Week 35 Update

Baby B is now a whopping 5.25 to 5.5ish pounds and is over 18 inches tall. Most sources I've read are saying that shes far enough in her development to not have any serious issues if she were to come at this point. As much as I've decided in the past day or two that I am officially uncomfortable, I know it's best that she "cook" as long as she can. At least til her due date. If she's not out by then, I may be in the market for a trampoline, or may decide to take up pogo jumping, or the jump rope, or...or...or...we'll see.

Advertisements I've discovered on pregnancy websites are spot on with their skillful marketing. I'm seeing ads for flawless concealer (to hide the preggo mask), diaper coupons (that time is getting close after all), and my favorite, incontinence pads (b/c even a sneeze can change things).

Interesting fact: By 35 weeks, your uterus has grown FIFTEEN times it's original size. This leaves me thinking: "Did I REALLY need to now this?", "Are you sure it's not bigger?!", and "No DUH!

Five-weeks-left-until-the-due-date!!!!

Ghasp

I can't breathe. She's taking up SO much room these days. It feels like I have an octopus wiggling around inside. I'm simultaneously feeling pressure on my bladder, a push on my right hip, pulsing in the top center of my belly and my right rib being tugged on. Maybe she'll be an acrobat...or maybe it's just getting to the point that she's out of room and is claustrophobic like her Mom. ;) I'm starting to think about "D-day" and how wonderful it will be to regain my lung capacity and for my nose to un-stuff among other things. All in good time...until then.

GAAAAAAASP!!!

Clip-Clip Here, Snip-Snip There and A Couple of Tra-La-La's

After my last blog entry, perhaps it won't surprise anyone if I say that I have made plenty of mistakes in my life. It's true. Despite the illusion I give of being completely put together, organized, and practically-perfect-in-every-way **cough**...well...okay, so, I'm really just another goober.

If I haven't already proven this point from past entries, let me share another. When I was a teenager, my Dad got the wild notion that he wanted one of his loving family members to cut his hair at home. The day he decided this was when Mom, the most qualified hair cutter was unavailable. So what did he do? I happened to walk by and was assured that it would be a cinch to cut his hair. He placed the electric clippers in my hand. He even put the #2 attachment on for me. What he neglected to mention was the common knowledge fact that barbers start at the BASE of their client's head.
Y'all are smart.
You can guess what happened.
Yup. I went straight for the top. The very center to be exact.

Within seconds several things happened. The order of these things is of little consequence, but almost spontaneously:
Dad's hand flew up to his head, I began to cry, and Mom walked in to see her husband with a new hair cut that vaguely resembled a reverse skunk pattern. I quickly proclaimed that I never wanted to attempt cutting hair in the first place and shed a few more tears fearing I'd ruined my father's chance of anyone taking him seriously in his position in high level management. Yikes!

Dad was gracious (as has always been his character in crisis situations). After drawing a deep breath, he laughed, and most heartily, too. He assured me that his hair would grow back, and that it'd be easier to take care of until that point. He placed the clippers back in my hands and I finished what I started, feeling very humbled and thankful to have an understanding Dad. Regardless, the experience scared me. As in: "I NEVER want to do this again!" The story has of course been retold numerous times, but over the years, deep down, I've wondered if I could actually give a good haircut.

Tonight, my brave husband gave me the chance to find out. He was indeed brave (albeit after excuses and perhaps a twinge of fear having heard the above story), but still required a bit of coaxing before finally sitting down in the hair-cutting chair. I prepped for this haircut by watching roughly 30-40 minutes of YouTube how-tos and gained a sense of confidence...at least enough to be a tad forceful when it came to getting him to sit down.

The result?
A shockingly large pile of hair on the floor, 20 minutes of breath holding, and one GOOD LOOKIN' haircut! Success!
He was handsome before, but he's a mighty fine looking man now being freed from the excess scruff. It might be too soon to hope, but from the looks of how things went tonight, he might even ask me to cut it again one day. :)

**crunch**

I hate property damage. This could largely be explained by the influence of my Dad. He was in insurance for a long time before becoming a Risk Manager. We both enjoy action movies, but grimace whenever something of value is destroyed. I even have a hard time watching "America's Funniest Home Videos" due to the concentrated level of stupidity and accidents that lead to footage of people getting hurt or things being badly damaged. The clips may be brief, but once they've moved onto the next one, I'm still wondering about the cost or number of stitches required of the situation in the previous clip. Is this obsessive?

It's been a few weeks since I've washed my car. It had been on my to-do list, but when it was dirty enough to catch the notice of my husband, I knew what I had to do. This morning I headed for one of the best car washes in town. I have a mental check list of things to do before going thru the car wash and the most immediate was to quickly roll up my windows! I guess this urgent matter over-rode my other must-do's which led to forgetting one VERY important detail...

Make sure the electronic car radio antennae is down BEFORE you go through the car wash! Even if you checked once, double check. Just do it. And make sure to look before the guy sprays your window with the white stuff that blocks your view of the antennae!

If you remember to do this, it should prevent several things:
~ The gut-wrenching feeling brought on by the sound of metal crunching.
~ 10 minutes of prolonged hormonal weeping.
~ An embarrassing and tear-filled call to your very gracious spouse.

Even though he's mentioned in the past for me to remember to put the antennae down, Andrew was SO sweet when I called and told him what happened. Of course I didn't expect any other response because I married the most wonderful man in the world, but still. ;)

When I got home I was able to bend the antennae back to where it will retract 3/4ths of the way down. Phew. Not TOO bad, all things considered. I can live with it.

Oh yeah, and about the hormonal weeping part...I'm better now, but think it's time for a nap. At least I can't damage anything if I'm asleep. ;)

Why can't the melons get married?

34 weeks today:
Baby B now weighs about 4.7 lbs(!) and is around 18 inches long.
What does this mean in terms of something tangible? Well, it means that we've got ourselves a cantelope baby! This makes a lot of sense to me if it's a large melon because from the looks of my belly, it would appear that I've swallowed one. :)

If you're wondering what it feels or looks like to be 34 weeks pregnant, I encourage you to do the following:
~ Go to your nearest grocery store and head to the produce section.
~ Find a cantelope that weighs about 4.5 lbs and purchase it. Also buy some duct tape. The shiny silver stuff. You know what I'm talking about.
~ Take the cantelope and tape home.
~ Open the tape, place the cantelope directly in front of your navel.
~ Begin wrapping the cantelope to yourself with duct tape.
~ Do no remove the cantelope for the duration of one 24 hour period.
~ VOILA! Now you too can experience (to some extent) what it's like to have a cantelope baby!

If you are one of the souls brave or curious enough to attempt this experiment, you may discover the following:
- Wearing a form fitting shirt while out-and-about may cause complete strangers to gawk at you. Old men will make comments about your swallowing a watermelon. Little girls in the bathroom (this is your 3rd time to go in 45 minutes, by the way) will stare at your belly and grin. They know you've got a baby in there but are blissfully unaware as to how it's going to come out, and so they smile.
- If you drop something on the floor, you are unable to pick it up unless you move down into the squatting position. Once lowered to pick up the object, you may find it difficult to stand back up. I suggest a good heave-ho with the thigh muscles, OR you can move to all fours and push up from there.
- Stomach sleepers, all I have to say is: "HAHAHA!" Umm, I mean, a body pillow is your best bet to find a reasonable amount of comfort. Make sure to sleep on your left side. It may help your circulation and prevent the inevitable heartburn that will follow the dinner you should have eaten hours ago.
- Speaking of sleep, since your internal organs and lungs are so squished together, your husband may make not-so-subtle comments about hearing you breathe and having dreams about being attacked by Darth Vader from Star Wars.
- Going to the bathroom will require an entirely different approach. Nuff said.
- Watch out for counters, shelving, grocery carts, lawn mower handles *cough*, etc that are cantelope level. You don't want to smack, bump, or squish your "belly"!
- Try and give someone a hug. You will be shocked at how far away you must stand. As a matter of fact, you may feel more like you're mimicking the motions to the song "London Bridge is Falling Down" than giving a hug.

There is more I could say, but will stop here. There have been certain adjustment I've had to make leading up to now, but it's truly a joy anticipating what's at the end of this journey.

Outdoor Projects

After church this morning, Andrew was on a mission to tackle some backyard projects. He had to work yesterday so a fire was lit under him to git-er-dun while the sun was up. Looking out into the backyard and seeing my handsome man working was a "I must join" no brainer. I didn't think I could be much help, but hey, if nothing else, I sure would enjoy admiring my sweaty man! I'm still shaking off those miserably cold snowed-in days so it was incredibly nice to be out in the sun and feel the light breeze passing through.

Wanting to get some plants in the ground, we ended up driving past one of the local feed stores only to find it closed. (It's a Sunday, I understand.) We then went to Wal-Mart and Lowes. We determined that we'd just as soon wait until tomorrow to find plants we really wanted, that were in better shape and would cost less than what we'd found. Back home and unable to do anything further in the garden, Andrew started working on the chicken coop.

Believe it or not, he's beginning his work just in time. Yes, we've only had the girls for just a few days, but we are watching them transform before our eyes. It's hard to believe just how quickly chickens grow up. Little Rhode Island Red has sprouted her wings and today began showing a few wisps of some tail-feathers! Her companions are not far behind, so the sooner a coop is ready, the better. Of course the girls will stay in a box inside for the next few weeks, but my-my-my, it won't be long before they're needing to roost in their own coop.

I watched Andrew work for a while and then realized that I wasn't being much help, so I looked around. I saw the lawn mower. I saw tall grass in the backyard and knew there was plenty in the front. I got a wild notion. Humm...do you think I could...no I certainly...or could I?

Yes. I did. After giving the mower a test push, and assuring my husband that I was totally up to it...I mowed the lawn. I haven't moved grass since, oh wow, let's just say that it's been years. Dad and my brother took care of the lawn when we moved to the city, so the last time I "mowed" was probably cutting a few acres on the 52' Ford 8N tractor when I was.....nope....that would be telling too much. None of your business just how old (or young!) I was. The point is that today, after quite a sabbatical, I moved the lawn. It felt good. Perhaps the neighbors thought ill of my husband for letting his 8 months pregnant wife use a push mower, but I found it rather invigorating. I'm supposed to be getting exercise anyway, and knowing my limits, I reveled in accomplishing such a thing.

Today, the lawn, tomorrow, gardening!

*For any concerned readers, rest assured that I DO know my limits. Today, mowing the lawn was well within them. Besides, once a pregnant woman has made up her mind to do something, just try and stop her! ;)

**Do forgive the trashy-looking popcorn bag. I'm still getting the hang of our microwave and a few bags have been sacrificed in the process and thrown outside before they could smell up the house.

One chick, two chick, three chick, four!

After waiting for about a month, we finally got our girls! Our initial quest began when Andrew came home and declared he wanted chickens. I agreed because raising and keeping chickens is something I've wanted to do for a long time...

When I was 10 years old, Mom got an incubator and some eggs from our county extension office and let me monitor them in my room. It was the best. I kept the humidity levels just right, and played classic music to the rotating spheres, unaware of how smart they would be thanks to my intervention. Out of 24 eggs, 2 hatched. We had a dud batch. Or they didn't care for Mozart.
One of the chicks had issues and was doomed to certain death. A kindhearted friend rescued it, intending to nurse it back to health. She later reported that the chick died in her hands just days later. The second chick survived and was dubbed "Mr. Peepers". Since my folks didn't plan on chicken farming with one rooster, Mr. Peepers was given to the neighbors I babysat for who had brood of hens. Mr. Peepers was relocated and enjoyed his new life with his lady friends. Alas, it was not to be a long standing enjoyment. A few weeks later when I went to babysit, I was met at the door by several small people with long faces. Before I could say a word, the eldest took it upon himself to tell me (in gruesome detail) that Mr. Peepers had met the end of his life at the hands (urr...paws) of a hungry, prowling coyote. And that was that.

In hopes of redeeming my past experience and desiring the taste and thrill of collecting farm-fresh eggs, and once we got the a-okay from our landlady, hubby and I began our quest. It took 4 weeks, numerous trips to feed stores in town, countless phone calls to said feed stores, multiple disappointments upon seeing "sold out" signs, collecting our chicken farming materials with waning hope of finding chicks, and then a final call to a local chicken farmer who had the age and breeds we wanted!

Yesterday on his lunch break, Andrew came home and we went to get our chicks. They were selling like hotcakes around town, so we knew if the farmer had them, we needed to act quickly. The chicken farmer we'd been in contact with was a sweet old guy with a backyard FULL of chickens. We're talking over a hundred. He showed us to his garage and proceeded to uncover a few boxes filled with baby chicks. We made our selection, he dropped the chosen few into our box, Andrew paid him, we loaded up and took our little brood home. It is now with great pride that I introduce you to the newest members of the family: A Golden Laced Wyandotte, a Rhode Island Red, a Silver Laced Wyandotte, and a Barred Plymouth Rock. *The Barred Rock has an attitude and was uncooperative during the photo shoot. More updates and pictures to come.

This time last year...

This time last year my Dad and I were enjoying dinner at a fine restaurant with a few insurance brokers and lawyers in London, England. The restaurant was located below street level in what used to be an old Presbyterian church. Sadly, the church did not revive so the property was put up for sale and renovated into a business. The entrance of the restaurant could easily go unnoticed by anyone not exactly familiar with the area as it was underground, directly off the street, with a narrow set of stairs winding down to the bottom floor. No more than one person at a time could go through the front door. Once inside, it opened up (not by much) to a "posh" dimly lit dining room divided into nooks for private dining. The walls were covered with random pieces of artwork and the tables were set with fine silver and china. Gorgeous flower centerpieces filled the middle of the table.

Once seated we were all given the wine list. The host of the evening came by soon after, followed by a couple of men with large trays to display the evening's finest selection of meat on the menu. On one tray was an enormous side of fish. On the next was a lobster...STILL ALIVE AND MOVING! I did not select the lobster and opted for the salmon (I reasoned that it would be much more lady-like to eat, especially as I was the only female in the group). It was delicious. So were the bread, vegetables and wine consumed along with it. The whole evening I stayed pretty quiet, chewed politely and smiled a lot. The company Dad and I were with were considered some of the upper crust of the London insurance scene, so I thought it best to be thought shy or demure instead of the normally outgoing, loud, 2nd Grade teacher I was at the time. It was much easier than trying to think of intelligent things to say when all that had previously been occupying my mind was math lessons, history tests and a unit study on plants. ;)

Business dinners always seem to last forever. Fortunately the restaurant had a lovely sense of timing on when to bring the next course, so there was never too much of a lull. The gentlemen were very kind to involve me and ask questions about my life when they weren't talking business. One of the Sr. business men (formerly the premiere insurance guy in all of London!) had quite a sense of humor (his language could be just as colorful too) and explained to me the meaning of the British word "posh".

At a time when the best mode of transportation "across the pond" to the U.S. was by boat, the wealthy people were the ones that could afford the best views of the land they were approaching. On the way to the U.S. the wealthy were positioned on the Port side Out. On the journey home, they had Starboard Home. Port Out, Starboard Home. P-O-S-H. And that's how it became a term indicating wealth, or those who possessed it.

The end of the meal finally arrived and I chose the creme brule'. It was divine. No really. The top has been fire glazed to perfection. I can still feel the tiny spoon in my hand breaking the thin crust, entering the tantalizing goo below. For THIS dish, I held nothing back. Who knew when I'd be in London again, and if I'd ever see that particular group of people...so I ate it all. Perfection.

After finishing dinner and maneuvering up the tiny staircase, someone suggested a "cleansing ale" to cap off the evening. Dad looked to me for a comfortability and tiredness check. I smiled and away we went. It was after all St. Patrick's Day(!) and some of the gentlemen were Irish and knew of an "authentic Irish pub" just a few blocks away. It was just as I expected: a cozy place with a friendly Irish barmaid, walls filled with memorabilia dating back to who knows when placed by people perhaps long gone, small antique tables near a fireplace and window seat, Irish music playing in the background. Having previously feasted upon classic fish and chips at a local pub earlier in the week and being unable to wash it down with a pint, that evening I decided a half pint of Guinness would do just fine. Guinness on tap that is. It's deliciously thick stuff. I'd never had it before going to London so enjoyed the opportunity to try it...and on the week and day of remembering Saint Patrick, too! The Irish gentlemen we were wish delighted in their ale and sang along with the tunes they'd known from childhood. The blue blood Englishman present looked rather out of place (he was very nice but also very used to living the "posh" lifestyle) and they made sure to razz him about it. He'd once tried to pass off as one of their group, but his fine accent gave him away immediately. Though London is a relatively small place geographically, there are several sections of the town that have their own dialect that distinguish the classes. But back to the pub...

Fortunately for me, everyone was very nearly done with their ale when one of the single brokers finally had a wee bit too much to drink. I didn't take it as much of a compliment, but I believe his consumption of alcohol made me look a lot more attractive, so he began paying more attention to me. It was laughable, but still encouraged me to give Dad the nod to signal it being time to head back to the hotel. I left my half drunk, half pint on the table, satisfied with having enjoyed a "posh" dinner, and closing the evening by savoring the taste of a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day. The group said our goodbyes on the cobblestone street outside the pub and we took a taxi back to the hotel. I kept my arm tucked through Dad's elbow until we got back, tired, but giddy to have had such an experience.

One year to the date, this is quite a fun memory. At the time I was teaching and on Spring Break. Dad scheduled his business trip around my break so that I could benefit mooching off of his accommodations and business partners making sure I had a fabulous time there. I toured museums, art galleries, ate at some incredibly nice restaurants, saw Les Miserables on stage, walked (albeit quickly!) the streets of London, learned my way around town by taking the tube and a whole lot more. It was fun. The main downside to the trip was missing my boyfriend back at home. I drank up every moment I was there and in a way was too busy to miss anybody...but as the trip was coming to a close, my heart ached. I missed my guy.

One year later, that guy is now my beloved husband. We are happily married, expecting our first child in the spring, and live in a cute and quirky house in a small town. We have two betta fish, are starting work on a garden and are now keeping chickens (more on that in another post). I love being Andrew's wife. I love keeping house, cooking and baking, decorating, cleaning, being creative etc. I couldn't be happier. The "posh" dining and travel experiences I could still be capitalizing on are nothing compared to where God has me today. I was Borne for this. :)

What can I say? I'm a crafty woman.

Baby Borne is GROWING! She's over 4 pounds and I can tell that whatever brainpower I've had up until this point is now being sapped to help her little body develop. Yes, my brains have turned to mush. I'm also extremely tired. And I've experienced what my midwife called a "growth spurt". She gave a half giggle as she said this to me. Really this was her way of saying: "Honey, you've put on a few pounds since we saw you two weeks ago!" This is completely normal for a woman in her 3rd trimester, and while it's a comfort for her to tell me "You are ALL belly", it's still a surreal experience to have stepped on the scale, peered over my belly watching the digits go up to numbers never before imagined, and think "That's me?!".

It's a privilege to be part of this miracle God is working in my belly and it's pictures like the one below that offer a much needed sense of humor when experiencing a "growth spurt". :)

Mercy

I'm getting to visit my family and friends for our baby shower this weekend. On my drive down I quickly realized that I drank WAY TOO MUCH water before I left. Dehydration can induce labor, right?! I was only about 30 minutes away from home when the feeling hit and my little darling starting kicking a rather tender spot.
Namely, my bladder.
Feeling a greater sense of urgency with each passing mile, my foot (or should I say bladder?) got a bit heavier. For the 2nd time in my driving history, a police officer took note of my driving and required my pulling over. :-p

I guess police officers wait a while before talking to the offending driver? Maybe it's because they are busy with paperwork? Or looking up license tags or driving records? I don't know, but while I was waiting, I got out my ins. card and license and hoped that it wouldn't take long. I couldn't hold it much longer. Yikes.

Officer Gomez was soon at my window telling me he'd pulled me over for speeding. I acknowledged this fact and told him my plight: "Yes Sir, I am so sorry. I'm pregnant and I REALLY have to find a restroom." After this, I silently handed him my information. He processed this statement, glanced over my info, and asked as he gave it back to me: "Where are you headed?"
Me: "Down south for my baby shower".
Officer: "Will you slow down for me?"
I responded with a heartfelt "Yes, Sir."
He told me to have a nice day.
THANK YOU OFFICER GOMEZ FOR BEING SO UNDERSTANDING!!!

For any of you dying of curiosity, I was able to make it to the next town (paying very close attention to the speed limit!) without any umm...well, you know. But that's not the point of my story! Did I learn anything from this experience? Yes! A few very important things:
1) Don't speed. No, really. Don't do it.
2) There are still kind-hearted, understanding police officers out there.
3) When pregnant and taking a road trip, plan your liquid intake around your rate of processing and locality to rest stops.
4) God is INCREDIBLY merciful! I deserved the ticket because I was going over the posted speed, and was shown mercy instead of what I should have received.

One thing is for sure...I'll be WAY more careful to remember these things on my way back home. Happy trails.

"King Corn"

Last night I went to a health meeting. We watched a movie called "King Corn", a docu-movie about 2 post college graduates in pursuit of discovering why their hair samples contained elements of corn. They moved to Iowa to grow 1 acre of corn and through the process, learned A LOT (perhaps more than they wanted to know) about the current corn industry. Segments of their documented experience include how corn is grown, how it has been altered to produce more product in the same amount of space, what kind of chemicals are used during it's growth process, and where it goes when it's harvested. Of interesting note, they also learned about the beef industry and exactly what goes on in the make-up of a cow given corn/corn by-products to eat before slaughter. It was remarkable...and disgusting. Other elements of the film covered the high fructose corn syrup industry, health related problems such as Type 2 diabetes, and government subsidizing of corn production. WOW.

Considering our culture of fast-food, consumption of carbonated beverages, and obesity epidemic, I highly encourage you to check out this film. It was pretty eye opening.

When I came home and told Andrew what I'd learned, I half-jokingly declared that the sodas in the fridge were the last ones to enter our household. (1 soda a day DOUBLES one's chances of Type 2 diabetes!!!) Unbeknownst to me, my subconscious got a hold of this and ran with it:

Last night I dreamed that I was locked away in a tower, about to be forced to marry a horrible beast. Andrew heroically defeated all odds to rescue me and brought me the one thing that could break the curse: a Dr. Pepper. I had to drink it before midnight for the spell to be lifted, and so I could be free to marry Andrew, the man of my dreams. I drank the filled-with-high-fructose-corn-syrup drink, the spell was broken, we kissed, and then I woke up. The end.

I usually don't make much of dreams, but got a good laugh when I woke up and realized where the key to breaking the spell had come from. Maybe I should lighten up? Anyway, if you can, watch the movie! I'd love to hear what y'all think of it!

Here chick, chick, chick...

Andrew and I have had chickens on the brain for the last few weeks and when he found a neat coop (chicken tractor) design, and we got to okay from our awesome landlady, we began devising our plan. *Okay, so I was going to say "hatching" our plan, but didn't want to make y'all gag. ;)

Thursday night we decided to meet at the Farm Supply store in town and scope out our prospective little tenants. They were SO cute, but whilst standing before the stock tank full of yellow balls of fluff peeping at us, reality set in. We would be gone for the weekend. Who would watch them? What if the heat lamp burst and set something on fire? What if...what if... Both our minds were racing, because we both were dying to get chicks RIGHT THEN! Andrew is usually the one talking or calming me down, but this time the roles seemed a bit reversed. I was the one mentioning all the (no-fun) facts of why it'd be better to wait a few days before becoming chicken farmers. It wasn't until my honey picked one up, and we scratched it's fuzzy head that we made peace with the idea.

Yesterday, on our return home, we stopped at the store only to find cold, empty bins where life had been just a few days before. As I'd been grinning from ear to ear all the way to the store (and making Andrew laugh at my excitement), seeing the empty stock-tanks was quite saddening. I mentioned something to the effect of feeling like we were in front of a grave w/ the chicks gone and the heat lamps off. The clerk up front told us that they weren't expecting a shipment for a few more days, maybe up to a week. After believing ourselves to have been quite patient waiting those few days, it was a real bummer moment. :-p This morning I am making calls around town to local feed stores to see if they have birdies, and what kind. We're looking for pullets (girlie birdies) that will be good egg layers, as well as for meat (if at some point we decide we can part with them enough to serve them on the dinner table).

I'm REALLY hoping we can find our feathered friends this week. If we do, I'll be sure to let y'all know!!!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

In the spirit of the season, Andrew and I are making plans for a modest garden. This is an exciting venture for both of us as we've been conspiring where to plot, what to plant, when to plant etc. A new level of motivation has struck me since the weather has turned spring-like, beckoning me to be outdoors, and getting my hands dirty.

A few weeks ago I started some herb seeds in dixie cups...just to see what would happen. Serving as proof that it's been a while since I've planted anything, I sowed the seeds a little too deep under the soil and each day I checked was met with disappointment when no little shoots were appearing. (I'm sure there is a biblical parallel here somewhere.) Frustrated, I checked the seed packets to determine the seed-to-sprout germination period and happened to glance at the recommended sowing depth. DUH! 1 inch below the soil is a TAD deeper than the suggested 1/4 inch. Poor little guys! *forehead smack* I rushed the dirt filled cups outside and began excavating. To my delight, as I brushed away a top layer of dirt, there were promising little herb shoots! They've since had several days of TLC and here is the result:



Yesterday I had a fire lit under me. In addition to doing 4 loads of laundry, washing a couple days worth of dishes (yikes!), making a delicious pan of death-by-chocolate brownies, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the coffee pot, taking a 1.5 mile walk, and making mock Pei Wei lettuce wraps for dinner, I just HAD to plant something! *The above list is an attempt to disprove the idea that as a pregnant woman, all I can possibly do is live and breathe being pregnant. This simply isn't true. I'm finding the closer I get to the end of the pregnancy, the better it is to occupy my mind with non-pregnancy thoughts...or else I'll GO CRAZY!!! Ahem. So back to planting...

My sweet, new friend Erin warned me that squash do very well in this area so I should only have one plant or else be overwhelmed with a bumper crop. (Erin, if you're reading this, I confess that I ended up sowing 20 seeds. I couldn't help myself.) :) I also sowed some zucchini, and in a pretty terracotta pot, sprinkled a few zinnia seeds that I hope will grow nicely for late spring and summer flower clippings. Time will tell.


When planting, I remembered an old saying about planting 3 seeds: "One for the farmer, one for the birds, and one to die." Something like that. Has anyone else heard this before or is it just me?


Stay tuned for future posts. Something exciting (and all things considered, a bit crazy?) may happen soon.

Wilbur

Dear Baby,
Shortly after your Daddy and I found out that you were coming along, he started calling you "Wilbur". At the time, I think we had been talking about the book/movie "Charlotte's Web". He always thought it was funny when the horse said "Willlllllbuuuurrrrr!!!" in a long, drawn out way and began referring to my belly as "Wilbur".

When we found out that you are a girl, we continued calling you Wilbur. Not very many people liked this. Though right now you don't know any better, Wilbur is most commonly a boy's name. Don't worry though, because Daddy and I plan to give you a proper name once we've seen your beautiful face. I want you to know that in case Wilbur sticks as your nickname once you're out in the world, you'll be just fine. I have. You see, one of my Mommy's friends took me to daycare and would say: "Come on, Fred!" whenever we were about to go. My Daddy picked up on this and "Fred" has been my nickname ever since. It's a pet name and looking back, I think it's funny. I hope you will, too. :)

Lots of Love,
Mommy

P.S. We had a Dr's appointment yesterday and the nice lady who put the goo on my belly said you have a beautiful, strong heartbeat! She also said that you are laying kind of sideways in my tummy which is why your kicks have been pummeling my right side these past couple of weeks. You are getting SO strong!