Pain is a Reliable Signal

From the title of this post, one would think this is a continuation of yesterday's depressing musings. But actually, today I'm playing the role of proud older sister.

Remember last month when I went to New York for my brother Sam's gig? It was his CD release party for his new album, Pain is a Reliable Signal. He records under the name "The Flying Change" -- the name is inspired by the poetry of Henry Taylor, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet who happened to be our dad's roommate at the University of Virginia.

Today the album drops nationally. He's been doing tons of press for it, sending the album out to indie rock and college radio stations all over the country. So this post is my way of plugging the album and doing a bit of bragging about my little bro, who I think is super cool.

And not just because I think the album is really, really good. But because Sam loves making music and was brave enough to do something about it. He's a terrific songwriter, but rather than writing songs and keeping them in a notebook, he hooked up with an acclaimed songwriter, producer, and award-winning composer, Paul Brill. He and Paul worked on editing the songs and then got them recorded by a collection of incredible musicians -- people that had played with bands like Radiohead and The Black Crowes and They Might Be Giants and The Saturday Night Live Band.

So my pride, and really, the pride of our whole family (nachas, to use a Yiddishism), stems not just from the fact that the album was made by the baby of the family, this quirky, funny kid who grew into a whip-smart, intense, creative man (who also happens to be one of the most interesting people I know). That pride also stems from the fact that he has undertaken this incredible project in a serious and determined way -- with high production values, professional publicity, and sell-out gigs. All while holding down a full-time job in New York's financial sector.

(Sam, looking all angst-y in his publicity photo)

As for the album itself, I would describe it as alternative pop-rock, inspired by everything from Tom Petty to Wilco. The album was inspired by the experiences Sam and his wife, Erica, had dealing with her chronic pain, including two unsuccessful surgeries and a stint at The Mayo Clinic's pain management center. The experiences were not good, hence the song Dirty White Coats, about the arrogance of unfeeling doctors, or The Mayo Clinic, about, um, The Mayo Clinic.

I'm not a music reviewer -- I'm not good at creating a verbal explanation of music, which to me is more of a visceral experience than something than I can intellectualize or describe in a way that feels accurate. I'm also an amateur musician and a singer, and I experience music in my gut. I like a strong beat, bluesy riffs, strong melodies, and that ever-elusive hook. And I like interesting musical arrangements -- instrumental choices that are surprising, harmonies that dig into my brain with their unexpected perfection, themes or phrases (musical or lyrical) that work their way into my psyche and don't let go.

Pain is a Reliable Signal has all of that. One of my favorites is If You See Something, taken from an MTA anti-terrorism slogan seen around New York's subways and buses. The song has an undeniably hook-y chorus, and in a touch of irony, belying its lamenting of the promotion of an almost Big Brother-esque suspicion of one's fellow man, throws in a cheerful mandolin intro and then later introduces trumpets and exuberant harmonies and back-up vocals that remind me of The Beatles' Ob-la-di Ob-la-da. I can't stop humming it. And I never cease to marvel at how beautifully the song is arranged.

Another one that I can't get out of my head is a ballad called Hold My Heartache. It's harmonies are beautiful and aching. Same with Broken Bow. And Dirty White Coats is deceptively simple -- just a couple of chords -- but it's message is haunting. (Sam explains it much better than I could).

Basically, the entire album is excellent -- high production values, beautiful arrangements, and a cohesive theme. It's melancholy but not maudlin. As one reviewer remarked, it's "part folk, part rock, part electronica, all parts bloody brilliant."

I couldn't agree more.

Click here for The Flying Change website, where you can listen to the album, purchase the album, and read Sam's blog about music, the business of music, and the songwriting process (including the songs on Pain is a Reliable Signal).  It is also available on Amazon, Itunes and CD Baby.

Enjoy. I know I do.

Suicide is not painless

I had all kinds of things percolating in my head for a post today.

I could have written about how nice it was to go out for some grownup time on Friday night with Rich and Kathleen.  We left the kids with a sitter at their house, and walked down to a local music store to see Steve Earle do an in-store performance promoting his new album, Townes.*  We went out for a nice Italian dinner, and when we got back to Kathleen's house, Zeke was asleep, cuddled up in bed with Kathleen's 5-year-old daughter, who had an arm protectively draped over him.  It was seriously one of the cutest things I've ever seen.

Or I could have written about how much fun we had participating with some friends in a kids' pick-up soccer league at the local city park.  Pablo brought a big bag of soccer balls and some little collapsible goals, and showed the kids how to kick and pass.  When they scored a goal, there was the obligatory running around the field, arms held out like an airplane, yelling "GOOOOOOOOOAALL!!"  (Pablo is Argentine, after all).  The kids played and had fun and wore themselves out, and we made some new friends, and it was a beautiful day.  Afterwards we went to this awesome little Mexican dive of a restaurant to get tacos, served with the most delicious homemade tortilla chips I have ever eaten in my life.

I could have also written about how lovely it was to play Magical Present Fairy to my son yesterday.  We had been at the park, and he was salivating over another little kid's wagon.  The kid's dad let him play with it, and Zeke was entertaining himself opening the door, stepping in, sitting down, standing up, opening the door, stepping out, closing the door.  Rinse, lather, repeat.  When it was time for the kid and his wagon to go home, Zeke seriously lost his shit.  Partly because he really wanted to continue playing with the wagon, and partly because it was nap-time and he was exhausted.  So we got him home and got him to sleep, and while he napped, I found the identical wagon on Craigslist, called the owner, went and picked it up, and brought it home, all before Zeke woke up from his nap.  We had been planning on getting one anyway -- they're so handy for going to the park with balls and snacks and water bottles, so it seemed like an opportune time.  When he woke up and saw the wagon, he was ecstatic.  We took a walk around the neighborhood, with Zeke riding in the wagon with a huge smile of joy on his face, stopping every 10 feet or so for Zeke to open the door, step out, close the door, open the door, step in, and sit down again.

I could have written about any of those things.  But instead, I feel compelled to focus on something else, something that is really none of my business and I probably shouldn't be writing about, at least not yet, but I can't help it.  I can't stop thinking about it.  

This past weekend, the father of a friend of mine committed suicide.  He's suffered from crushing depression for a long time and has made a number of suicide attempts over the past few years, including as recently as a month ago.  This time, he was successful.  And in addition to dealing with the general agony of losing a parent, my friend has to deal with the fact that her dad left willingly.   

To top it all off, she's 6 months pregnant.  

Dealing with suicide is so much different from dealing with other kinds of death.  When a person dies of disease, or in a car accident or something, there's shock and sadness and dismay and a terrible feeling of loss.  A reminder of the fragility of life, and the need to live to the fullest, to the extent that the mundane details of every day life allow you to do so.  But with suicide, there's the added knowledge that the person wanted to leave, that they couldn't stand to be in the world anymore.  And that maybe you could have done something to help them.

I remember when my friend Kristin killed herself a couple of years ago, how sad but also how betrayed and angry I and so many of our friends felt.  She was about to be married to a guy who adored her, and was developing a close relationship with her 8-year-old stepson-to-be.  She had friends and parents and siblings that loved and cared about her.  

And she gave it all up because she fucked something up at work and couldn't deal with the shame.  I'm still a little bit bitter about it, as are a number of my friends.

But Kristin wasn't my parent or my sister.  That just takes things to a whole new level.  With my friend's dad, the reality is, he was desperately unhappy for a long, long time, and so maybe now he's found the peace he so obviously needed and couldn't find on this earth.  And I know she doesn't feel any sense of responsibility, like there was something she could have done -- as she herself has said, if there was ever a situation in which someone could be kept alive by the sheer force of other peoples' will, this was it -- she and her mother have done their damndest to try to help him.  But when someone is determined to go, they will find a way.  

And the survivors are left to pick up the pieces and somehow go on with their lives.

Years ago, my mom's college roommate went out into her backyard, crawled under a bush, and blew her brains out with a gun.  She had been in an unhappy marriage, but she also had young children.  I was only about 9 or so at the time, but I remember my mom remarking at what an aggressive act it was.  How clearly, this was directed at the husband and was a giant "fuck you" that would stick with him for the rest of his life.  But all I could think about were the kids.  How do you deal with the fact that your mommy can't stand to stick around for you?

At least my friend is older and has the maturity and perspective to recognize that her dad wasn't trying to abandon her or the rest of his family.  Her dad loved her, I know she believes that.  But still.  How do you deal?

I tend to view most suicides with a jaundiced eye.  It's an act of supreme selfishness.  How dare they do that to their loved ones?  But I don't feel as harshly about my friend's dad.  He was obviously in so much pain.  I don't condone what he did, but I understand it just a little bit.

I've suffered from clinical depression.  In the depths of it, I've felt that cold heaviness in my gut, that physical manifestation that depression takes, when you feel pulled down into the depths of despair. When the idea of getting up and going through life feels so incredibly exhausting that the alternative -- that unspoken alternative -- seems so tempting.  I've been at the precipice and stared down into the abyss.  But thank goodness, something always pulled me back.  And I've been healthy and off the medication for over a year, and all is well.  But the knowledge that I could start another downward spiral is always in the back of my mind, so I'm incredibly vigilant in taking stock of my mental and emotional state, ready to head off to a doctor at the first sign of that sinking feeling.

I'm rambling, I know.  I don't know what point I'm trying to make.  But this is what's on my mind.  

I'm just so sad for my friend.

________________________________

*I love Steve Earle.  I was playing a lot of bluegrass in Atlanta around the time he released The Mountain, his bluegrass collaboration with The Del McCoury Band, and it's an album I still find captivating -- in my opinion, a bluegrass masterpiece.

No longer enchanted by the novelty, just settling in for the long haul

About 10 years ago I ran a marathon. I remember the different phases of the race very distinctly. And when I woke up this morning and thought, "gee, I'm 20 weeks pregnant today," my reaction to that thought reminded me of what it was like to go through the different stages of a marathon.

PHASE 1/FIRST TRIMESTER -- THE BLOOM IS ON THE ROSE

When the marathon started, I was excited. I was about to do something huge and difficult and exciting, and I was pumped full of adrenalin. That feeling carried me for about 10 miles. I felt great, like I could run forever.

This is similar to the first trimester of pregnancy.

You pee on the stick, and the second line turns blue (or in my case, the digital readout announces "PREGNANT" with a smiley face next to it). You feel a bit of shock, but also a flush of happiness (assuming the pregnancy was planned or not otherwise unwelcome). You tell your babydaddy, and the two of you share a moment that's a mixture of "whee!" "wow!" and "wha??" Plus a lot of "awwww!" and "woohoo!" You go for that first OB appointment, and cry a little bit when the ultrasound reveals that your tiny 7 week blob of an embryo has a nice strong little heartbeat. You get all focused on making sure you're taking your prenatal vitamins, eating the right foods, conspicuously announcing that you can't have that glass of wine you're offered, stocking up on maternity clothes, and lamenting how tight your pants are when secretly you're psyched to be developing a bit of a belly bump. You tell your friends and relatives when the time feels right, and go through the "whee" "wow" "wha" "aww" "woohoo" all over again, only this time with your peeps.

So really, there's too much newness and emotion during the first trimester to focus very much on the fact that it's going to take you 10 months* to grow a person inside you, and that 10 months is a long time. You're just all "happy to be here, hope I can help the ballclub" at this point.

PHASE 2/SECOND TRIMESTER - THE ROSE IS STARTING TO WILT A LITTLE BIT

I remember miles 10 through 20 as another distinctive section of the marathon. The excitement and adrenalin of the beginning was gone, and then it was just a slog. It was boring. It was tedious. I had already run a long way, but still had a long, long way left to go, and it felt like the race was never going to end. I was still feeling OK physically, noticing a bit of tiredness but cognizant of the need to maintain my form and preserve energy and continue to pace myself. Nothing to do but settle in for the long haul.

The middle part wasn't all bad. As I said, I still felt pretty good physically. Plus, things took a huge turn for the better at around mile 18. Much of the middle of the race was run through woodsy, rocky trails in the hills behind Anchorage, Alaska, and at mile 18 we descended out of the hills and back into the city. So in addition to being back on pavement and thus not having to constantly watch the ground to avoid turning my ankles on rocks and logs, I got a nice downhill stretch to make me feel lighter and faster and more energetic. Also, back in town, there were people by the side of the race route cheering us on again. Someone handed me an orange popsicle that I sucked on while I ran. It was heavenly.

This parallels the second trimester, in which I am currently firmly ensconced. I feel fine physically. I notice myself getting tired a bit more easily, but nothing terrible. My belly has definitely popped, but it's not too uncomfortable yet. The ultrasounds are so cool, revealing a creature that looks like an actual baby, rather than the mere yolk sac or amorphous blob that you see in the earlier stages. I finally look pregnant rather than fat, so that's nice.

And I'm feeling kicks and flutters, which is awesome. Truly the most magical part of pregnancy. My friend Lisa likens the baby's kicks to always feeling like you have company. And it's true. When I feel a little thump, I'll think, "hi, honey!" and give my belly a pat. My little girl and I are forming a connection.

But at the same time, I've still got a long way to go. I feel bulky and have to sit a certain way or my breathing feels restricted. It's harder to chase Zeke around. I want my body back, but with another 4 1/2 months ahead of me, there's nothing to do but hunker down and get ready for ...

PHASE 3/THIRD TRIMESTER -- YOU WANT TO TAKE THE ROSE, STOMP ON IT WITH POINTY-HEELED SHOES, PULVERIZE IT IN A BLENDER, AND SHOVE THE REMAINS UP SOMEONE'S ASS

The final stretch of the marathon was brutal. My legs felt like leaden stumps. I was tired and sore. The only way I got through it was to focus on the music coming through my headphones, and to tell myself to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Adding insult to injury were the people lining the race route for the last mile or so. They were so sweet and encouraging, cheering and clapping and saying things like, "you're almost there! Just a little ways further!"

What they don't realize is that at that point in a marathon, you don't want to hear it. Amazingly, every single person I ran with felt the same way. Rather than feeling buoyed by the cheering crowds, the universal reaction seemed to be thoughts along the line of, "ach, fuck off already. Don't tell me how close I am. If you had any idea how long this last half a mile feels, you wouldn't tell me I'm almost done. You'd just shut your freakin' pie hole and let me get on with it."

Same with pregnancy, if memory serves. You're exhausted, huge, cumbersome, uncomfortable, dealing with heartburn and hemorrhoids, and feeling like the last 6 weeks take 6 months. Everyone wants to call and talk about it and be all excited with you, which is lovely, but really, you just want to be left alone to deal with it on your own, because talking about it makes you grumpy.**

So, Yay! 20 weeks!

And Ugh! 20 more weeks.

____________________

*Yeah, yeah, I know pregnancy is supposed to be 9 months. But actually, it's 40 weeks, which is closer to 10 months.

**I wrote this blog post 4 days before going into labor with Zeke.

Bump pictures

I know I promised pictures of the belly bump, and I've posted a bunch on Facebook, but not everyone here is on Facebook. So here are pics from weeks 17 and 19.

Huh.

(The Joey at 18 weeks)

I guess I'm not as savvy or clairvoyant or clued-in to the inner workings of my uterus as I thought.

The Joey is a girl. When we saw the (exceedingly clear) image on the ultrasound, Jason burst into tears of happiness. I said, "huh. How about that."

(There's a lady in my office who's pregnant, but who doesn't know what she's having because during the ultrasound, every time they got close to getting a good shot of what was between the baby's legs, the baby moved or pulled up its legs so that there was no way to tell the sex. Not so much with The Joey. She was like the drunk secretary at the Christmas party sitting panty-less on the copy machine.)

I was convinced we were having another boy, for a number of reasons. The fact that going back about three or four generations, the men in Jason's family have managed to sire exactly one girl (Jason's half-sister). The fact that, according to all of my ultrasounds, the baby was measuring bigger than its actual gestational age, which suggested to me early (in the cycle) conception, which suggested a boy, because boy sperm are faster swimmers than girl sperm.

And I was kind of hoping for another boy. Zeke could grow up with a brother, and they could play and rough-house and go through boy stuff together. I've got mountains and mountains of boy clothes and baby accoutrement. I'm familiar with the boy parts, diaper-changing-wise.

Plus, I'm afraid of girls. Or at least, afraid of raising one.

I worry about our hyper-sexualized society, and the pressure on women (and girls) to be skinny and hot and sexually available. I worry about being able to raise a girl with enough confidence and self-esteem to know that she doesn't have to give in to that pressure.

And to be honest, girls kind of scare me.

They're so much more emotionally manipulative and volatile than most boys. I know it's a long way off, but I dread the early teen years. I know what a bitch I was.*

(A 4-D shot in which you can see her face. She's already grinning manaically as she thinks of all the ways she's going to torment her mother when she's older.)

But as I've had a few days to think about it, I've grown accustomed to the idea of having a daughter, and the feelings of happiness and excitement are creeping in and edging out the feelings of doubt and uncertainty. I have such a wonderful relationship with my mother, and have for most of my life, and I'm hopeful that Joey and I can have that as well.

And as my mom pointed out, having a boy and a girl means that they won't be in competition quite the same way that same sex siblings are. Boys tend to constantly compare each others' accomplishments in sports and the like. Girls fight over clothes and who's prettier.

Or maybe I'm just engaging in massive stereotyping on the whole thing.

The truth is, she'll be who'll she'll be. All I can do is hope that she's sweet and smart and funny and happy -- all the same hopes I had for Zeke before he was born. And that turned out pretty well.

So I guess I should stop worrying.

__________________________________________________
*My torment of my dear mother was relatively short-lived -- I grew out of my monster phase by the time I was about 16 or so. But still. It wasn't pleasant for her while it lasted, the moodiness and crying and general teenage-girl-ness that was my 13- and 14-year-old self.

Trying to understand the mind of a child

At some point, I will need to consult with a child psychologist to understand the lock that Elmo has on the toddler psyche.  

Not that I don't think Elmo is cute.  I think he's a perfectly fine Sesame Street character, funny, kind of endearing and all that.  But why Elmo as opposed to, say, Telly?  Or Zoe?*  

Or why not the old school characters that dominated the story lines when I watched Sesame Street as a kid, like Oscar or Bert & Ernie or Grover?  Or Kermit? I loved those guys.  But they've sort of faded into the background on the show, only occasionally popping up in the odd sketch.

But for whatever reason, there is something about Elmo.  Zeke is seriously obsessed.  

It started when Jason started recording the daily episodes of Sesame Street on PBS, so that Zeke could have something age-appropriate to watch while he chilled out before bedtime.  And before long, Zeke was referring to the show as "Elmo."  And when Elmo wasn't on the screen, he would look at me or Jason and say, "Elmo? Elmo?" until we fast-forwarded the recording to a sketch in which Elmo was prominently featured.  

And now, when Elmo finally shows up, Zeke's face will light up and he'll point and yell "Elmo!"  with such joy in his voice and in his countenance that it's almost unbearably sweet.  Elmo just makes him so fucking happy, he can hardly stand it.  He'll watch the show, and if Elmo sings or dances, Zeke will bop around dancing and smiling.  And all is right with the world.

I knew Zeke was deeply smitten (or in deep smit, as my friend Karen likes to say) when my mom and I went to Target to do some shopping and brought Zeke with us.  We headed over to the toy section and found an Elmo stuffed animal/puppet for Zeke.  I took it out of the box and handed it to him, and it was like he had died and gone to heaven.

"Elmo!" he said, his voice filled with love.  And he gave Elmo a hug and a kiss and sighed deeply.  He rode around in the shopping cart, unable to contain his glee.  He kept saying, "Elmo," over and over, and smiling and hugging his new doll to his chest.  

Seriously, if he's as affectionate and sweet with future girlfriends as he is with his Elmo, I will feel I have done a good job of teaching him to treat women with love and respect.

(Zeke shows Elmo the love)

There's a part of me that feels like I should bristle against his fixation on this overly commercialized character.  Like we're both being manipulated by the evil geniuses that create and produce Sesame Street.  

But then I look at my son's smiling face, and I think, "ah, who cares?  The kid's happy."  

That's good enough for me.

_______________________

*At least it's not Baby Bear that he's fixated on.  That character, with it's cloying lisp, seriously bugs.  And I hate the fact that children who are learning how to speak and pronounce words are subjected to extended story lines involving a character that says things like "pawot" for "parrot."

Playing nursemaid, only not the dirty kind with slutty costumes and such

I'm in full-on caretaker mode. Poor Jason is laid up on the couch with his leg in a brace. He has to keep it elevated to prevent clotting. He's on mega-doses of percocet, and still hurts. Last night was really rough -- he just couldn't stay on top of the pain, even though, at my direction, he took extra pain pills. Sleeping is difficult. He feels guilty that I'm caring for him and Zeke and the dog and keeping the house together, while he can barely get from the couch to the bathroom without significant pain.

But I don't mind it. I can see how uncomfortable he is. And after the first day (the day of the surgery itself), when both Zeke and the dog seemed determined to fight me on every little thing, they've both calmed down. Zeke is learning to obey the two rules I'm insisting on enforcing these days -- don't touch the buttons on the TV, cable box or DVD player, and sit down in the booster seat when eating at the table. The dog is resigned to the fact that Jason, his favorite, can't take him on a million walks a day, so he's stuck with me.

Our friends have been amazing. Rich stayed with Jason at the surgery center until I could leave work to go pick him up, and has come by to visit him and to hang out and watch ski- and/or mountain biking-porn. Kathleen picked up Zeke at school on Wednesday so I could bring Jason home and get him situated. My friend Jen brought over a delicious meal so I wouldn't have to cook. Everyone has been so sweet and supportive and helpful, I'm really grateful.

And my mom is coming tomorrow morning. Thank goodness.

Too many things happening today. But Happy Anniversary, honey!

Today is the third anniversary of the Atlanta wedding.  That was our religious ceremony (presided over by my friend Karen, who played rabbi for a day), 5 months after the legal wedding in Australia.  

I actually forgot until I got to work and somebody mentioned the date.  Plus it's Earth Day.  Plus Jason's having knee surgery today.  Plus we're doing a short practice run of this classroom webinar I'm doing for local school district administrators and teachers on the ins and outs of the education stimulus money.  Plus I'm pregnant, and can barely remember how to get dressed in the morning.

So I've got alot going on.  But still.  I feel kind of bad for forgetting my anniversary.

Anyway, it's been a good three years.  Sometimes being married is hard.  Sometimes being married is easy.  But it's always worth it.

Family tradition

The summer between my second and third years of law school, I was living at home while I worked at the State Department.  Josh was home from college, and Sam was still in high school.  Sam was playing in a summer baseball league.  And my parents and Josh and I went to every single one of his games.  Usually there were 8 or 9 people in the stands for Sam's team.  And we made up 4 of them.  Meaning that most of the kids had no one there to watch them or cheer them on.

I found that baffling.  

It was never a question that we would be there to witness and applaud each others' accomplishments.  My plays and diving meets.  Josh's baseball and football and rugby games.  Sam's baseball and football and rugby games.  I used to drive the 5 1/2 hours up from Winston-Salem to northern Virginia to see Sam's high school games, particularly when his team made it to the state championships.  Or drive to nearby colleges when Josh's college rugby team had matches.

And of course, we were all at Sam's gig this past weekend.

The past weekend in New York was wonderful.  It was snowing when I woke up Friday morning, but I made it to the airport and my flight took off on time with no problems.  My brother Josh took the train down to NYC from New Hampshire.  We met up on Friday afternoon and made our way to Sam's gig.  

Sam and his band onstage at Drom Friday night

The gig was incredible.  Sam's voice sounded great, and his band is comprised of amazingly accomplished musicians.  The songs (all written by Sam) sounded terrific, the arrangements were outstanding, and the energy in the club was through the roof.  A number of my parents' friends that live in New York showed up.  A ton of Sam's friends also came, many from out of town, so he was feeling the love.  We all were.

Saturday was one of those gorgeous spring days when it seems like New York City is the perfect place to be.  We had breakfast at a diner, then took a long walk through Central Park.  People were out walking, jogging, playing fetch with their dogs, rowing boats in the pond, sunbathing. 

We stopped and had a rest at a coffee shop.  

I went downtown to meet my friend Anne, who writes A Good American Wife.  I had never met her, but because we've struck up an internet friendship through our blogs and our mutual friend, Elizabeth, it was like we had known each other forever.  We sat in a park and shot the shit and chatted with the guys that play speed chess.  

Then I headed down to the Battery to meet up with the family again.  A friend of a friend of my dad's is an architect involved in a new art installation in the newly rebuilt South Ferry subway stop, and we were invited to be part of a private tour explaining the installation, how it was made, what it symbolizes, how it was installed, etc.

From there, we took the train up to Lincoln Center to go to the movies.  We chilled in the Barnes and Noble for awhile, and then went to the theater.

After the show, we went to a wonderful Indian restaurant for dinner.

Then we went to our respective beds and collapsed.

Sunday was calmer.  Josh had an early train, so I didn't see him.  After breakfast, we went to Zabar's so my mom could get some bread, and them my parents headed back to D.C.  Sam and I went for a walk by the river, and then hung out at his place until it was time for me to leave for the airport.  I was too tired to do anything else.

Some of the people at Sam's gig expressed amazement that the whole family came in to watch him play.  But it's just what we do.  Some of it may be a factor of moving around so much when we were growing up.  In every new place, we had to rely on each other for both support and companionship, because for a while, we were the only ones we knew.  When we were overseas, my brothers and I all went to the same school.  

But the truth is, plenty of my friends grew up the same way, and many of them had (and continue to have) fucked up family dynamics that bear no resemblance to ours.

So maybe we're just blessed.  We have great parents who have a great relationship who showered us with affection and blew sunshine up our asses from the day we were born.  Josh and Sam and I each went through typical sullen teenager phases, but they passed fairly quickly, and we remain close and supportive.  Though its more difficult now with busy schedules and children thrown into the mix, we make an effort to get the whole family together when we can -- for Thanksgiving, for summer vacations at the beach, whatever.  And we truly enjoy each others' company.

Again, I am a lucky woman.

Compatibility

It's no secret that I have been a bit on the tired side lately. Getting a decent night's sleep has been akin to locating the Holy Grail, in terms of degree of difficulty. And while I'm generally in a pretty decent mood, the more tired I get, the more I am frustrated by little things, particularly little things that interrupt my sleep.

Two nights ago I was completely exhausted. Jason was going out to meet a friend for a beer, but was kind enough to wait until Zeke had been bathed and put to bed, because I was too tired to manage on my own. As it was, I got into bed at 8:30, approximately 3 minutes after Zeke was ensconced in his crib.

At midnight, Zeke woke up and started to cry. At first the crying worked its way into my dream, then I woke up. I stuck my fingers in my ears, put my head under the pillow, and waited for him to go back to sleep, which he did after about 20 minutes.

Some time after that, Jason got home and crawled into bed. He's generally a pretty quiet sleeper, but when he drinks beer, he snores. Not horribly, but enough to wake me up (I'm a terribly light sleeper, so pretty much everything wakes me up).

Snore snore.

I kicked him. He rolled over and stopped snoring.

A few minutes later, the snoring started up again.

"JASON!! STOP SNORING!" Kick kick.

Quiet for a few minutes.

Snore snore.

"Goddammit! Go sleep on the couch!"

He sleeps like a dead person, so he shifted slightly but didn't wake up at all.

Finally, I went back to sleep.

3:30 a.m: Zeke wakes up and starts to cry. The prospect of lying there listening to him is far less attractive than the prospect of just bringing him into bed with me, where I know he'll sleep quietly, so I get up and get him. Jason sleeps.

5:00 a.m.: Zeke wakes up and starts to cry. "Ba??" he pleads, meaning he's thirsty and wants a bottle.

"Oh, all right! Goddammit!" I'm so frustrated.

I get him a bottle, he goes back to sleep.

Jason sleeps, undisturbed. Fucker.

7:00 a.m.: Jason's phone starts ringing, but it's a ring I don't recognize, and it doesn't kick into voicemail after 4 rings, so I realize it's some kind of alarm.

"What the FUCK?!?" I yell, loudly.

Jason stirs, says, "wha..?" and reaches over and turns off the phone.

I finally decide to get up a little while later.

At 8:20, I'm dressed and ready to go to work. Jason and Zeke are still passed out in the bed. Then I realize that Jason has an important appointment that I think is at 9:00, so I need to wake them both up and get Zeke dressed and off to school.

I tap Jason on the bottom of his foot. He opens his eyes and looks at me.

"What time is your appointment?" I ask.

"9 o'clock," he replies. He looks at the clock.

"Mmm hmmm," I say.

Then I bark, "Zeke! Wake up!"

I've never done this to him before. He lifts his head up immediately, looks around, sees me, and gives me a smile. My heart thaws slightly.

"Come on, honey, we've got to get up and go to school."

Somehow, I manage to get Zeke up, changed, dressed, fed and out the door in 20 minutes. The entire time, I'm glowering at both him and Jason for keeping me awake all night. Zeke doesn't notice that I'm trying to give him the stink-eye, and he's chattering and giving me hugs and being all sweet. It's hard to stay mad.

Later, after I've calmed down, I'm talking to Jason on the phone. And I mention how tired I am and how I feel like he and Zeke are in some kind of conspiracy to keep me from getting any sleep.

"Did you hear me yelling at you when you started to snore? I kept telling you to stop snoring and to go sleep in the other room."

"Nope, I didn't hear anything. I'm really sorry, baby, next time I've had a few beers I'll sleep somewhere else."

"Yeah, well. I'm just so tired. I don't mean to be grumpy."

"I know, baby. And I must say, it's such a treat to wake up to the dulcet tones of your wife screaming, 'IS THAT YOUR FUCKING PHONE??'"

He laughs. He's so good-humored about it.

I realize for about the millionth time that I married someone with the perfect temperament to deal with me. And apparently, that temperament has been passed on to our son.

I'm a lucky woman.

Living in weather oblivion

When we lived in Hawaii, Jason and I used to joke that the qualifications for becoming a weather-person there were a limited command of the English language and maybe a pulse.  Because every single day, with very limited exceptions (like gusts of wind that shut down the entire island of Oahu), it was 83 degrees and sunny.  

And sometimes having so much sameness in the weather could get boring.  I missed the seasons, particularly the crazy bursts of color and warmth that erupt in Atlanta every March and April.  

But there's also something kind of nice about never having to check the weather report.  I didn't have to worry about whether a particular outfit was weather-appropriate.  I could walk outside in a tank top and shorts pretty much every day, and know that I was going to be perfectly comfortable.  The only thing we used the weather report for was to determine where on the island there would be good waves, so we could plan our surf outings accordingly.

The thing about living in that kind of oblivion is that it's a hard habit to break.  

Which is a problem if you're living in Denver.  Because here, the weather could be 70 degrees and sunny one day, and then 30 degrees and snowing the next.  

And there's no normal level of gradation to increases or decreases in temperature.  We arrived here in late February.  For the first 3 weeks we were here, it was in the high 60s and 70s, sunny and beautiful (if a tad on the dry side).  Then there was a blizzard.  Then it warmed up again.  Then it cooled off again.  Then it seemed that spring had arrived.  It's been very pleasant that last couple of weeks, with the trees budding and the grass getting greener.

And sometimes I was aware of what the weather was supposed to do, but usually I wasn't, because I still have not gotten into the habit of checking the local news for the weather.

Take this week, for example.  My brother Sam is doing a big gig with his band tomorrow night in New York City.  I've had plans to go for a month.  My mom and dad and my brother Josh will be there as well.  It's a big deal.  I've been looking forward to seeing the family, and to being able to sleep through the night without having to wake up to Zeke crying or Jason snoring or the poor blind dog banging into a wall.

So color me astonished yesterday when I was in a meeting with some folks at work, and they started talking about the blizzard due to hit tonight.

And I'm all, "the what with the what now?  What freaking blizzard??"

Apparently, we could get over a foot of snow from storms that are supposed to start tonight and last through Saturday.  Which is a problem when I'm supposed to be on a flight that leaves tomorrow morning.  According to the weather report that I finally bothered to look at, it's dumping snow in the mountains right now, and Denver is right on the edge of where the storm could be snow or could be rain, depending on whether it's a couple of degrees colder or warmer.  So I could be fine, or I could be snowed in.  Nothing to do but wait.

And it's not as if being aware of the storm sooner rather than later would have made any difference.  I can't control it either way, obviously.  But it's still taking some getting used to, this notion that changes in the weather can affect my life at all.

Old world charm

My lovely mother bought me a new pair of maternity pants to add to my paltry “career” wardrobe. And today they reek of cigarette smoke.

No, I haven’t developed a nasty habit that will not only harm my lungs, prematurely wrinkle my skin, turn my teeth yellow, stink up my breath, and subject the Joey to a risk of low birth weight and other similar ailments. Rather, I took the pants to Nana to be hemmed.

Nana is a local seamstress who is something of a Denver institution. She’s a little Greek lady, probably around 60 years old, who has a tiny shop around the corner from my office. There is no discernible technological system organizing her shop, either on the money end or any other. Her cash “register” is a drawer that is filled to the brim with an assortment of bills and coins. Her sewing machines look about a hundred years old. She has a TV with rabbit ears on in the background so she can watch her stories while she works.

And she chain-smokes More cigarettes in her tiny little shop, so everything reeks. The rule of thumb is, make sure you pick up your stuff within 24 hours of dropping it off, or be consigned to a trip to the dry cleaner. (I missed the 24-hour cutoff with my new pants.)

“Why on earth would you put up with such conditions?” you ask. “Surely there are other seamstresses in the area.”

There probably are. But I don't want to go to anyone else. And stop calling me "Shirley."

First and foremost, she does good work and her rates are cheap, which is especially good for me, since my runty frame dictates that any pair of pants I acquire will be at least 5 inches too long. Hemming expenses for me are pretty much a line item in our family budget.

But more fundamentally, I go to Nana because I find her charming. She’s sweet and always asks how I’m doing and how the pregnancy is progressing. She tells funny stories. Her husband died last year, but she keeps on keeping on in her low-tech, unconventional way. She isn’t trying to make a statement or take a stand against political anti-smoking correctness. She’s just being herself. And with her heavy Greek accent and her short black/grey hair, she reminds me of Christina.

So if I have to stock up on Dryel, so be it. Nana’s got my business.

The second time around

So many friends and family who live far away or whom I don't often see have sent Passover and Easter wishes lately, many of them asking how the pregnancy is going and how I'm feeling.

The short answer is, I'm feeling fine. I don't have any nausea anymore, and aside from some pregnancy-related hypersensitivity in my teeth (I'm going to the dentist tomorrow), I don't feel uncomfortable or cumbersome (yet) at all. My belly is starting to pooch, but other than my boobs getting a little bigger (oy!), I haven't really gained weight anywhere else and my clothes mostly fit and all is well.

The long answer is, it's alot more exhausting to be pregnant and work a full-time job and take care of a toddler, as compared to when I went through it the first time. Particularly when that first time, I was living in Hawaii and working from home and had a super-flexible schedule, so I could nap when I wanted and hang out at my desk in a tank top and pajama bottoms. And every afternoon, Jason would come home from work and we would go to the beach for an hour or so. He would surf and I would sit in the sun and read a book. So in addition to having a rocking tan, I was plowing through 3 or 4 library books a week, sleeping as much as I needed to, and generally feeling pretty relaxed. Life definitely didn't suck.

And it's not that life now sucks -- far from it -- but I'm tired all the time. Zeke hasn't slept through the night since we arrived in Colorado. At first I thought it was the climate -- I was waking up completely parched in the middle of the night, and so was he -- but it was also the temperature. If he woke up after 4 or 5 in the morning (after going to bed at 7:30 or 8), I would get up and give him a bottle, and then bring him into my room and let him sleep the rest of the night snuggled up between Jason and me.

But sometimes he would wake up at 1 or 2 in the morning, and I just wasn't willing to let him off the hook that early. So he would stand up in his crib and cry for awhile, and eventually he would lie back down and go to sleep.

And I realized that he hasn't learned how to pull the covers back up over himself once he's gotten out from under them. So he'll go back to sleep, but then he'll wake up in a couple of hours, freezing.  I'll bring him into bed with me and curl my body around him, as he presses his ice-cold hands and feet against me to warm up. So then I feel mean letting him cry.

Not to mention that regardless of whether or not I go to him when he cries during the night, I wake up. So I'm tired all the time, because I never, never get a decent night's sleep.

All I can say is, thank God for Jason. Because when Zeke starts tugging on my hand because he wants to go downstairs and play with his trucks, or go to the park and run around and go down the slide and swing on the swings, I don't always have the energy. And I feel inadequate as a parent. So Jason has picked up an enormous amount of slack, willing to run around with him until they're both exhausted.

So on the one hand, the pregnancy is going fine. But on the other, I'm tired, and I don't have the time anymore to just lounge around and relax in the sun to my heart's content. It's much harder this time around.

Crazy wonderful

I love Passover.  It ranks up there with Thanksgiving on my list of favorite holidays, and for many of the same reasons.  The gathering of family.  The chronicling of what everyone has been up to, and how the kids have grown and changed.  The noise and chaos.  The rituals.  The traditions and symbols, particularly the tradition of being thankful for your freedom and of committing to work for the freedom of others.  It's a nice blending of religious themes with the kinds of democratic ideals that embody what I love about being American.

And I'm not a religious Jew -- I struggle mightily with concepts of God and sanctity and even Jewish chosen-ness (as much as I like the idea of being part of a special group).  But I love Passover, and I love being Jewish at Passover.  

Celebrating Passover this year presented a bit of a dilemma.  We couldn't afford to fly to Washington to celebrate with my parents.  Both of my cousins are out of town this week, so crashing one of their seders was out.  And though I love hosting seder myself, the current state of our kitchen made the prospect more than a little daunting.  Specifically, we have less than half of the cupboard space in our new kitchen that we had in our kitchen in Hawaii, so we're scouring Craigslist for inexpensive hutches or chests that we can use to store dishes, glassware, linens and what-have-you.  In the meantime, everything is a jumble.  I have no idea where most of my cooking utensils and tools are, where my spring-form pan is (for flourless chocolate torte), where my roasting pan is (for brisket), etc.

So, it really wasn't going to happen at our house without me going completely insane.  But the thought of not having a seder to go to made me really, really sad.

Kathleen to the rescue.

Kathleen is friends with a couple that she met on the street one day.  Their names are Alison and Pablo.  And they are Jewish.*  Kathleen jokes that she needed Alison to meet me to give her (Kathleen) some Jewish street cred, because apparently, Alison appeared a bit taken aback by the Christmas decorations Kathleen had up in her house around Christmas-time.  Kathleen wanted me to provide assurance to Alison that Kathleen was cool and not a weird religious nut.

So basically, it was inevitable that Alison and I would meet and be friends.

Kathleen and Alison were talking over the weekend, and Kathleen mentioned to Alison that I was looking for a place to go for Passover seder.  Alison told Kathleen that Jason and Zeke and I would be welcome to join her and her family at her mother's house.  I thought that sounded lovely.  Kathleen and Alison and I met up for drinks so that Alison and I would at least meet before I showed up at her mother's house with my family in tow, and we took to each other immediately.  

The evening was crazy and wonderful.  The seder itself was a bit haphazard.  We were trying to get through the Haggadah, but there were kids running around everywhere and then Alison's mom and her mom's husband started serving food, even though it wasn't technically time yet, and we tried to keep it going but finally we gave up.  But the food was delicious and Zeke had a great time playing with Alison's children and we got to meet and hang out with Alison's husband, Pablo, who is terrific.  Pablo's mother, who only speaks Spanish, was visiting from Argentina, so she and I spoke Spanish all night.  By the end of the night, it was as if we had all known each other for years.

One of my favorite Passover traditions is the emphasis on taking in strays -- Jews who are new in town or far from home, who need a seder to go to.  I've always loved being able to play host in the past, and it was lovely to have it come full circle and be able to feel at home at a seder, even when I'm far from my family and on unfamiliar turf.

Happy Passover, everyone.  Next year in Jerusalem....

__________________________

*Pablo is originally from Argentina, and his family got there after escaping from Poland to Spain, leaving Spain because of the civil war in the 1930s, going to France, and eventually making their way to South America.  Amazingly, our ancestors are from similar areas in Eastern Europe, and his last name is a very close derivation of my dad's family's name before it was anglicized at Ellis Island.  I suspect that we are distant cousins.  

 

The perception of power

I have a bizarre ability to scare people. Not in a "boo!" kind of sense, but more in a "do as I ask or there will be hell to pay" kind of way. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, largely because very rarely do I try to throw my weight around to try to get what I want. I don't see the point in being snide or sarcastic or mean to service people on the phone, for example, because A) I think it's rude and obnoxious, and B) it usually doesn't work. If you need someone's help, you're far more likely to get it by being nice or appealing to their sympathies.* When all else fails, I'll write a stern letter to management and casually mention that I'm a lawyer. That works too. But again, it's rare that I do that. "Kill them with kindness" is a much more effective strategy.

Which is why I find recent events curious.

I haven't been thrilled with Zeke's new daycare. Maybe I've been spoiled, because his daycare in Hawaii was so wonderful, from the organization to the warmth of the individual caregivers. I haven't felt the overwhelming love in the new place that I felt from the Cole Academy, and I've been disappointed in what has struck me as a lack of attention to detail in the level of care my baby receives.

For example, every day the parents are provided with a progress report at the end of the day, detailing their child's activity during the day: how much and when he ate, what his diaper changes revealed, how much he slept, what activities he preferred (so far, Zeke has almost exclusively preferred language or reading-based activities). And with the exception of one day, in the month that Zeke has been at his new school, his progress report has never been completely filled out. So I was often wondering whether Zeke napped or not (which definitely affects how the evening routine will go), or whether he ate all of his afternoon snack, or when was the last time he pooped.

And maybe that's because they've been pretty lackadaisical about changing his diaper. At Cole Academy, they changed his diaper every hour (which I thought was a bit of overkill, not to mention expensive). At the new school, they only do 4 changes a day, which is OK, but my expectation is that in any event, if a kid is clearly walking around with a load in his pants, the teachers will deviate from the schedule and change a diaper if change is obviously warranted.

But one day last week, Jason went to pick Zeke up, and Zeke was wandering around with one shoe on -- outside, in March -- with the other shoe buried somewhere in the sandbox. He had a ribbon of snot snaking up his face where someone had clearly done a half-assed job of wiping his nose. And you could smell the shit in his pants from 4 feet away. Yet, the two teachers outside "supervising" the kids were standing off in the corner, talking to each other and maybe glancing occasionally at their young charges.

Earlier this week, I went to pick Zeke up in the afternoon. The kids were outside on the playground. He was standing very listlessly against the fence, playing half-heartedly with an abacus-like bead thingy. The teacher reported that he had slept for over 3 hours during naptime -- an extraordinary nap for him -- and that during playtime, he didn't want to play and fell asleep on her shoulder when she picked him up.

"Ha ha!  Isn't that funny??"

And I'm thinking, "He must be ill.  What the fuck is wrong with her powers of observation?  Why did nobody call me??"

When I got to the car and put him in the carseat, I realized how bad it was.  He kind of collapsed in the seat, and I discovered that he had a fever and was not at all well.  As in, he was sitting with his head back, eyes at half-mast, his breathing labored, his forehead burning.

The straw breaking the proverbial camel's back was later that week.  Jason dropped Zeke off in the morning, and when he got to the toddler classroom, there was not a single adult in the room.  A gaggle of 1-year-olds was wandering around or sitting on the floor, looking confused.  A teacher from another class wandered into the diaper-changing area to change a kid's diaper, and when Jason asked where the toddler teacher was, the woman said, very nonchalantly, "oh, she'll be back soon."

So I made an appointment to talk to the director of the school.  And sat down with her last Thursday afternoon, and explained in a calm, rational voice, the nature and basis for my concerns.  It was a very cordial conversation.  At no point did I yell or lecture or speak in a stern tone.  The director was very sympathetic and responsive to my concerns, and said she would investigate and remedy the situation immediately.  I left feeling somewhat better.

The next day, I got a call from one of Zeke's teachers, informing me that he seemed clammy and lethargic, and that he was crying a lot and having a hard time functioning without being held by an adult.  We had taken Zeke to the doctor's office earlier that week, and she had indicated that he had had an ear infection, but that it appeared to be on the mend.  She called in a prescription for antibiotics, but advised that we not fill it unless his symptoms appear to get worse again.  So I figured that Zeke was relapsing, thanked the teacher for letting me know what was going on, and left work to go pick him up and fill the prescription.

When I got to the school, Zeke was happy to see me, but didn't appear particularly sick or emotionally fragile.  I was all worried about taking him to the drug store and having him melt down while I waited for his prescription to be filled, but he was happy and chirpy and flirted with everyone in the pharmacy.

I mentioned to Jason that I thought that the teachers might have overreacted, and that Zeke had seemed OK when I got him.  

"They're probably scared shitless of you now," he responded.

"Why?  I didn't yell at anyone.  I didn't threaten or try to get anyone in trouble.  I was very calm in talking to the director."

"Baby, you have no idea how you come across.  You can be at your scariest when you're at your calmest."

"Huh."

I really don't try to scare anyone.  It's not my intention to come across as bitchy or mean.  

But I guess in this situation, let them be scared.

___________________________________
* There are limited exceptions to this rule. When our movers finally delivered our stuff, the delivery guys declared that they would not be unpacking or reassembling any of the furniture, even though that's what I had paid for, and that they would not be removing any of the mountain of packing material that was piling up in the living room, even though that's what I paid for. I completely blew a gasket and yelled at them off and on for the entire 3 hours they were moving stuff into my house. It did not, however, persuade them to do what I wanted, which kind of proves my earlier point.

Help! My body has been invaded by a space alien!

The pregnancy is going well. I'm feeling fine and all seems to be progressing appropriately. Last week I went in for a 14 week ultrasound. We got some 4-D shots in addition to standard ultrasound images.

(The space alien, hand to forehead, proclaims "woe is me!")

(Profile shot -- nice strong spine, cute button nose)

I'm still at the point where the baby is too small for me to feel any kicks, so when I saw him (I don't know that it's a boy, but I don't feel like saying "him/her" every time) bopping around like he was attending a rave, it was thrilling. When I start to show a little bit more (right now I still look chesty and chubby rather than pregnant), I'll start posting "bump" pictures.

Babies, babies, everywhere

I feel like it's the season of pregnancy.

My friend Lisa is about 7 weeks ahead of me. My friend Elizabeth just gave birth to a bee-yoo-tee-ful baby boy, Elliot. Seriously, he's gorgeous. My friend Christi is about a month or so ahead of me.

Seeing Elizabeth's pictures of Elliot have made me more excited about The Joey. Not that I'm not looking forward to another baby, but strangely, this pregnancy has been very different than my last one, in that I don't feel consumed by it in a psychological sense.

With Zeke, I was constantly aware of being pregnant. I thought about it non-stop. I had my Babycenter.com pregnancy tracker as my internet home page.

With Joey, I was very, very happy to have a good 7-week ultrasound, because I had a miscarriage before Zeke, so I was skittish. In fact, when I saw the heartbeat, and the fact that the fetus measured exactly the right size based on how old it was, I started to cry.

But after that, I didn't think about it so much, except when I was puking. I get a weekly email from Babycenter.com updating me on Joey's progress, and every Friday morning, when it pops into my inbox, I'm surprised.

"Oh, yeah. I'm pregnant!"

But seeing Elizabeth's pictures of Elliot made my heart skip a beat, not only because I love my friend and am so happy for her, but also because it reminded me of what I have to look forward to in about 6 1/2 months.

And I'm really, really looking forward to it.

What Joey's up to:

Acclimatizing, and why I love my new OB

When people find out that I have just moved from Hawaii to Denver, they invariably comment on the cold.

"Oooooh, are you freezing all the time?"

"It must be so hard to get used to the weather."

"You're crazy."

But the cold doesn't really bother me. It's not like I grew up in Hawaii. I've never lived anywhere with really harsh winters (except when we lived in Michigan the year I turned 7), but I've experienced plenty of snow and blizzards and ice storms. Most places I've lived have required me to own sweaters and a winter coat. It ain't no big thing.

No, what's really kicking my ass is the dryness.

The first night I was here, I woke up at about 1:30 in the morning feeling like I had been lying exposed in the sands of the Sahara in the heat of the day. I chugged 2 large glasses of water, and started to feel better about 20 minutes later.

This went on every night for about 2 1/2 weeks. I kept a full bottle of water by my bed, and invariably woke up between 1 and 3 needing to drink the entire thing.

And this was with keeping a full bottle of water with me throughout the day that I could constantly sip from. So it's not like I was neglecting my hydration issues during my waking hours.

I think my body has adjusted, because now I rarely wake up during the night needing to drink now.

No, now the bane of my existence is boogers.

No matter what I do, multiple times a day I have to excavate giant, dried up boogers from my nose, or risk not being able to breathe. The air is so dry that no matter how much saline spray I squirt up my nose, no matter how much cocoa butter I try to line the inside of my nostrils with, I end up with these boulders that block my airways. It's gotten to the point that I'm not even embarrassed about constantly having my finger up my nose.

We'll see if my body adjusts to that aspect of the dryness, but I'm not holding my breath.

In the meantime, the pregnancy is going well. The crazy nausea I had between weeks 6 and 8 miraculously went away about 2 days before we left Hawaii, which was a godsend. Now I feel fine, with some occasional days of crazy exhaustion where it takes every ounce of energy I have to get up to pee.

The big difference between this pregnancy and my last one is how quickly everything is happening, i.e., the pooching out of the belly. Last time I didn't start to show until about 13 or 14 weeks. Now I'm 10 weeks along and already well ensconced in my maternity pants and holding my non-maternity pants up with rubber bands. I'm not eating an inordinate amount, but am resigned to the fact that I'm turning into the chubby girl way earlier than last time.

Which made it a pleasure to meet my new OB. I had a routine appointment last week, and everything went fine. All is well. But when she saw that I had gained almost 10 pounds by week 10, she said, "well, let's just call it water weight. After all, in this climate, you've been drinking alot more water than you're used to."

Yes. Yes, I have.

In which I start the new job off with an overshare

Even though my official start date at the new job isn't for another week, today was the association's monthly staff meeting, so Kathleen invited me to attend so I could meet everyone. The monthly meetings are a fairly big deal -- every month someone hosts and serves breakfast and there are little icebreaker quizzes or similar fun games to get everyone chatting.

Because St. Patrick's Day is next week, the theme was St. Paddy's Day/Ireland. Kathleen and Cathy, another coworker, were hosting, and served potatoes and Irish cheese and had St. Patrick's Day plates and napkins and tossed shamrock confetti all over the buffet.

The morning "ice breaker" wasn't a quiz, but as part of my introduction to the crew, everyone went around the room, told me who they were, and told something about themselves that related to Ireland or to St. Patrick's Day. Some people talked about having Irish ancestors, some talked about trips they had taken to Ireland, some just expressed a taste for Irish whiskey or beer. One of the women told a story of celebrating St. Patrick's Day in a bar, and everyone ended up doing beer slides down the bar.

Which reminded me of a crazy night I had in college, one summer in between second and third years. We started off hanging out at some guy's house, proceeded to traipse around Charlottesville skinny-dipping in half the apartment complex pools near the University, and ended up at one of the fraternity houses with half a keg of beer, the keys to the stereo closet, and a mini-trampoline. By the end of the night, we were doing beer slides across the floor in various states of semi-dress (some people did it on their naked butts, I stayed in my underwear).

So to a room of future co-workers (plus my boss), 90% of whom I've never met before, I get caught up in the hilarity of the story and blurt out, "beer slides are so fun. A bunch of us did those one night in college. But most of us were naked."

Everyone laughed, and some eyebrows shot up, particularly those of the men in the room.

Jesus, what is my problem?

Later in the meeting, my boss was talking about how happy he is with the staff and saying what a great team we have and how happy he is that I'm coming on board. "Though I'm having a hard time getting the image of the naked beer slides out of my head," he added.

And before I could stop myself, I said, "Oh, don't worry, I wasn't one of the naked ones. I kept my underwear on."

He laughed and said, "I'm not sure that helps me much."

Seriously. What is my problem??

Aloha, Denver

Yesterday Jason and I were in the car, driving back from dropping Zeke off at school. We were stopped at a light, and an older lady was crossing in the crosswalk. She looked at us and smiled and said "Welcome to Colorado" (she must have seen the California plates on our rental car).

And that's pretty much what it's been like to be in Denver so far.

We're living in this incredibly cool intown neighborhood, about a 10 minute drive to downtown, with an elementary school across the street, funky little shops and restaurants around the corner (including a wonderful yarn shop -- all the more reason to get back into some serious knitting -- and an ice cream store that has become a daily stop for us), and super nice neighbors. We'll be walking down the street and people will stop and chat us up. Jason said at one point, "will someone just be a prick to me, already? Am I going to have to be the neighborhood asshole, just so there is one?"

This is the kind of aloha spirit we expected from people in Hawaii, but never really found.

And while Jason definitely misses the surf, and had a hard time his first Sunday here (Sundays were his regular surf days with his buddies), on Monday he went snowboarding at a great mountain about 45 minutes away, and came back feeling rejuvenated and excited about living near the mountains.

In so many ways, this moving is looking to be a good one for us:

• We live about a 5 minute drive from a Super Target, which happens to be the highest grossing Target in the country. And in addition to having the expectedTarget-y goodness oozing from its brick walls, it's got a full grocery store, so we can do all of our shopping there, and for unbelievable prices. The first time we went, on the second or third day we were here, we filled up a grocery cart. In Hawaii, the bill would have been $300, easy. In Colorado, the total was $113. We practically wept with joy. And really, the cost of everything is similarly reduced -- gas, rent, utilities. It's such a pleasure to not feel constantly ripped off.

• The horrendous traffic in Hawaii was a constant source of stress and aggravation for us. When Jason worked on jobs in Honolulu, it used to take him 2 hours to drive the 25 miles between our house and work. It would take me 40 minutes of sitting in bumper-to-bumper crap to take Zeke 4 miles up the road to his school. Now, we can get downtown in the heart of rush hour traffic in about 10 minutes, making green lights all the way, and never sitting in any of the stand-still shit that makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.

• There are so many choices. For everything. All different kinds of ethnic foods. A million different retail establishments. In Hawaii, if we wanted to go out to eat, we'd be spending at least $100 for just the two of us, and that was at someplace like Chili's or Outback. Here, there are diners and cafes and little neighborhood bistros, all reasonably priced, that make having a social life an economic possibility again.

• My parents came to visit last week. Instead of having to travel for 13 hours and deal with the jet lag that comes from a 6 hour time difference, they hopped on a 3 hour flight and didn't suffer significant exhaustion as a result. Next month my brother's band has a gig in New York City. If my work schedule permits, flying in for the weekend to see it is an actual possibility. It's just so damned nice to be closer to everyone I care about.

• Everyone here looks so healthy. In Hawaii, we got so used to seeing so many morbidly obese people everywhere we went -- entire families where no one was under 250 pounds, including the kids, bellying up to the buffet line for more barbecue and spam and sugary sodas. Here they all look like they stepped out of an REI/North Face/LL Bean/Land's End catalog, with their ski racks on their cars and trailers on their bikes so they can tote their kids around while they do their errands.

• It's such a pleasure to have friends here. We became friendly with our neighbors in Hawaii, but only really felt truly simpatico with one or two select couples. Here I've got my cousins and friends from college and friends from high school and friends from Atlanta, not to mention Kathleen and Rich. Zeke will be able to grow up with their kids (they came over last night for a pizza party, and ran around so wildly that after they went home, Zeke was practically begging to go night-night), and with his cousins, and with the children of our other friends. And they're all smart and literate and politically astute and fun to hang out with.

There are definitely things we miss about Hawaii. It is a beautiful place, and it was fun to be so close to the beach and to be able to surf all the time and to just have the experience of living in a tropical paradise. I loved being able to do things like drop Zeke at school and head up to the North Shore to watch the Pipeline Masters. But it's not a bad substitute when tomorrow, we're going to drop Zeke at school and drive a mere 45 minutes to go skiing.