leo and my baby's daddy being unable to accept that in actuality Leonardo DiCaprio does not own the name, nor does that mean our baby will be a late bloomer. Maybe later I'll sit down and write the full version.

But right now I'm pretty busy with the next development: excessive digestive gurgles. Potentially, this could be the baby moving, but I wasn't sure. My midwives and all the books say that for a first-time mom it usually takes a bit longer, usually 18- 20 weeks gestation, for the movements to be felt and recognized. Moms with multiple children tend to recognize the feeling for what it is earlier, beginning at about 16 weeks along. So when at 15 weeks these gurgles became more and more interesting, I was too scared to hope that these were actually the baby, that this was it, the moment second only to actually holding the newborn itself; I was actually feeling the little person inside of me. But at 16 weeks and one day, I was in mutual (I'm the Laurel Advisor for my ward (awesome)) and I was listening to a closing talk at the end the activity. I had a hymn book on my lap, propped up against my belly with my arms folded across it, and suddenly I felt the book on both sides of my skin. I know that sounds odd. There was little push from the inside that met resistance, and I felt the book push back on the outside of my belly.

I think I froze, more out of surprise than anything, and then looked around, expecting everyone else to have noticed and been effected by the cosmic and eternal effect of that little bump. I had expected, when I sit down to think about it and then type my thoughts, that the baby would give me some warning, so I would be prepared for it and that Steve would be there and also be forever changed. Who knows where that idea came from, but I'm sure it won't be the last time the baby surprises me without warning.

Speaking of surprises, other developments have been afoot and now we know that our little kiddo will be blessed with cousin friends. Yay!

Of waking up and finding yourself asleep

I am not a good sleeper. I don't sleep well. While Maria is dreaming of sugarplum fairies and the like, I am sighing loudly, possibly loud enough to wake her up and to have her ask me if I am having trouble sleeping. I say no, well, yes, but you don't have to worry about it. She doesn't worry about it, rolls back over, and again there are those sugarplum fairies, dancing sugarplum dances. I find faces in the stucco ceiling, people I know, dead presidents, Francis Bacon, Rodney Dangerfield, the last face surprisingly often.

If I tell someone that I have trouble sleeping at night, they tell me that maybe I should try sleeping in the day. After I tell them that that won't work, that I'd miss breakfast and lunch, they ask if I'm perhaps worrying about something, that there may be a weight on my shoulders or a weariness in my heart that keeps me up.

Of course we all have much in our life to not worry about, and much of us spend our life worrying about what we shouldn't worry about, and we have plenty of time during the day to worry about these things. At nights when I lay awake and Maria lies asleep I think, and I think, and I think. This time could, I suppose, be dedicated to something a little more productive, like finishing carpentry, building a bookshelf, going to night clubs and volunteering myself as a designated driver.

We've been practicing things. We carry eggplants in our arms. Maria and I speak to each other in cooing sounds, our faces contorted in smiles that match the cooing sounds. Mornings we sprinkle cheerios across the kitchen floors, and then, on our hands and knees, we pick them up. When I do finally succumb to sleep, Maria wails until I wake up to comfort her.

I've stuck my tongue as far into my cheek as I possibly can, there's no more cheek, but I can't find any clever way of expressing my excitement over the prospect of being a father. I don't want to downplay it, but I also don't want to be one of those people who use multiple exclamation marks (e.g. "We're having a baby!!!"). I shudder when I see emoticons, and they never look like real people anyway, so those are out. I've tried to keep all sentimental notions that may creep from my fingertips and into the keyboard from being insipid or maudlin, hence the cheek and the tongue. I've been careful with previous posts so that our "blog" doesn't achieve "Dear Diary" status or become one giant "tweet."

As some may have gathered from Maria's previous post, and to officially disseminate the natal news, Maria and I are expecting our first child. Maria discovered three months ago that she had a growth in her stomach. We discussed the growth with doctors, shamans, and the Aztec calendar, and they told us not to worry, keep your hair, this growth will go away in nine months.

Maria has been working hard; she's three months into production, and she's given the baby the deadline of March 21st. Both mother and baby are fine and healthy, although Maria has found that some of her senses have heightened.

Maria: Is that chocolate? (Looking at Steve, who is eating a chocolate bar)

Steve: Uh, yes?

Maria: It smells. Get rid of it.

The new Maria, the one with the little person inside of her, can't stand the sight of melted white cheese, and you must be wary to not say the word "calzone" within her earshot, because apparently that's some sort of nausea catalyst. The new Maria, the one with the burgeoning belly, now watches all the TLC reality baby shows. The new Maria, the one with "the glow," flitters and flutters amongst the babies clothes at the store, the little onesies, the miniature jackets, the pint-sized sundresses, and the baby booties, we can't forget the baby booties. And the new Steve, for surely there must be a new Steve to match the new Maria, smiles and chuckles as he feels his heart expand and expand, a la Grinch, until he feels he could float away with it, take it on a trip around the world, but he won't, he can't, because if he gets too far away he'll deflate and fall until he's back with two feet on the ground, and can't you just taste the tears and the emotions? Can't you see the emoticons? Aren't you expecting the multiple exclamation points to line up like a row of overdue parking meters?

All this means is that when we hear that first cry in the night it will be me who is sent to soothe. We all know I can't sleep anyway.

Notes from the Northwest

Go west, they said. It's a bad time to graduate from college, they also said.

But its just so fun in Provo, we said. Everything we need, except diversity, multiple freeways, and Texas is right here.

They had no answer to that.

So we moved to Washington. It was a little cold for August though, so we immediately left for a trip to California (see Liz and Travis' blog for more proof). We went to a Dodgers game with the Polsons, Stolks and Grandma Hall, had a couple beach trips, Steve achieved his long awaited In-N-Out binge, went on a lovely temple trip, hit up Steve's fav thrift store, attended an awesome Flaming Lips concert at Del Mar, and went to Seaport Village in San Diego, and celebrated several of Kaitlyn's succesful potty experiences, to name a few of the activities.

I was still cold, so headed out to San Antonio for a visit with my family. We had a lot fun goofing and talking off mostly, which was just right. I went with my sister to her Dr.'s appts, and was with her when she found she's having a boy.

Sadie's adorable baby bump

So that was really exciting, and I got to participate in the ritual sweet treat reward following every appointment. I was also there for my mom's birthday, and my sister Mercedes and I made a beautiful cake, inspired by one of my mom's favorite movies, Mamma Mia.

I also dyed Jazzy's hair dark brown, painted lots of fingernails, gaped at the houses in my favorite neighborhood, went swimming, and had game nights with my family and dear friends.

After overheating, I returned to re-unite with Steve in Washington.

We've had fun enjoying the Halls, whom we're living with, picking their brains about all things Pacific Northwest. We've done a bit of exploring of our own in the area. We've made some important finds- the best thrift store around, the dollar theatre, and a great hospital for our baby.